Argosy All-Story Weekly, December 4, 1926 — page 66: what you’re looking at

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

yt wt . ; 1 4 ¥ 376 events Rusty derived a single ray of hope —the fact that his keeper believed him to be utterly helpless. “ll play that line for all it’s worth,” he told himself. Again began the drag of weary minutes, slowly lengthening into hours, while Rusty took care to do nothing likely to arouse suspicion. It was hard, that passive wait- ing, but he knew everything depended on the success of his acting. “T can’t play my last cards till dark,” was the thought in his mind. ‘‘ It’d help a lot if that guy would drop off to sleep, but he don’t look to me like the sleeping kind. He’s too dog-goned efficient.” After what seemed to the prisoner a whole eternity, the gradually fading light warned him that night was at last ap- proaching. “TI won’t have to wait much longer,” he thought grimly. Presently the vaquero eased himself from his seat with a grunt, and lighted the lamp, which stood on a small table, its feeble, smoky flame giving little more light than a candle. The Mexican’s shadow fell on the sp- posite wall—a huge, grotesque shape. Rusty lay motionless on his bed; it had, in fact, been hours since he moved. What had happened to the first man was wholly uncertain; quite likely the change in guards had come solely through chance, and it was barely possible that he might yet attempt to carry out his share of the agreement. But Rusty could not depend on anything so problen/atical, feeling that in this desperate emergency success hinged solely on his own unaided efforts. He desired to time the final episode in order to meet Rosita at the appointed place by nine o’clock, but was now handicapped by having to guess at the hour. “T’d rather be early than late,” he thought. ‘‘ Here goes!” The stillness of night was fractured by a wild, unearthly yell that burst from the lips of the supposedly dying man. Rusty sat bolt upright, glaring about him through eyes that glittered insanely in the lamplight © from under disheveled hair. _ Startled, the vaquero leaped to his feet, ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. reaching for the gun at his hip. Rusty’s fingers clawed spasmodically at his chest; then his breath seemed to choke; he wheezed in a horrible fashion, falling back to the cot. } A powerful shudder convulsed his frame, and after that he lay still. The whole per- formance was tremendously realistic. The vaquero passed a hand over his brow, replacing the pistol in its sheath. ‘‘ He has cheated the gallows as they said he would, this dog of an Americano,” he muttered. ‘‘ He is dead. Of what use to remain here and guard a corpse— Don Perenzo will be sorry to hear it. But per- haps the fellow is not yet quite dead.” He drew near to the prisoner’s bed, glancing down at the motionless form out- stretched before him; then bent his head, one ear pressed against Rusty’s left breast, to detect the faintest whisper of a heart- beat. “ Madre de Di—” he gasped, as the sup- posed corpse came to life with paralyzing abruptness. The vaquero’s exclamation remained un- finished, for two hands gripped his throat, muscular fingers closing tight remorseless- ly, shutting off all power-to speak or even breathe. Thrashing about like two maddened an- imals, the pair struggled desperately, roll- ing off the cot to the floor with a series of resounding bumps. But all the time Rus- ty kept that fatal strangle hold he had se- cured, holding the other so close to him that his flailing arms could do no damage. Rusty was below par physically, a nat- ural result of the injury he had received: but that disadvantage was more than made up for by the total surprise of his sudden attack and the grip he maintained on his antagonist’s windpipe. | The vaquero was no weakling, and un- der ordinary conditions would have been a dangerous rough and tumble fighter. But the man doesn’t live who can long keep up with the equivalent of rawhide bands pulled tight around his throat. So in the present case. The Mexican’s struggles grew weaker, but Rusty didn’t yield an inch; not until the body he clutched grew limp did he re- CONNICLIOOKS (F@)