Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 3, 1924 — page 156: what you’re looking at

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

946 possible safety. Instinct told him to go up- ward and drift before the storm. He fol- lowed instinct. For one thing his horse was gone and he knew that his strength would last far longer by taking advantage of the force of the blizzard than it would in bucking its buffet- ing fury. For another the old instinct to evade justice, to cheat the law of its goal, still persisted in spite of the hazard of per- sonal safety. So he turned his face away from the driving snow. But even as he stumbled and batted his way upward through the ever increasing storm fear again smote his consciousness. Possibly it was because he knew that death dogged his every footstep. Possibly it was more intimately connected with that last killing when he had snuffed out the life of Adam Borchers. That killing troubled Rork. It had rankled in his mind all during the long ride through the blizzard before he had lost his horse as he fled from the vengeance of the law. Rork had always prided himself on that iron nerve and implacable brutality which had enabled him to meet his victims and shoot them down face to face. He had even laughed as he did it. And now for the first time he departed from that rule and shot a man in the back. Adam Borchers had never had a chance. Without warning the heavy bullet had caught him and whipped out his life like a candle flame in a gale. That troubled Rork, troubled him more than he cared to admit. Possibly because he had violated the un- written code of gunmen. Possibly by reason of the superstition that is more or less prom- inent in every primitive mind. He wished he hadn’t done it. And the wish was father to an ineffable fear that was but accen- tuated by the wrath of the storm. For a half hour he labored through the piling drifts and as the minutes passed he realized that the blizzard was taking heavy toll of his prodigal strength. The snow banks fettered his legs and drained the power of his huge muscles. The wind buffeted him as though he were dandelion down and sucked his breath. The cold with inexorable relentlessness snapped his ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. energy. He sensed that the end could not be far off. And then suddenly, like a beacon at sea, a light shone through the storm. Flicker- ing, twinkling, flashing intermittently through the gusts of snow, there it was, straight ahead, a light where no light should be—a promise of refuge where no refuge existed. For several minutes Rork could not be- lieve his eyes. The thing was not possible. No one lived this high up in the hills. No cabin stood anywhere in this locality. Hadn’t he chosen this route for that very reason? And yet there could be no deny- ing that the light shone forth from a cabin window. suddenly Steve Rork remembered. Crazy Preacher Job! He had heard about the eccentric old man who went about the coun- try preaching the gospel to all who would listen and plastering every available build- ing, fence and rock with biblical quota- tions. He had even seen some of these queer signs himself-——-stern exhortations to repent and be saved boldly emblazoned with white paint on some conspicuous bowlder. People said that the old preacher was crazy, had been so firm in their convictions as to affix the word to his name. Rork remembered now that some one had told him that the old man maintained a cabin somewhere in this vicinity to which he returned from his wanderings at times to pray and meditate in solitude on the sins of the world. Rork concluded that this must be the place and the old man must be at home. Well, any port in a storm. Rork had no liking for sanctimonious “‘ sky-pilots,” hated the whole tribe in fact, but the cabin offered shelter and warmth with the possi- bility of food—and he was freezing to death. It was no time to quibble. Suddenly Rork chuckled. The absurd humor of the situation had just percolated his slow thinking brain. He, the Killer, was going to call on Crazy Preacher Job! That self-styled old “savior of the hills.” would have to be, unwillingly, the means of saving the life of the most notorious killer of a decade. More than that by saving his life the old preacher would actually be COMG DOO! C©