Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 28, 1928 — page 45: what you’re looking at

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

ROPE NECKTIES. We made a fire by the bank of the stream, under a high bluff. As the sun goes down in a glory of colors, the air changes on the prairie as if at a wand of magic. A cold, chill breeze will spring up from nowhere; and the warmth of the driftwood fire was good to feel. : With our back protected and the rest of our frames toasting near the flames, that cast a ruddy reflection in the water and cut a circle in the dark- ness, we were comfort’ble as could be. Every once in awhile Shorty would throw some more greasewood on the flames, and the fire would spring up in higher golden points, a-dancing, and the genial heat was right welcome. Near by, our hosses were hobbled, so there was no risk of their wandering away during the night. Sometimes a wild stallion in the hills with his bunch of mares will scream a challenge or call. Either way, as a bid to battle, or a summons to join the band, your hoss responds, and in the morning you wake up to find the ani- mal gone. And high cowboy heels is not meant for walking. There is a power ’bout the frenzied, free scream of a wild stallion that a gentled equine cannot resist; it stings the blood into savage revolt. Even if hobbled, a pet pony will tremble, like in a fit, and try to pull loose. So it is best to be on the safe side. Shorty and I were lounging there, talking of things indifferent. You'd ’a’ thought, listening, that he was a hun- dred and ten years old, and me a hun- dred, both with long white beards and crutches. But kids pick up range gossip early from their elders and treasure same for man talk. | 7 Sudden out of the darkness a shape intruded into the circle of light cast by our camp fire. Both of us were on our feet instant, guns out, covering the stranger, who- ever he might be. 475 “Advance, hombre, hands clear of your sides,” I tell him, quiet. “ You oughter have better sense and bark or something when you approaches a fire where you ain’t known.” — _ As if at a hint, Shorty steps back immediate into the dark, out of sight, in case there’s going to be any human target practice. The figure, some bent over, comes nearer, and I see an old critter with a long musket hanging under his arm and nearly touching the ground. He is in deerskin complete, but all black and dirty, and his keen, tanned face is the same. A coonskin cap pulled down over his forehead, and gray locks tumbling to his shoulders, gives him an old-man- of-the-woods appearance. This party, is calm enough, mebbe dumb. He lays down his musket, shifts a powder horn swinging from a leather cord, and warms his hands before the fire. The fingers were long and flex- ible, and the color of baked clay. His keen eyes, gray, under protruding eye- brows, kept peering around. _ “Folks are entire inhospit’ble these days when an old trapper can’t sit in friendly at a white man’s camp fire. I’m welcome at any Injun village from here to beyond the Rockies, if they ain’t putting on war paint.” 7 The stranger’s voice was deep, yet had that cracked sound of one who don’t talk much. _ “ Humph,” grunted Shorty, coming into view. “ These aborigines, I hear, ain’t very particular about the company they keeps.” 7 The old trapper turned on him with a snort of disgust. “Young feller, I’m old enough to be your pappie. Why, I been an Injun scout *fore you was weaned.” “ That ain’t no reason to brag about consorting with a lot of redskins, mur- dering wimmin and children when they gets a chance. Why they likes you? Does you peddle them fire water or rifles ?” COPNICGLOOKS (E@)