Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 28, 1928 — page 50: what you’re looking at

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

480 range with more ‘n a month’s pay in my jeans. As a general rule I has ‘bout a dollar to spin for ham and eggs and coffee.” “Cow-punchers is allus improvi- dent,” I replies. “ What does that mean?” “Tt 1s a word you should learn, meaning him who squanders his all and ain’t got any money left.” He glances at me with admiring wonder, “No wonder you leads me, Harry. You have eddication a plenty.” I grinned, having been saving that word ever since I heard a lawyer sharp say it down in Jacksontown. We kept on going well into late afternoon, riding into rolling country with here and there a softly rising hill to the west and east. Our canteens had been filled before leaving Hope- town, so there was no actual need of fresh water, though, of course, we al- ways likes it. But more miles re- mained to be covered before we de- cides to call it a day and pick out a camp for the night. Suddenly I saw, rising from behind a distant hill, westward, a sight that drew me up quick, and Shorty, too. A long smoke length was unwinding up to the heavens. It was thin and black, but now and again the smoke thread was cut off, and white showed; black and white, black and white, with un- even pauses between; an Injun signal fire. The savage has a code all his own, which is a forerunner of the white man’s dot-and-dash Morse used for the telegraph. Simultan’ous our heads turn to the east. There, also, in the distance, an- other smoke line is ascending, answer- ing back. By holding a blanket now and ag’in over a green leaf fire, one buck is answering the message of an- other. ‘They was getting together on plans, so to speak. And as we swung in between them it was prob’ly in the cards that the war ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. talk had something to do with the high- ly valuable scalps that up to now has belonged to Shorty and me. CHAPTER XL. THE RESCUE. ‘ HAT say?” queries Shorty. “War parties of young bloods, undoubted, but there ain’t anything to do but go on. I’d be ashamed to crawfish before some de- gen’rate Injuns and return to Hope- town hotfoot.” “Me, too. We'll eat cold grub to- night. Mebbe they haven’t noticed our trail at all. Let’s get some speed out of these hosses of ourn.” I rowels Blackie a bit, and he breaks into an easy gallop. Shorty urges his pinto pony, and we tries to beat the wind, in hope of getting ahead of these hostiles. We ain’t actually seen them. Perhaps they is plumb unconscious of our prevading along the prairie? The thought was nice and encour- aging, but not for long. On the sky line westward I observes the outline of some turbanned savages, naked from the waist up, armed with rifles they carries hanging against the flanks of their ponies. Chances are they have Winchesters ’stead of flintlocks. ‘There is plenty of white renegades, as I hinted some time back. “We will keep on a going till our trails touch, and then duck to shelter,” I says. And just then I hear the report of a single rifle from some’ers ahead of us, and a cry for help that sounds like it was in the voice of a white party. Over the curve of the prairie we gal- lops. ‘There, in a hollow, surrounded by a few green shrubs, is a sight that knocks the breath out of my chest. On the ground, strewn around as they fell, lies eight or nine painted redskins, dead sand gone to glory. Their ponies must have run away. 3A GComicboo CS (C@)