Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 5, 1928 — page 69: what you’re looking at

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

THE RED MAN’S WAY. little tracker with the piercing black eyes to run criminals to earth. Some- times they worked together; but as a rule, unless it looked like a job for a posse, Yuma Tom trailed alone. “What has just come up is nigh onto the most ticklish thing Pve had to deal with since I was first elected to office, years ago,” the sheriff went on, after a glance toward the door to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “More than three hundred head of horses have been stolen from the ranch- ers round about here, and, accordin’ to signs and tracks, been hustled across the line into Mexico. As you can easy enough imagine, the ranchers are good and plenty hostile, and threaten to go after their horses, whether or no.” “Um-mn.” Yuma Tom grunted and crossed his moccasined feet. He al- ready knew that neither United States officers nor citizens could, even when chasing criminals, ride at will around Mexico as they could in their own country. Sheriff Hunter interpreted the old red man’s grunt to mean that he was ready to hear what was wanted of him, so he resumed in a low tone, leaning forward: “The ranchers have half promised to give me a chance. Though some of ‘em growled that if I was figurin’ on help from Mexican authorities [ might just as well go to bed. “ Of course I didn’t tell any of ’em that I had you in mind to get their horses back. That would be tipping our hand, so to speak, and might put you in extra danger. But I did cau- tion them that the Mexicans would probably look at a big crowd of white men, ridin’ fast into their country, as some sort of an invadin’ force, and put up a fight.” Yuma Tom grunted again. “I sabe. You want me to get ponies. Getum kinda slick, huh?” “Yeah, Tom. That’s it exactly. Want ’em mighty bad. Not alone, either, to make my word good with 635 the ranchers, but also maybe to prevent a nasty scrap. For our white brothers are sure ready to go on the warpath. I'd like to get the rustlers, too. But that, [ reckon, is clean out of the question— with one man against I don’t know how many.”’ “Um-m.” Yuma Tom's piercing, coal-black eyes were expressionless, but Hunter thought he saw just the flicker of a smile on the Indian’s red lips. Rising, Yuma Tom held out his hand. “I sabe, Mista Bob. It make you glad if I getum ponies. And Great White Father say that heap slick, huh?” “Yea, Tom. You can rest assured, too, that the ranchers will make it right with you if you can in some way get their horses back. Or send word to me where they are.” | “ Um-m. I go now. IJ think I know way bad mans drive ponies to Mexico. In one hour I tell for Sure.” Together they walked to the hitch- ing rail in front of the jail, where Yuma ‘T'om’s favorite mount, a sleek- coated, great-chested, stiperbly — built strawberry roan stallion, Red Gold, was tied. This splendid animal had been, un- til captured by the little red man, the leader of a band of wild horses which roamed the San Gloria foothills. No one save Yuma Tom had ever been on Red Gold’s back, or knew his speed and wonderful intelligence, though Sheriff Hunter had often said: “That there big stallion and Little Gray Eagle fair love each other. What is more, the stallion seems to sabe every word Tom says to him.” Behind the cantle, securely tied in place, was a pair of Indian-tanned saddlebags, apparently full of emer- gency rations for horse and master. Half hidden in its fringed, buckskin scabbard was Yuma Tom’s well pro- tected repeating rifle. “ Adios, Mista Bob! Lookum out for my smoke signal, which tell you whether fT am right.” Gomichbooks -” (E@)