The Argosy, Vol. 90 No. 1 — page 53: what you’re looking at

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

THE MAN WHO MUST BE HANGED. sort of care. Of course if I was an ordi- nary person without funds, you wouldn’t bother to get me a doctor. But you'll see to it I live to—”’ ‘In Heaven’s name—hush!”’ As McRae said this, a look of surprise met him; then of understanding. Lord’s eyes, which had been hard and gay, sud- denly implored. Then he seemed to lose his courage. A freckled face can look ghastly! He pulled himself together once more. “Well, Mr. McRae, you and I have met before. Do you remember the last time?” He paused. There was no sound in the room but the tick of the seventy-five-cent alarm-clock on the hired man’s shelf. McRae was conscious of many things: of two cravats, one pink, one purple, hang- ing under the clock; of the hired man’s Sunday clothes, yellow leather belt and derby hat; a bottle of bay rum and a razor. A bluejay screamed at the door, for the moment drowning the hurry of the clock. | The district attorney looked into the face of the boy who had given him his life. There were evergreen foot-hills not far away, and a breath of cedar blew in; such cedar as Lord’s body had bruised that morning in the canon. ‘“‘T can’t prosecute you!” he cried. Lord’s eyes questioned him. “T would do anything in life for you,” huskily continued the district attorney, “‘ except be a traitor to the State.” The boy laughed harshly. ‘‘That means you will give the case to your assistant? Well, I would; he can win as well as yourself; you have done your preliminary work pretty thoroughly, Mr. McRae.” There was just one way for McRae to save the boy.~-He must keep the prosecu- tion in his own hands, and must say to the jury: “This boy is not a murderer. demands his acquittal.” But he felt that Rawley Lord was a mur- derer; the law said so. Beads of moisture came out on his brow. He resumed huskily: ‘“‘'You see, Lord, the law does not give Justice 47 a district attorney any option, any pardon- ing power.” ‘“‘ What are you going to do about it?” demanded Lord, to whom the justice of the case seemed plain; who knew he was not a murderer. As Lord looked at him, the district attor- ney—for he was a fair-skinned man—be- came blue-white. He looked as if he, not Lord, was the prisoner. He tried to speak, but could not get the words out. He tried again, and this time he succeeded: “My duty.” Lord threw his head back and smiled. Then he whistled a bar or two. “Don’t do that!” implored the district attorney. ‘It’s hard enough for me with- out that.” The accused man looked at him. A kind of understanding dawned in his face. ““T see,” he admitted at last. “It isn’t a matter of holding your job.” ‘‘ For Heaven’s sake, Lord, what do you think of me, anyhow?” “T think you are a queer fish. But it’s all right.” He made a slight, restless movement; and suddenly Lord suspected that the wound was a fiction. The arm he had said was shattered had just displayed remark- able nimbleness. The district attorney looked gravely at the prisoner; it would be his duty to tell the sheriff that he did not believe the wound was genuine. It was about nine o’clock when Hilairy came on horseback and accompanied by Ed, who remained outside the cabin. “His folks sent him a little bundle of things,”’ she explained to Lord’s captor, the ranchman. The bundle was carried under a soft green scarf she wore in Mexican fashion. As she darted toward the pris- oner, to lay it in his lap, the scarf for a moment enveloped him. The ranchman, who was very careful about his reward money, growled to her to let him see the bundle before the prisoner received it. She obeyed instantly. ‘“‘There’s nothing in it he won’t be al- lowed to have,” she insisted. ‘ Just you open it and see. I’m a cousin of his. I live with his aunt, Mrs. Bayliss. And be- tween us, when we heard he was arrested, oO cComiclbooe S CO