Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 189, No. 4 — page 166: what you’re looking at

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

636 into the canon, the filly—she was full of vim—might head for the ranch, and we could cut them into the wing corral. We got them down all right, and sure enough the scheme worked swell. The mare, run- nin’ a streak, swung up the canon toward the ranch. Old Jack wavered, for just a breath, where the trails both branch, then like a flash he was fannin’ the wind after the coal-black mare—straight into the cor- ral! So that’s the way we got old Jack there; and that just shows he wasn’t much different from a lot of men, for he followed a female critter into a darned tight pen. Captain Jack wasn’t no great shakes for beauty nor stylish grace—just a strawberry roan with two stockin’ feet and a blaze- streaked face; a dead black tail and a mane to match, and lots of devil in his flashin’ eye; and he wasn’t so overly big, *bout fourteen and maybe a half hands high. But he was every inch horse, from his ear clean to the ground; and his wind and limb were smooth, and his nerve was strong and sound. You betcher life! There was nothin’ but genuine horse wrapped up inside his glistenin’ hide! And as he bat- ted ‘round the wing-corral, Bert ‘lowed: ‘“‘He’d shore be lightnin’ to hackamore, saddle and ride!” Well, Charley he figured that he didn’t want him—nor neither did Bert. Said he was too blamed ornery and mean to be worth more’n a worn-out quirt. But some- how I felt sorry for the brave little cuss, smashin’ ’round inside the corral and makin’ such a fuss to get outside and be free to run on the big, broad range. And I reckon that was nothin’ so queer nor powerful strange, for I myself was a homeless runt and called by the bunch “ The Ramblin’ Kid”; so, feelin’ that way, I announced if they didn’t. want him, I sure did. Just then Old Man Lily come ridin’ up, and he was tickled to death ’cause we had got the renegade stallion corraled at last— the cowmen wanted the outlaws shot. The wicked old’ brute whipped out his gun and started to pull a drop on old Jack’s head. That made me crazy, and I yelled, as I drawed on him: “ Bullet that horse, and Ill kill you dead!”’ Well, me workin’ at the time for the ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. brash old mam, of course that trick meant - I’d lose my job and have to fan. But I didn’t care, nor give two whoops, for the range was wide and the world was big. Any- how, I wasn’t the kind of kid to back-trail, or ever renege; besides, I was plumb red mad, from sombrero top to spur, from out- side hide to inside core, for I never could see a horse-brute "bused by no damn man without gettin’ devilish sore. Then a batty and fool thing happened; something naturally you’d hardly believe. I just slid offen my mount, stripped the saddle and hackamore gear, and with one big heave throwed the whole outfit, blanket, bridle and all, over the bars and into the wing corral. Then climbed up and dropped down inside, on foot, with just my rope and faced that bronc that was wild as hell! For maybe a _ second Captain Jack stopped, surprised. The boys outside just held their breath, thinkin’ I’d sure gone clean loco and was flirtin’ with certain and pronto death. Then here he come—his mouth wide open, ears laid back, eyes hate- red, strikin’ feet and lowered head. I side- stepped. The rope went true. A quick run to the snubbin’ post—a single half hitch— I’d throwed him dead! Like a flash he hit his feet, whirled, gave a maddened squeal and come straight back. I run with the rope, side-windin’ once more, yankin’ like hell to get the slack. That time when he went down— Well, what’s the difference? I won—was safe on deck when they let us outside, and, “fore we stopped at the Hundred and One, Captain Jack and me had made a ninety-mile ride. Then I knowed I’d found at last the one true and game little horse. And Jack knowed that the kid he carried was his friend as well as his boss! IT. CAPTAIN JACK and me worked the whole blame range from the Raton Hills to No Man’s Land; we rampsed around from the Purgatory clean down to the mean old Rio Grande, and them sure were life’s most joyous and happy years. But now they’re gone—the little old horse, the virgin plains, Gomichboo (E cS (E@)