Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 7, 1928 — page 131: what you’re looking at

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

RESTLESS GUNS. “ And say—weren’t you the man that was addressing the mob out here a few minutes ago?” “T addressed the men outside,” an- swered the Parson, “and I do not want to get the prisoners away from here. It is my duty to turn them over to the men that they in all justice be- long to—for justice and condign pun- ishment. “Do you, men—supposedly agents of justice—know who these prisoners are? “The one you call Harry Norman is Norman Trent, son of Simon Os- good Trent, the capitalist and exploiter of Western resources, the man who sits in his New York palace and manipulates the treasures of the earth out of the hands of those who earn them into his own unworthy grasp. “That is why this youth recognizes no law—but kills as by the instinct of a wild beast, and walks over the earth in the fancied security of wealth. “The other—is a, parasite, to he crushed under heel like vermin. He is Ronald Ingram-Browne, a subject of the British king, son of an idle Eng- lish capitalist who is a stockholder in the Coronado Mining and Smelting Company and other ‘American enter- prises controlled by the grasping talons of Simon Trent and his minions.’ “You speak of killing,’ spoke up Norman ‘Trent boldly. “By what superior instinct did you slaughter two innocent men who guarded ‘the stage coach at the sacrifice of their lives? = “T kill,” replied the Parson, “as God kills! To accomplish great ends and great good. I kill constructively —that more abundant life may come to those who live. The stagecoach guards merited death only in that they obstructed my progress, my mission.’ “T say, I believe you're barmy on the crumpet!” ejaculated Ronald reck- lessly. ‘“ You talk for all the world like queer blighters I’ve heard spouting to the crowds in Hyde Park. - “T’m no capitalist—not half, nor is 121 my father; I jolly well wish we were. All I could manage, to afford this bally trip through the States—and as for this poor little girl here, that you’re scaring into convulsions—” “The lady is safe,” interrupted the Parson a little harshly. “ She goes with me, after my work here is done.” “More of your godlike reasoning!” protested Norman, flashing a glance of pity at Althea. “Is a helpless young girl a part of your divine mission?” “She becomes a part of it,’ an- swered the Parson blandly. ‘ She is destined to be a queen. I have horses waiting at the end of the village, and I shall take her away—to a new life— a new heaven and a new earth.” Althea still stared at the masked mystery in fearful fascination, her face colorless and drawn. “What do you want? What do you want us to dor” Sheriff Kemp asked again. “ Nothing,” said the Parson. “I am leaving presently, taking the lady with me. The avenging angels outside are battering down your doors, and they will come—to tell you what to do. “For the present,” he added pom- pously, “my work is accomplished. I struck Henry Spindell’s mine—Simon Trent’s mine—and it vanished in smoke. Spindell still lives, but the night is not over. “This town—cursed with the Midas touch of Spindell and ‘Trent — is doomed. To-morrow’s sun will see a barren desert here—purified by fire. “Come!” he said loftily, turning his masked face toward the girl, "it*is time for us to go.’ Althea shuddered, shrinking back in the chair, her eyes wide and bright with terror. “T can’t—I wouldn’t go—with you,” she faltered. “ It’s too terrible! ('d rather die than have you touch me.” He drew back and seemed to hold himself with greater majesty. “Would you, then, rather die here and now?” he asked solemnly, and it EO LPMIC LOOKS (E@)