Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 23, 1924 — page 77: what you’re looking at

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

THE WEASEL. was out in the harness and tool shed be- *tween the house and the square of rock fence that formed the sheep pen. “Gosh!” said the Weasel. ‘I ain’t looking for no hotel. That’s swell enough for me, and many thanks to you, Mr. Mas- terson.”’ The Weasel got off and led his burro around to the shed, where there was a little pile of hay, and removed the saddle, with his blanket and banjo. In a moment he joined the old man. “Supper ‘ll be ready right away now,” said the sheep man, with his customary hospitality. ‘‘ Just make yourself at home, Mr.—ah—Weasel. Durned if that ain’t a funny name to own up to having. But I guess you’ve got a reason.”’ “Yes,” said the Weasel; “I guess I have.” The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, while the delicious odor of fried chicken came from the kitchen. The sun was going down, big and red, over the bluffs across the river. It would soon be night, but it would not be dark, for a clear round moon was coming up. Such a moon makes the clear white nights of the Texas ranges seem more pleasant than day. The sound of a bell came from the di- rection of the river. The Weasel made out a small herd of sheep approaching, with a cloud of dust hanging over them. They came nearer, and the Weasel saw that at the head of the column of dirty, grayish animals was an enormous bellwether. ‘““ There comes old Dan,” said Masterson. “Do you know, young feller, that’s the finest piece of sheep flesh I ever saw in my life! Look at him—tall and clean limbed, except for that bunch of wrinkles along his dewlap.”’ “How long have you had him?” “TI raised him myself. He’s about ten years old, coming this next spring—nine and a half, if you want to be exact. His mother was a little old wrinkled Merino ewe, and his daddy was one of these big Shropshires that’s got lots of size to him, but no wool to speak of.” ‘‘What’s he good for?” asked the Wea- sel. ‘Why, you durned idiot,” said the old 235 man, “ don’t you know what a bellwether is good for? If it wasn’t for old Dan, there is no telling what these sheep would do. They might stay out along the river, or over in the bluffs where the wolves could get ’em, if he didn’t bring ’em home. -They’ve been tagging along behind that brass bell of Dan’s ever since he was a year old. He always leads ’em home, and when IJ hear that old bell—I’d recognize it anywhere, young feller—I know that Dan’s bringing ’em in safe.” Nan Masterson, her face flushed from the heat of the wood stove, came out and told the men to come in. The Weasel, who was introduced without any flourish, was ill at ease. He sat at one end of the table, say- ing nothing, and fumbling with the fried chicken. Nan once or twice tried to make conver- sation, but the Weasel wouldn’t budge. When asked where he was going he said frankly that he didn’t know. ‘“ Guess maybe I’ll try to get a few little jobs on the way,” he said, “‘ and maybe Ill drift on into San Antone for the winter. I can always live somehow in San Antone, even if I have to tend bar at a chili joint.” Then, abashed by this much talkative- ness, he lapsed into a silence so deep that there was no use trying to pull him out again. Old Man Masterson, looking at the Weasel over his coffee, was sorry for him. He looked so frail and helpless. And there was something wistful about the Weasel— something in his black eyes and*the way his long locks of dark hair came down over his forehead. After dinner the Weasel excused himself, saying he was tired, and went out to the harness shed. The burro was still nibbling at the pile of hay. The Weasel sat down by his saddle, lit a cigarette, and picked up his banjo. He jerked his fingers across it a few times, tightened the strings, and then began play- ing and humming an old Mexican love song —the same song, though he didn’t know it, that his Mexican mother used to play for his American father in San Antonio. Then he played other things, some warlike and some pathetic, and some with love in them. ‘And all the time Old Man Masterson and COPMICGLOOO KS (E)