Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 14, 1928 — page 102: what you’re looking at

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

240 The girl clung to her father. It was an indecisive, weak embrace. Old Bartlett felt as if his daughter had lost all power of will and action. She was like a doll with rag arms hooked some- how about his neck. It was precisely like these clowns you may have seen who dance with an effigy. “ Buck up now, child,” he said soft- ly, resolutely. “‘ Don’t be afraid any more.” “Leaving you here—” she began in a desperate moan. «Never mind that. They won’t touch me. What’ll they gain by that? I’m safe.” “ But if I get help,’ she whispered, “then they'll find out—” : “TI know. I know. You can’t get help. Don’t try that. But when you get back, we'll trust to God. Time may bring some one. That’s where they’re making their mistake—killing time. Go on. Pray without ceasing. As the Book says, ‘ Fear not!” Swope and the cook went above with the girl. The doughboy was there leaning over the rail and studying the lights of the tent city. He was like a gargoyle leaning over the eaves of a medieval church watching the distant and inconsequential world of human beings. A gargoyle with a dog’s body and an angel’s face. “TLettin’ the skit go?” he exclaimed to the cook. ‘‘ What the devil does this mean?” “Tt means moah nuggets, sucklin’. That there’s what-all it means. Nug- gets, sucklin’, nuggets!” “You two men stay on watch,” Swope ordered when the girl was scul- ling the boat shoreward. “ Keep your eyes peeled over both rails and fore and aft—every point of the compass. If you see any one approachin’ us, give the alarm, and we make off with what gold we’ve got.” “ Ain’t the skit goin’ to get the whole dam’ country up in arms agin’ us?” the doughboy asked in his high, querulous voice. ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. “No,” Swope chuckled ‘ grimly. “ The skit’s on our side,” CHAPTER XXVI. A DREAM COME TRUE. IM DORSEY was enduring his self- J inflicted imprisonment in the old City Hotel. It was an irritating task. In the first place he could have been spending these hours—which were the gambling hours—in aggran- dizing his already considerable for- tune. The proprietor of the hotel, accord- ing to the custom of the Gold Rush days in San Francisco when there were no banks, kept Dorsey’s winnings in his safe. But obviously they could be kept there no longer. Dorsey would have to get out of town. Just how long he would have to stay out, depended upon the little affair with Steve Lukon, pro- prietor of the Gold Rocker House. A short while after he had immured himself in the hotel he called for one of the stable mozos—half Tiburon In- dian, half Mexican—whom he had treated royally. He then instructed him to go to the Gold Rocker and find out what had happened. The mozo returned with the news that Steve Lukon had been in a scrap with one of the gamblers, a gunfight which, as usual, had its beginning over a woman. The woman was the now famous entertainer from the Bay. The woman had fled, and so had the’ stran- ger. The latter had shot Steve Lukon. “Did this toff—this stranger you talk about—kill Mr. Lukon?” Dorsey asked, nonchalantly blowing a smoke ring. “No, senor,’ the breed answered. “The desperado, he is aim for the heart. But the bullet she is enter Lu- kon by the shoulder. “The boss doctor is come. The Senor Proprietor is recover’ and sits up and he mak great oath i every- A EOPMIGL OOO KS (E@)