Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 189, No. 4 — page 112: what you’re looking at

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

By ARTHUR EVAN JAMES necked, red-labeled bottle, Mr. Ten- derfoot!” Alkali Joe breezed out, yanking his big six-shooter from its holster and pointing it toward the farther end of the long shelf behind the Wet House bar. “T always calculates to show blowing greenhorns what an Arizona born and bred gent has been educated up to whenever they start handing out their line of bull. Most generally it’s an object lesson to ’em. Just watch how we folks can take the neck off of that bottle without spilling a drop! Then maybe you'll stop bragging about how you rescued a girl from the top of a burn- ing ninety-story building and the likes.” I’d landed in Redbug, a copper mining town, the afternoon before, trying to find a place that ’d heal up a spot on one of my lungs. While I looked as healthy as they make ’em, a big New York doctor had told me that Coney Island was no place for a fellow who was threatened with the con, and if I didn’t beat it West where the air was dry, they’d be arranging lilies on my chest in two or three years. Scared stiff at the thoughts of never reaching thirty, I made for Arizona quick. J UST keep your peepers on that long- It was awful lonesome, landing in a burg like Redbug without knowing a soul. No- body even gave me a nod as I walked up and down the town’s only street, covered almost ankle-deep with a fine, sandy dust, and without a sign of a pavement or curb. The low frame buildings on either side were as dusty and dull as the ground between. Taken altogether, it gave me the blues. It made me terribly homesick for the bunch back in old Coney. So, the next day, it was only natural I’d drift into the Wet House bar and try to make some friends in the crowd. Of course, I hadn’t meant to do any brag- ging—only trying to attract some attention so’s the boys would notice me the next time we met on the street. But people always did misunderstand me somehow. Even when I tried to tell a sociable story back East, they’d look at me like they thought I was a liar. That was bad enough, but when one of the Coney lifeguards had christened me ‘“ Blowhouse Gus ”—well, that was the limit! It made me awfully sore, seeing how everybody on the Island took it up when I’d only been trying to entertain them. $82 : EOPMIG OOO KS (E@)