Argosy All-Story Weekly, October 25, 1924 — page 37: what you’re looking at

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

THE LOST ORANGE GROVE. “Do you have a sheriff or a constable here? I suppose nothing ever happens, though, in a quiet little place like this.” The convict lifted his eyes with a jerk. His brother stopped breathing through his mouth and fixed me with that uncomfort- able black stare of his. “I’m the deputy sheriff and game war- den, State and county,” I said, and was not surprised at the way they stared. ‘“ But you—you don’t have much to do,” Suzanne gasped. ‘The crackers are always shooting quail and deer out of season,” I corrected her, ‘“and about once a week some negro puts away too much ‘mule’ and has to be locked up in Majolica on an assault and battery charge, usually preferred by his wife. Yes, there’s plenty to do. A mur- derer and a check raiser slipped through my fingers in the past month. They didn’t seem Jike criminals to me—I liked them both.” “Don’t you think,” Suzanne asked breathlessly, “that some crimes, punish- able by law, are excusable? I mean, don’t you think that an officer—you, for exam- ple—should use your own judgment, rather than follow the actual letter of the law, in dealing with——with criminals in a place like this?” ‘“* Murderers?” I asked. ‘Well, I happened to be thinking of people accused of stealing. Would you ar- rest a man here for stealing—on circum- stantial evidence?” “T have,” I said. She bit her lower lip and frowned, as if I had disappginted her. ‘“ How about moonshiners?” the convict asked. ‘‘The woods must be full of them.” ‘‘T let them alone. The poor devils have a hard enough time.” The convict grinned bleakly. ‘ Then, you use your judgment in enforcing laws?” “A Jaw ain’t a law any more!” the dark brother snapped. ‘‘ It’s just what you per- sonally think. She’s right!” His heavy dark jaw was protruding; he was glaring at me. ‘The whole country seems to be up in the air on that very question,” [ said. 27 “Ts it fair?” he blazed. ‘Is it right?” ‘Hush, Bert.” Suzanne smiled apologet- ically at me. “‘ When Bert gets wound up on the law, he’ll argue till he’s hoarse.”’ “ You bet I will! It’s a rotten condition when a man—”’ “Oh, Bert, hush! You know how it up- sets me and Phil when you carry on this way. Look at poor Phil. He can hardly hold his head up.” The convict grinned. Suzanne sleepily smiled, and the look she gave me was al- most friendly. She rose, stretching up her slim young arms. In spite of her fatigue and the dust of travel, just to look at her made a man’s heart race a little, she was so appealing, so soft and warm looking. ‘Tf you'll excuse us,” she said, ‘“ I think we all ought to go to bed. We’ve driven over three hundred miles since daylight— that’s been our daily mileage, even through that red clay. Phil’s a wonderful driver.” The dark brother snorted emotionally. “He sure can tool a flivver around these bum roads!” ‘“‘T'll lock up this money,” I said. And when I returned from the flour barrel, I took them up to their rooms and prepared for bed. My last act before turning out the light was to see that the pistol under my pillow was loaded, with a cartridge in the firing chamber. Common sense told me that it was foolish to feel this way. Hadn’t they given three thousand dollars into my keeping as an evidence of their good faith? Could a girl of Suzanne’s type be anything but honest and innocent? But you know how distorted thoughts can be when you’re lying abed in the dark. Those two men had filled the house with a black cloud. The jailbird with his waxen skin and bristling black poll and his omi- nous stare; and the older man with his smoldering hatred of law and people, his sinister wish for loneliness, were disturbing influences. If this dark thing that they radiated was not evil, then they were writhing in some kind of torture; smarting, savage, in a murderous mood, over some wrong of which the convict, I supposed, was the victim. It all boiled down to a mystery; and the COmiclboooks (E@)