Argosy All-Story Weekly, June 13, 1925 — page 59: what you’re looking at

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

THROW UP you. Before this expedition has finished with its work, many of you will undoubted- ly be mortally wounded. “Then you will need the tender mercies of a good woman—a woman who is gentle and understanding, to hold your hand in your last mortal agonies before you pass into the Great Beyond, a woman with ten- der touch to attempt to stem the tide as vour life blood flows away!” Her audience exchanged uneasy glances. ‘A woman,” Mrs. Yost added tremu- lously, “to fold your hands upon your breast, to close your eyes in the eternal sleep, and to take little messages to your loved ones at home.” Karl the Killer dashed a few tears from his eyes. “Yes, ma’am, I reckon thar’s somethin in whut ya say. Thar’s apt to be few, if any of us, who survive this man-hunt, and a good, tender woman ‘Il come in handy to tend our wounds, as ya say. Ef I sh’d pass out from this yere mountain road t’ th’ long, long trail, it w’d shore ease me in my last mortal agonies t’ have a woman breathe a leetle prayer over my corpse when it’s cold and stiff. But can ya ride a hoss, ma’am?” ‘Can I ride a horse!” Mrs. Yost cried. “T have hunted to hounds in Germany, France, Belgium, England, Ireland and Italy. I have won seventeen steeplechase cups. I have broken and tamed horses ? that were notorious man-killers. I have. ridden a donkey all over Egypt. I have ridden camels in the Sudan and in China and Mongolia. I have ridden and hunted elephants in India and Burma and Siam. My zebra saddle mare was the sensation of Paris winter before last!” Kar] the Killer looked at her incredu- lously, then gazed at her son, as if for con- firmation. “Ti’s true,” Julius said modestly. ‘“ Mother can ride anything. We’re on our way now—or were before that red-headed vap broke up our plans—to Pasco, where mother planned to enter the ladies’ bull- dogging contest.” “ But—hbut, ma’am,” the Killer stam- mered, “are ya shore ya c’n stand roughin’ it?” “Be vourself!” she snapped. ‘I’ve YOUR HANDS. ool roughed it in the wilds of Canada, Africa, Alaska, South America, ef cetera. These mountains of yours will be child’s play. My riding habit is in one of my suit cases. If you men will kindly turn your backs 1 will go into the coach and change. Do you wish to swear me in, marshal, as the Flor- ence Nightingale of this posse?” The six men cheered. Mrs. Yost raised her right hand and was swom. And while she was changing to a riding jacket, breeches and boots, the marshal removed one of his bags from beneath the canvas flap at the rear of the stage coach and passed out glittering new automatic pistols. He broke out ammunition and gave each man his share. Then the stolen horses in the string of Karl the Killer and Gory Oliver were examined. Each man selected a mount. Cinches were tightened, stirrup straps adjusted. When Mrs. Yost emerged from the coach, buckling about her waist a cartridge belt and a pearl-handled pistol, the posse was ready. Since the last controversial point had been settled, an air almost sinister was to be noticed in their bearing. It was the grimness of men going into battle—of men who were prepared to sacrifice their lives, if need be, in defense of an ideal. With a rattling of steel and leather, a trampling of hoofs, they started at full gallop up the trail. The man-hunt was on! CHAPTER XVI. THE AVALANCHE. “9 THOUGHT ya said ya could cook!” | Friday Pepper snarled. “Why—why,” Margery Corbin stammered, “ is—-is something wrong? Isn’t everything all right?” She was on her knees before a small fire that had been kindled in a nest of small rocks; and pots, pans and provisions were scattered on the ground about her. There was a charcoal smudge on her left cheek near her drooping mouth; and in her large dark eyes glowed the light of defeat. She was an appealing, pathetic figure as she kneeled there. COmiclbooks. C@