Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 23, 1924 — page 76: what you’re looking at

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

ke “hah tee (1A . “es Polat > § ' “a o 234 banjo; so he told him to help the three cowboys round up the yearlings. “Saddle that little sorrel mare over there,” said Maguire. “ She’s all right for ou.” “Ts she gentle?” asked Pancho. “What difference does that make? She’s a cow pony, and you said you were a good cow hand. So hop to it.” Pancho Jones caught the sorrel mare all right, and put on the saddle, and then he started to get on. The pony’s eyes sudden- ly drew to a fine point, the ears laid down flat on her head, and she arched her back ever so slightly. Her lips quivered, show- ing a set of long, wicked looking teeth. Pancho evidently knew what was com- ing, and didn’t like the idea, for he backed off, first taking his left foot out of the stir- rup. Well, there was only one explanation. The new hand was afraid. The exact words that Ross Maguire used in firing Pancho Jones are not important at this point, even if it were possible to. reproduce them faithfully. Suffice it to say that the peroration, the final ending up of his outburst of spleen, went something like this: “Now, you miserable, cowardly half- breed, take your donkey and your banjo, and get off this ranch! You damned weasel!” ~ The three cowboys, sitting quietly on their horses, laughed, but a little nervously, for Ross Maguire’s manner of cussing a man out, although it had its humorous points, was fundamentally a very serious matter. Pancho Jones didn’t say anything. He took the saddle off the sorrel mare, put it in the shed, and then bundled his things on his little burro, and rode dejectedly away. “Tt’s always like this,” he reflected as his scrawny shoulders slumped forward in the saddle, and the burro’s little pacing feet kicked up spurts of dust. “I just guess I’m no good. What was that he called me—oh, yes. Weasel! That’s it!” Of course it wouldn’t have done any good for Pancho Jones, the Weasel, to have ex- plained to the foreman that he had once been a great and fearless rider, and that he ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. would have been one on this day if it hadn’t been for the accursed memory of that day at the rodeo when a wild black pony had got him down and put a hoof almost through his right chest, breaking ribs as it went. No, that wouldn’t have helped him keep the job. Not even the fact that his right lung was practically gone as a result of the rodeo accident—not even that would have helped. The truth of the matter, as the Weasel admitted to hizaself was that a cow- boy was supposed to ride a horse. If you can’t, then you’re no good on the ranch. That’s all there is to it. II. O_p MAN MASTERSON was sitting out in front of his rock and adobe house, smoking ia very foul pipe, while his pretty daughter Nan got supper. This was a pleasant life, the old man thought, even if he had been looked down on for many years because he owned sheep. Thirty years before he had built this house with his own hands, pro- tected his little valley range with his rifle, and had stuck it out until his place was as secure as that of the big Oliver cattle ranch, which all but hemmed him in on all sides. The old man pulled out his pipe, and erunted in surprise as he saw a strange looking object coming toward him. It was the Weasel and his burro. They rode up close. “ Hello,” said the Weasel. Mr. Masterson, ain’t you?” “Yep,” said the old man—“ that’s me. And who are you?” “ Well, I have a pretty good ordinary name, but a little while ago I had a new one hung .on me, and I think I'll stick to it. I’m the Weasel.” “ All right,” agreed Old Man Masterson, “have it your own way. And what can I do for you—Weasel?” ‘““J wonder if you could give me a little supper and a place to throw my blanket to-night? I'll be moseying on in the morn- ing.” Old Man Masterson arose and told the stranger that he was welcome, but that the only place he could put him for the night “ You're eommiceoooks (EO)