Argosy All-Story Weekly, December 4, 1926 — page 140: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

450 “She say a peace-gift—heap big gift make payment for dead Indian.” “ How big a gift?” the chief asked non- committally. This time they palavered interminably. The white men grew impatient, the chief apprehensive. He feared that they had some inkling of the fact that he would pay anything they asked. Then finally the aged Papago turned, and rubbing his shriveled hands humbly and nodding his head, he suggested: “ She is satisfy with good case pale-face whisky.” Larabee and Swig Moran roared. But the chief did not take the matter so lightly. It was a matter of very serious import to him and to his son and to his people. “T’ll go her one better than that,” he said. ‘“ Which she may not enjoy it so much as a case of red-eye, but it ’ll stand her in good stead. A sheepman down in Cowskull Barranca died a month or so ago, and left me his ranch. I'll deed it over to her—and knowin’ her propensity for mutton, and likewise observin’ her physical brawn, I figure she’ll make good use of the ranch and its stock.” The old shaman interpreted this to the plaintiff. Then: “She accepts peace-gift,’ he said. “Sheep ranch good peace gift, and she make ’im Papago tribes keep peace—and forget. No scalp ’im lonely prospector, or rancher, or posadero. But,” he added hum- bly, smiling through the broken yellow teeth, “ she like to know—does she get ‘im case whisky?” “ She gets that as a bonus likewise,” the chief consented. The shaman sat there, nodding his head excitedly, grinning, rubbing his hands. He cleared his throat in preparation to making another announcement. “ And old herald-priest Gopher,” he said, “he like ’im peace-gift.” “ What the hell do you want?” the chief asked. “ He like ’im barrel gin.” The white men roared with laughter. “Even the chief smiled a grim, sardonic smile. He turned to little Swig Moran. “ Swig, I delegate you to go by and by to my ranch, and to deliver one of my bar- ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. rels of likker to this ole lobo. You savvy that, you?” he said to the shaman. ‘“ Swig he give you barrel from my stock. But you better go with him, or most of the barrel will be inside Swig afore he delivers the goods.” A day elapsed. Swig Moran, Big Lara- bee and the chief waited in the Mexican’s sheep ranch, while from hour to hour the chief’s deputies rode in from all corners of the range. It was a peculiar gathering. An air of anxiety, of utter distraction, of doom hung over the whole gang. In every man’s mind there were vital questions: Why had the chase for Gentle Ladley been abandoned? Why had the chief sent a big detail of the posse on the wrong trail? Why had he freed Harry, who had con- fessed to a cold-blooded killing? What was the ‘“ confession” their hon- ored chief was going to make? And where was that big rusty star he always wore on his vest? But these questions remained unan- swered. Swig Moran kept his mouth shut as tight as a clam; Larabee would say noth- ing; and no one dared speak to the chief. The only one who was at all disposed to talk was the little breed sheep rancher; and the burden of most of his announce- ments was that he was being eaten out of house and home by a troop of hungry loboes, pillaging from him under the guise of justice. He might as well go back to Mexico, where this practice was engaged in openly. Toward sunset of that next day all of the chief’s men, some thirty riders who had followed him through the desert and cafion and over sierras for thirty years in the work of clearing the range of its lawlessness, were gathered at Trade Rat Gulch. Big Larabee ordered them all to con- gregate in the corral in front of the main ranch house. He then called inside to the chief. Old Phineas Morrel, disheveled and in rags from that break-neck ride he had taken through the thorn and mesquite when riding to save his son, appeared on the steps. His head was bared, and the (EO) VNOOLKS AMUN (E@)