Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 16, 1921 — page 94: what you’re looking at

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

MISS ANGEL. He was tired with the long day and night tramp. But the nasty methods of fighting that the two practised against dim roused every ounce of fight in him. He managed to hold his own too long to suit the men. They growled warnings to each other about not using their guns. But the lust for triumph at any price began to sing through their veins and blot out cau- tion. ' Wharton stumbled when one man was at- tacking him in front and the other worrying him behind. As he fell forward, clutching at his man, his hands slid along his body. The man’s clothes were those of a track- laborer, not of a ranchman or cow-puncher. “T haven’t a gun; and you haven’t, so don’t get puffy!” he yelled as he struggled to his feet in spite of their united efforts to hold him down. Relieved of the menace of dirty gun work, Wharton let out a whoop that like a bugle-call. “Shut up!” one of the men commanded, clutching for his throat. “ Make me!” Wharton snarled and again he yelled till the night rang. What Wharton had hoped happened. An answering halloo came. He had reached the neighborhood of #he snow-plow that had released the train. For a second the two men paused in their | assault. Then they lit into him with re- doubled fury. It was the vicious attack of those who saw their triumph vanishing and snatched a last opportunity to do for the ene who had outwitted them. But the purring click of something with wheels that moved along the rails insinu- ated its warning between the guttural swear words. “The track-velocipede!’’ Wharton heard the first voice call as the hammering fists ceased their beating. A second later ‘he stood alone and waver- ing on the track. His eyes were fastened on the little headlight of the approaching machine. He stood still in the road-bed, waving his arms that felt as if they weighed tons each. The velocipede stopped. A man leaped off and, with a gun in his hand, came toward Wharton, rang 85 “ What’s up?” “Two men—going to rob the man with the pay-envelope as he—as he went to—to Elisworth. I told ’em not to; and they lit into me!” The man with the pay-envelope in his pecket listened to the information with peculiar interest. “They’re men from the snow-plow gang,’ Wharton said as he regained his breath. “ Wore overalls, no guns. Lit out when they heard you coming.” “Who are you?” the foreman of the snow-plow gang asked, his eyes piercing the darkness and measuring the superior height and breadth of the shadow from, which the voice came. “Oh, just a cow-puncher! Got snowed in at Ellsworth an’ didn’t want to wait till to-morrow night to git on west,” Wharton answered. He talked with the indifferent ease of the men among whom he claimed a place tem- porarily. It was a part of the etiquette of the country not to ask for any more per- sonal data than the individual was moved to give. “‘ No use tryin’ to catch the skunks!” the foreman said regretfully. ‘;Do you want a ride?” Wharton could have hugged the fellow. He followed instructions and found footing while he clung to the back of the seat in which his rescuer rode. In the process of turning the machine on the track, his over- taxed muscles had shrieked their resent- ment; but the ride meant so much to him that he scarcely felt the strain of keeping his place when they rolled through the night toward the camp. Ed slept like all the seven experts in sleeping incorporate in one man. He was in a car with a lot of snoring fellows; but the hard bunk and the rough blankets felt like ‘heaven. He went into a blissful ob- livion with Miss Angel in. attendance. It was late when the foreman roused him. He told Ed that two of the gang were missing, so he had no difficulty in identify- ing the men who had meant to rob him. “T want to get a report back and have those scamps pulled if possible. We’re short-handed now, of course. Thought Go NOOK (C@