Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 7, 1928 — page 86: what you’re looking at

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

76 “Sour Grapes’’ Watson, the thin, sad-faced barkeeper, glanced up as Stevens moved to the bar and ordered a drink. Watson looked the puncher over, and decided that the stranger did not appear a very exciting person. Sour Grapes was not of a very obsery- ing nature. Solitaire examined the occupants of the room in the big mirror behind the bar. They appeared to be five of the usual weather-beaten, hard riding wad- dies of the range and nothing more. His observations completed, Stevens turned his attention to the barkeeper as the latter placed a drink before him. “ Been right warm tuhday, ain’t it?” remarked Solitaire casually. “Sure has,’ answered Watson, polishing the bar with a grimy rag. “Don’t know when I seen so much heat as there’s been this summer—this month’s been a scorcher!’’ “Yea,” Stevens nodded as he picked up his glass. “ Anything doing in this town?” “Nope,” the barkeeper shook his head. “‘But then there never is! Vereston ain’t what yuh could call ex- citin’.. “Course there’s some hombres ‘round here that always start some- hit an, Watson ceased speaking abruptly as two men swaggered through the door- way. The Whistling Waddy observed the new arrivals carefully in the mirror. The first to enter was a heavy-set man, his face disfigured by a twisted nose and whose lips appeared to be curved into a perpetual sneer. Stevens noticed that a heavy pearl-handled re- volver hung from a holster on his left hip. His blue flannel shirt was open at the throat, revealing a bull-like neck — that seemed too short for the big head that rested upon it. Behind him came a little swarthy individual with long black hair and a knife sticking in his belt on the oppo- site side from his holster, in which a ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. Colt rested. He walked with catlike steps, and he gazed about the room through shifty, narrow eyes. He was evidently a half-breed of some sort. Solitaire realized these were the two men who had been riding down the street, and who had caused the little boy to run away. Craven and Jenkins, the kid had said their names were. Instinctively the wandering puncher felt that these two were members of the Ace’s pack. The heavy-set man moved toward the bar, and, turning to say something to his companion, he bumped into Solitaire as he did so. He muttered an oath and stood glaring at the Whis- tling Waddy. The latter had turned and was gazing at him calmly—his eyes cold and hard. “Yuh oughta look where yuh’re goin’,” said Stevens softly. “Yea.” The heavy-set man laughed shortly and without mirth. “ Maybe yuh better get out of th’ way when yuh see me coming—they usually does for ‘ Hasty’ Craven.” “Me, I’m kinda funny that way,” rejoined Solitaire quietly. “I gotta have a good reason for movin’—TI’ve heard a lot of jaspers spoutin’ hot air in my time.” “Why, yuh—” Craven fairly sput- tered with rage, he reached for his gun. As he did so Stevens’s right fist landed upon the man’s jaw with all the force of the puncher’s weight behind it. Craven crumpled up in a heap and slid to the floor. His companion made a move to draw his gun, but thought better of it when he found himself staring into the muzzle of one of Solitaire’s heavy Colts, while the other covered the rest of the men in the room. “Your friend Craven didn’t get any- thin’ he didn’t ask for,” said the Whis- tling Waddy sharply. “ So let it go at that!” He looked for a brief instant at the smaller man. “ Listen, feller. I dqn’t know who yuh are—but I’m tell- in’ yuh this right now. I’m takin’ a Gomichbooks (E©)