Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 3, 1924 — page 90: what you’re looking at

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

880) Seventh Oasis. Red Bluff was always in a fit mood for something, especially if it was something unusual and the more un- usual the fitter the mood. Particularly was this true in those heterogeneous days pre- vious to the necessity and the invention of home-brew. People not familiar with the capacity for dryness of the illimitable desert which sur- rounded Red Bluff, including all seven saloons; the Chinese laundry of Hop Sing; the similar restaurant of Wong Gee, and the livery stable with the colony of pole- cats there-beneath, ad valorem, will be hard to convince not only of the total lack of dampness of the desert in question, but also of the almost uncanny willingness of Red Bluff itself to contain moods of virtually endless variety. How is one to persuade a person who, for instance, has spent most of that person’s life in, well, New York or San Diego, per- haps, where my Lady of Ennui proudly displays Ting-a-Ling, her Pekingese pup, in a competitive parade of perfectly perfumed poodles—and gets a kick out of it—-how is one to persuade that person that horntoad racing is not a crude, an uncouth and pos- sibly a hazardous indulgence? The task is hopeless. As hopeless as the effort to make a free verse architect of Greenwich Village com- prehend the essential similarity of a “ cat tea,” given in the Marcelled Possum Café, herein ‘ Buddy ”—the unexpected blue- Maltese son of ‘‘ Susie ”’—is guest of honor, and a convention of hand picked centipedes, held in the Seventh Oasis of Red Bluff, across the gulch from the borax mine, far from the stifling fumes of civilization, out in “ God’s Great Open Spaces”? named the. desert which fluctuates over the gigantic solar plexus of the unconquerable state of Nevada! Therefore, if Wong Gee dumps a pan of dishwater out of the kitchen window of Red Bluff’s isolated chop-suey foundry, and the dishwater turns into ashes before it reaches the ground, why try to fathom the phenomenon of ultimate dryness? Surely, something should be left to con- jecture! It may be that such thoughts ran through ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. Dirty Shirt Smith’s mind as he and Solemn Johnson stepped up to the bar in the Seventh Oasis and ordered a pair of tall ones: ‘“* Drink ’em quick, before they dissolve!” It was an exceptionally dry afternoon. Solemn and Dirty Shirt obeyed Ed Slocum, the thoughtful bartender. “ Do it again!” they murmured. Dirty Shirt paused, sighed comfortably, took Edith from his pocket and sat her tenderly on the end of the bar: ‘“‘ Ed,” he remarked, ‘‘ do you know that that’s the runnin’est damn horntoad ever discovered ?”’ Colonel Spilkins and others eee oe Was ward. ‘““How do you figure that out?” Ed queried politely. “By observation and trainin’,” Dirty Shirt smiled, while Solemn Johnson flushed a dull red. “ Yesterday, out at Arsenic Springs, she started at the bottom of Solemn’s pants leg—” ‘“‘And if she does it again, she dies!” Solemn interrupted ominously. ‘ She started at the bottom of Solemn’s pants leg,” Dirty Shirt repeated, “ and in exactly two seconds she slid across the mole on the back of his neck!” The audience eyed Edith with interest, and then an interruption occurred. ‘“‘ Gentlemen, for the busted shaving mug or anything like that, one small drop of Magic Instantaneous Invisible Fixer—” the speaker stopped suddenly as his eyes rested on Edith. He was a total stranger in Red Bluff, and, unnoticed, had entered the door of Saloon Number Seven. The others gazed curiously at him. He was.a queer looking chap, tall and lean, with faded gray eyes; his whole air breathed sadness and sorrow. In one hand he carried a small black bag, of the sort used by house-to-house peddlers who go about sell- ing stove polish, preparations for mending dishes, furniture varnish, or such similar cheap articles of trade; in the other hand he held a tiny vial of thick colorless liquid. For a moment there was silence while the total stranger looked wistfully at the horn- toad sitting near Dirty Shirt’s glass. “ For that reason,” Dirty Shirt resumed, 5 A COMG DOO! (©