The Argosy, Vol. 90 No. 1 — page 52: what you’re looking at

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

46 meet an issue. He asked with evident anx- iety whether a telephone call for him had come to the hotel. “Hoping to hear news from them Kahoky bandits?” impertinently asked the landlady. ‘Why so?” responded McRae with dig- nity. Before he had finished his meal the tele- phone buzzed outside the dining-room door. McRae instinctively pushed his plate from him and half rose. ‘Then he remembered; it might not be his call. The landlady remained in the hall till he breathed freely in relief, thinking the call was not for him. Then she thrust in her head. ‘You're wanted over long-distance, Mr. McRae. No;- keep your seat. Central just wanted to know if you were here.” It was so quiet McRae could hear hushed, sibilant whispers from a flock of birds that had settled in a bush outside the dining-room window. The west was red beyond them; he saw their gray bodies, their tufted heads, the red dots, like sealing wax, on their wings. In that direction lay the foot-hills, a certain cabin deserted now, and a certain cedar-haunted cafion. Near- er was ranching country, hard for a hunted man to cross. “T’ll bet they have one of them bandits,” commented the landlady. And after a mo- ment: “I hope it ain’t the fiddler. I heard him play one time at the show.” The telephone rang again, and the wax- wings took flight with cries of alarm.. Mc- Rae went to the receiver. The voice on the wire was strange to him. “‘T don’t get your name—who is it?” As the district attorney asked this, he felt his lips very dry—and moistened them nervously. The name was repeated; he responded promptly, ‘“‘ Yes, yes, Mr. Rob- ertson,” and gripped the receiver. “T’ve got one o’ them Kahoky bandits on my place, Mr. McRae. Got him roped and tied ”—exultantly—“ and in my hired man’s room this minute.” “Which of the men is it, Mr. Robert- son?” broke in the district attorney. “A very fat man or—” His voice failed him. THE ARGOSY. “ This ain’t a fat fellow; he’s young. I think he’s the fiddler.” ‘Ah, yes—Lord!” moistened his lips. ‘“‘ Sure; Lord,” replied the winner of the reward. ‘‘ Fhe shuriff has been notisfied, of course; but I thought if you would come right out you might get him to confess be- fore the shuriff gits here. It wouldn’t do to lose convictin’ him.” ‘““No; you’d lose your money.” “Sure. We made the arrest, the boys and me. If you come right along out, you can testify to that. The shuriff hadn’t a thing to do with it. And if him or any officer applies for that money—”’ McRae hung up the receiver. As he walked through the hall, the landlady ac- costed him: ‘“‘ Say, you ain’t sick, are you?” The district attorney smiled a little and went out to his car. It was a short way, through the dun- colored February evening, to the Robertson ranch. As McRae left his car, a dog with eyes burning from excitement leaped the fence at him. The dog was much elated by his success in trailing a criminal, and desired to make a professional record. He felt himself born for a detective; and his yelps demanded instant attention from his master to his new quarry. Robertson came out and kicked him. “You blame fool, spotted houn’ pup, don’t you know the difference between a bandit and the district attorney?” “Perhaps he’s right,” said McRae, ‘“‘ and there’s not so much difference as we usually think.” Yet thé boy in the cabin was a murderer —the law said he was a murderer—and the law must be carried out. McRae did not waver in his duty. ““He’s wounded; some fellow put a bul- let in him,” remarked Robertson. When McRae reached the cabin, he saw at a glance that Lord was desperately wounded. He sat limp in the kitchen chair. Perhaps he would die. * Y’m shot, you see’ — Lord addressed the district attorney — “ but I won’t die. This is a Christian country; I'll have every ~~ McRae once more oO Comicbooe S CO