Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 14, 1928 — page 44: what you’re looking at

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

182 would lose two days in getting to Chi- cago. No reason on earth for him to stay over. Much better for him to slip quiet- ly away now, and start on a clean slate, forgetting that such a dump as Los Chicos County ever existed. Only— that would mean leaving, without again seeing Molly Todd. Well, common sense advised him, what was the matter with that? Bet- ter he should forget her, too. All he got from thinking about her was to keep himself perturbed and upset. But when did common sense ever win in an argument with a young man regarding a girl? It struck Norman all of a sudden, that even if it did make him two days late in reaching Chicago, and although he was prevented from joining her in her battle against the grafters, it yet would never do for him to leave Rio Rita without acquainting her with the rather significant discoveries he had made at the dam that afternoon. That would be only a proper return for the assistance she had rendered to him. A dilapidated looking vehicle stood across the street, with a sign “ For hire,” hung on the side of it, and a barefooted Mexican sleeping on the front seat. Norman went over to it, and prod- ding the man into wakefulness, asked him if he knew where Miss Molly Todd lived. “Mees Mollitod?”’ The fellow grinned, flashing a row of white teeth, “Si, senor. Ev’r’body know at. Joomp een.” “ How far is it?’ questioned Nor- man cautiously. It did not seem to him as if the antiquated car could hold to- gether for more than a mile or two. “Ow far? Oh, joost a step. We start; we zere.”’ ~ It wasn’t quite like that, but it was almost so, as Norman discovered after he somewhat hesitatingly took the chance. They started, and in effect they were ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. there, although the distance was nearly twenty miles, and the road about as terrifying as can well be imagined—a mere rough, mountain trail that con- tinually skirted the edge of dizzy gorges and clung narrowly to the side of towering cliffs. The Jehu—that Mexican deserved the name if any driver ever did—shot away with a jerk that sent Norman careening back against the cushions, and deat to all protests of his badly scared passenger, never slackened speed for an instant until they arrived at their destination. Not alone that, but he paid only the most casual attention to the wheel, us- ing his hands for the most part to ges- ture with as an adjunct to the conversa- tion he kept turning about to carry on, or else employing them in the rolling and lighting of a steady succession of cigarettes. Uphill and “down hill they raced, around hair-raising curves, with the crazy old ark rattling and groaning and threatening every moment to collapse. All the time around them were only the bald peaks and yawning valleys of a country as dead and barren and deso- late as a landscape in the moon. Then suddenly the granite cliffs part- ed like a gateway; and they swept be- tween into a wide, spreading park of gracious green, with a big house like a feudal castle set in the middle of it— the home of Molly Todd, built by her father, Dave Todd, the pioneer, in the days of his mining prosperity. “We are zere!” announced the driver proudly, as he circled the drive leading up to the house with an added burst of speed, and stopped short be- fore the front door. Shaken and weak as a rag from the ordeal he had been through, Norman crawled out and staggered up the steps to the entrance. An ultra-correct butler, with gray side-whiskers, opened the door in an- swer to his ring, and eyed Norman’s dusty and rumpled appearance with dis- NOOLKS (C@) AAG (E@)