Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 28, 1928 — page 48: what you’re looking at

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

478 were standing motionless at the hitch- post. “Let’s try and get rid of these buf- falo hides first thing,” said Shorty. I knew that I no longer had a buf- falo hunter with me; so I humors him. A great little feller, he was a range drifter at heart, and nothing was going to make him any different. We stops our ponies in front of a faded sign: GENERAL STORE Throwing our reins over their necks we marches in to a big vacant, barny place, dark at first after the glare out- side. An old feller fingering a white goatee, with a black vest over his flan- nel shirt, comes forward from the back. “ Howdy, strangers. Welcome to Hopetown.”’ : “ Howdy,” we replies cordial. “ Just passing through, on our way north, and wonder if you could accom’date us by trading in twenty-seven of the nicest looking buffalo robes you ever see.” “ Mebbe,” he says, cautious. “ Haul them in—or better still, I'll come out and look ’em over in the light. My eyes ain't what they used to be. Of course they are fresh?” “Yeah,” I said, “ but you have lots of space round here for curing grounds.” He grinned. ‘There was more space than anything else. “J gota worthless Mexican boy who has a hankering for work—if pressed.” Shorty nudged me. “ Didn't I tell you, partner, it was no kind of slavery for a white man, free, single, and full of vices.” The long and happy of it was that the storekeeper examined and counted our hides, and told us true that we had slaughtered a mature batch of bulls in the flower of their age. He'd give us five in gold a robe, and the drinks was on us. “You are a gentleman and what passes for a scholar,’ I told the old ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. bird, hearty. “Where does we ad- journ for this here libation?” I was trying to please him by act- ing as if this was a big town with lots of choice. “If Henry ain’t asleep he will oblige us,” said our trader, p’inting with his thumb next door. First we helps him cart the skins into a sort of room for storing mate- rial he has at the back of his place. Then the three of us breeze into the one saloon Hopetown affords. ‘The owner and barkeep was up and ready. Guess he had seen us ride into town. We was introduced by Mr. Murray, who had the saloon; he wasn’t a regular barkeep, you might say, ‘cause he had no white apron. “Gents,” he says with a nice smile, “the only thing we can keep fresh out here is our thirst. Our choice of bev- erages is one, namely, whisky. But none of same has killed anybody yet, even perks us up a bit.” “Four glasses, sir, and guess that will be our pleasure all around,” | an- nounces, and plunks "bout the last gold piece that separates Shorty and me from utter poverty on the mahogany. Shorty pushes the bottle to Mr. Douglas, but he insists on our pouring four fingers first off. Finally we was all ready to gulp and with a p'lite nod we does so. Mr. Douglas and the proprietor both buys a drink, and then the former, a courtly nice gent if he was in business, counted out our money for us as pleas- ant as a gambler would be paying off a bet. “How far, might I ask, will we drift north, “fore we hits Gorge City?” I asks, listlesslike, as if to pass the time, while I made circles with the bottom of my glass on the bar. I saw glances exchanged between the two men. “Mr. Flint,” drawls the saloonkeep- er,” [ should judge, not pushing your hosses, it will be a good two days’ go- ing.” | CORMICGLOOOKS (E@