Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 3, 1924 — page 162: what you’re looking at

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

952 Instead he was amazed to find the in- domitable old preacher standing as immo- bile as a rock, his right hand still outflung accusingly, and even as the echoes of the gun died his voice boomed out again: “< Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord. Again Rork pulled the trigger. Again the heavy bullet threw splinters from the log wall. Still the old man did not fall. And again, as though his voice thundered back the echo of the exploding gun, came the words: “To the last farthing—to the last far- thing.’ ” The Killer was in a frenzied panic now. His face was ashen, and his lips had set into a grotesque grimace of cravenness. His hands twitched and shook. It was only by a superhuman effort that he was again able to steady his gun and fire. Even as he pulled the trigger, a high, shrill wail mounted to a summit of acute- ness, as though the storm in its fury was shrieking its defiance at his puny efforts— and then as quickly as the cry rose, it fell— fell to a dead silence that was ghostly in its completeness. Every breath of the elements was stilled. Only the old man’s voice was heard, low, clear, humble: ** Safe in the hands of God.” And then, lower yet, a mere whisper that in its very meekness beat on Steve Rork’s eardrums like thunder: ‘“‘ Safe in the hands of God.” The Killer’s courage had mounted in a frenzy of excitement, a high pitch of emo- tion. Now it collapsed as suddenly. For a moment he looked at the old preacher standing there in serene self-possession. Then his fingers loosened spasmodically and the heavy gun clattered to the floor. In that instant he broke completely. The iron nerve that had carried him through a hundred tight places suddenly failed; and he was afraid—horribly, cravenly, trem- blingly afraid. His hands went to his eyes in a gesture of bewilderment, as though he would shut out the world from his consciousness, and then his knees slowly gave way and he sank to the floor with a hoarse whimpering cry, more beast than human. Steve Rork was broken, crushed. He ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY: lay face downward, his body racked by great dry sobs. For several moments the old preacher regarded him in stern compassion before he stepped forward and picked up the gun. His voice lost its harshness when he spoke, but it was none the less stern, determined. “Come, Steve Rork,. let us be on our way,” he commanded. “ To-night thou must give thyself up to the law.” Rork half raised himself from the floor and his terror-stricken eyes noted the gun in the old man’s hands. ‘““My Gawd, man, not to-night!” he cried. “Not in this storm! No, no! Gawd, man, we’d be lost in ten minutes! We'd die! 2 “ God will guide the way,”” stated the old preacher simply. II. STEVE Rork never knew how he made that fifteen miles to Red Cliff. Afterward he could not remember. He only knew that it was terrible. The storm buffeted him cruelly. It tore at his body in maniacal fury and sucked the very breath from his lips. The snow sifted through his clothes and the cold took icy hold of his limbs. The drifts grasped and clutched at his legs, more than once baffled him completely. ~ Again and again he stumbled, fell, strug- gled unsteadily to his feet, only to stumble, fall, bury himself in the drifts again. More than once he would have given up, allowed the storm to have its way, but always that sepulchral voice boomed out of the storm, driving him on and on. It was like the knell of doom in his wake, and he fled away from it only to have it follow on, to dog his footsteps hour after hour. It was well toward morning when Rork stumbled into the jail at Red Cliff more dead than alive. His senses were be- numbed. He could no longer think. He only wanted warmth—life-giving, sleepy warmth—-and to be free from that pocigls voice in the storm. Rork had always boasted that he would never be taken alive. Now as Sheriff John Stark swung the cell door and made it fast he could not resist the temptation to gloat. COMIGD OO! (©