Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 189, No. 4 — page 21: what you’re looking at

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

TICKETS TO PARADISE. movement was never completed. Bob Ken- worthy’s right hand twitched, and like black magic there sprouted in it a blazing six-shooter. Dumfounded, Sandisfield felt his own gun flipped away as by a hammer blow; his fingers tingled sharply from the close impact of the bullet. Contemptuously, Bob sheathed his .45, swinging briskly down from the saddle. “Trouble with pole cats like you,” he said cuttingly to the discomfited Sandisfield, “jis that you can say things with your mouth which the same you ain’t man enough to back up otherwise. What you most need is a guardeen. Some day you’re liable to get hurt.” Sandisfield had reached the parlous con- dition where he could only mumble unintelli- gibly. His insane rage caused objects to appear before him as if seen through a red mist that shimmered dizzily like heat waves across a barren waste of sun-scorched alkali. He longed to hurl himself upon this cowboy who had defied him, held back only by an instinct stronger even than his wrath—fear. “IT want to take a closer look at your cayuse,” Bob Kenworthy said. He approached the victim of Sandisfield’s abuse, addressing it reassuringly, as one friend to another. At first the horse seemed distrustful—a thing not to be wondered at —pulling back on the lariat which held it. Kenworthy moved slowly, ever keeping up his softly-spoken words of comfort. Only a few minutes before, the horse had been berserk, a demon bent on killing. But now a miracle of transformation had taken place. A soft nicker indicated surrender, and the velvet muzzle, from which drops of blood were falling, was extended to reach Bob’s outstretched hand. Tears stood in the cowboy’s eyes as he perceived the ex- tent of wanton cruelty which had been vent- ed on this horse. “ You poor devil!” he muttered brokenly. Off from his neck came Bob Kenworthy’s gayly colored handkerchief. This he moistened with whisky from a small flask he carried, and then Bob tenderly wiped away the gory evidence of Sandisfield’s sav- agery. He thought that the horse would be permanently blinded in one eye, but time alone could settle that for certain. A491 Martin Sandisfield said nothing and did nothing while Bob went about his first aid to the maltreated pony; nor did Kenworthy pay him the least attention. When his task was concluded, Bob walked over to con- front Sandisfield, his face set in hard, grim lines. “Now,” he said in a tone of complete satisfaction, ‘I’m ready to talk turkey to you. A man that can do what you did to that horse,” Bob went on succinctly, “ is so damned low that he’s got to look up to see the bottom of a side-winder’s belly. What I’m aiming for now is to give you a dose of your own medicine. If you think you can stop me—start in and welcome!” Sandisfield was afraid of Bob Ken- worthy, but those taunting words snapped the small margin of mastery that his fear held over his soul-consuming rage. Bellow- ing like a mad bull, he rushed his antag- Onist, arms swinging viciously. Bob’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped to one side, send- ing a crashing hay-maker to the point of Sandisfield’s jaw. That blow rocked the man to his very foundations, giving the vertebre of his neck an agonizing twist. The pain restored to him a degree of sanity, but Bob instantly followed up the advantage, boring in on Sandisfield and sending a perfect hail of savage blows at the fellow’s eyes. Some of them Sandisfield managed to block, but not all. With each thud of his fists Bob Ken- worthy found peace and serenity returning to him. “I’m letting you down easy, hombre,” he said, as he deftly closed Sandisfield’s left eye. “I ain’t cutting you to pieces with a quirt like you deserve. I’m giving you a chance to hit back. Why don’t you sock me?” Mockingly. “I’m right here a-waiting. Come on, you skunk. Make a fight out of it!” Sandisfield ten years younger, might have been an even match for his relentless op- ponent. But the ten years of self-indulgence had robbed his muscles of their resiliency and sapped his wind. As a rough and ready scrapper, he gave a miserable exhibition. His wild swings were easily avoided, and the few blows he managed to send home Gomichbooks (E@)