Argosy, Vol. 85, No. 3 — page 153: what you’re looking at

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

DAVE CRASSON’S BRONCO. rubbed Steamboat’s muzzle. And he liked it. Yes, sir. The son-of-a-gun liked it. It he hadn’t kept one mean eye on me I’d have thought it was another horse. Inside of twenty-four hours Steamboat and Miss Kate were pals. Before the week was up they were bosom com- panions, and if it hadn’t been for the old man, who had dealt with horses for some thirty years, she’d have tried to ride him: But Miss Kate and Steamboat didn’t furnish the only affair for discussion around the Bar D that summer. It wasn’t more than a week before all hands were talking about the way young Harkness was getting better acquainted with the old man’s sole heir. If Hark- ness hadn’t been such a darned likable cuss it might have caused more than a little talk, for the boys all looked upon Miss Kate as the one bright star in a firmament of alkali, hard work, bacon and eggs. Sometimes I wondered why the old man never seemed to notice the way those two young souls looked at each other as they talked in low tones which nobody else could hear. But it wasn’t my fu- neral. I wasn’t her old man. Besides, the job of foreman on the Bar D didn’t allow much time to devote to other folks’ affairs. I decided to keep mum. . But decisions don’t count when Fate steps in. It happened like this. I was at Waverly, doing some shopping for the old man, when suddenly I looked up and started. Tacked to the side of Pete Sprague’s liquor emporium was a picture of Jake Harkness. The wind or something had got away with the lower half of it, but it was Harkness all right. From the nose up, the only part left, was Jim Harkness. — And across the top of that poster was printed: ‘‘ Five thousand dollars reward.” Well, sir, I stood and looked at that picture open-mouthed for ten minutes, until finally a stranger came along, touched me on the shoulder and says: 495 ‘Do you know him?” “Know him,” says I. “Sure; who is it?” -The stranger grinned. “Huh,” he says. ‘“ You must be a newcomer to these parts. Everybody knows that face. Only the black whis- kers have been torn off. That’s Dave Crasson.”’ “Oh,” says I, and I went inside. But it got me thinking. I’d seen Crasson’s picture all over the country for the past six months. But I’d never before seen it without the whiskers. When I got back to the Bar D I called Jake Harkness aside. We stood right by Steamboat’s corral. “Jake,” says I, ‘how long since you shaved your whiskers off?” _ Well, sir, I told myself then and there if Jake Harkness was Dave Crasson they were both darn good actors. He just simply grinned and says: ‘Whiskers? I never had any, Pete.” ‘““Oh, yes, you did,” says I. “ And you shaved ’em off between the time Dave Crasson hopped the freight at Waverly and Jake Harkness got a job on the Bar D. I’m wise, Jake. Own up.” Laugh? You could have heard him half way to the railroad, but he stopped as quick as he’d begun. Miss Kate stepped in between us. She’d heard it all, and her eyes were flashing mighty prettily. She bent them right on Dave, and she looked him through and through. But though he’d stopped laughing at her first appearance, he was complete master of himself. He was more surprised than anything else. And he waited for her to speak. ‘‘ Jake,” she said, ‘“‘ I heard what Pete said to you. What does he mean?” “IT don’t know,” said Jake, and I fig- ured that I’d been a bit hasty. She turned to me. ‘‘ What did you mean?” she asked, her eyes still flashing. “Well,” said I, judging that I might as well own up and then apologize, “I saw a picture of Dave Crasson to-day, over at Waverly. All that was left of comicloool C©