Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 5, 1928 — page 145: what you’re looking at

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

THE FOXY GUY. sion, The Fox sauntered into it. But no one greeted him; the camp was un- occupied by a human being. There were two mules. One was grazing, hobbled. The other was tethered to a tree. It acted strangely, The Fox thought; tugging at its tie rope, whinnying, anxious to get away. A few feet beyond this mule was a bed roll, wrapped in a tarpaulin. Near the roll was a little pile of cold, white ashes between two rocks, across which a grate had been formed by two pieces of flat iron. Upon the grate was a coffeepot and a fry pan. Bacon was in the pan, and it had been burned to a crisp and was now cold. Coffee was in the pot, black and boiled down to a thick fluid. Sand and a powder of white ashes overlay the pan and its contents. “This is phony stuff,” The Fox mused uneasily. ‘‘ Where is this Jack guy? He must ‘a’ made this camp yes- terday, started to cook a meal and beat it. Where is he, anyway?’ He peered around uneasily, half tempted to hide in the brush and await developments from this queer situa- tion. But hunger overcame his fears. “Aw, no,” he muttered. “ This can’t be a trap. How could this guy suspect I was coming along? Nobody in town knows the other young fella was hijacked up on the mountain; everybody figures he was hit by a rock what fell down the bank on him. No- body could figure me in on this gold hunt a-tall! I doped my scheme out too foxy for that; old Foxy Guy, that’s me!”’ The mule at the tree brayed loudly and tugged at the tie rope. The Foxy Guy threw a rock and hit it in the head. “Shut up! A guy can’t even think with that racket goin’ on. Now, le’s see. This guy’s been gone all night. Maybe he hadda go back to town and— Aw, hell! What’s the di ffer- ence? He don’t know me, and if he does come while I’m eatin’, what of it?” Zl He found the grub sack and made fresh coffee and cut several thick slices of bacon. There were loaves of bread from town, and he cut huge slices from one. But as soon as the coffee boiled he drank scalding cups of it until tears stood in his eyes. “Wow! Sure hits the spot,” he gasped. “ That hooch I had carried a kick like a mule!” He stumbled over a pail of water and it spilled. The mule at the tree scented the water on the ground and whinnied eagerly—half famished fora drink. The Fox merely threw an- other rock at it. “Shut up, will ya? You act like—” A sound from the hillside above in- terrupted him. A queer, muffled sound which faintly resembled a man’s voice calling. Muffled and hollow. He stood irresolutely listening; half fearful, half puzzled. Then the bacon began to smoke and distracted his attention for a few moments. Then the sound came again. Hastily making a sandwich of bacon and bread, he started up the hillside toward the sound, eating as he went. In a minute he located the source of the sound; it came from a clump of brush. _, Parting the brush, he was about to go ahead when he saw, directly in his way, a hole in the ground, six feet or so across and partially covered over with dead brush. He dropped to his knees and peered down the hole. “Hello. Anybody down there,” he mumbled through a mouthful of food. A hoarse voice answered him in- stantly : “Tl say there is! God bless yuh, pardner! I been in here since yester- day evenin’ and was about ready to give up hope of getting out.” “How you get down there?” The Fox mumbled, busily eating. “Tell yuh when you get me out. There’s ropes in camp, pardner. Get ’em here and help me up.” Fifteen minutes later, by dint of EOPMIC OO KS (E@)