Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 1, 1922 — page 149: what you’re looking at

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

THE GUN-FANNER. that we’re dealin’ out a right just hand to him. If they figure we let him go, the town, instead of lettin’ me wear this sher- iff’s star, will be donatin’ a cowskin necktie to me—and to you and the whole gang. Scrub, Meakin, Caborca and every one!” Scrub, followed by his men, left Cal to the ministrations of Nan Harvess. When the posse was gathered, ready to mount saddle horses, the cattle king addressed the men again: “ The sheriff here mentions casual-like the names of Mr. Meakin and Mr. Caborca. Now, gents, there’s been a certain point goin’ through my mind over and over again during this last day or two. From the moment the rodeo was over, and all through the events that has come and gone: the kidnaping of the gal out to my ranch, the meetin’ we had at the Jackdog, the startin’ of the herd, our ride down to the desert, and this here bunch of cows that we got to start roundin’ up—all this time I been thinkin’, and I’ve come to the con- clusion that you, Mr. Meakin, and you, Mr. Caborca, are two of the orneriest, yel- lowest coyotes as has ever crawled and nosed around at my feet.” “ What the hell, Scrub!”” Meakin began. , He checked himself as he met the inexor- able directness of Scrub’s look, and from that moment he spoke no further word. “ The point that started me thinkin’ was the smash-up in that thar coach race,” Scrub went on. “ It didn’t dawn on me till a couple days later, but I’m of the honest opinion—I’m announcing to every one here —that my foreman, Tom Caborca, pulled that race and ran into Cal Triggers’s coach so’s this lousy wart, Meakin, here, could win the hand of my gal.” “ Look here, chief—”’’ Caborca began. “Mr. Caborca,’ Scrub _ interrupted. “Tm axin’ you quietlike, for your resigna- tion as foreman of my ranch. And with- out you want a little gun shootin’, I’m ad- visin’ you to mount your cayuse and drift. Don’t quit ridin’ until you get somewheres in the vicinity of Mexico City where you belong at.” Not one of the cow-herders made a move as this sentence of their chief was pro- nounced on their foreman. The sheriff stood by silently, and it was plain to the 939 others that he approved of the whole scene. Caborca finally, shrugging his shoulders, leaped onto his horse and rode into the deepening twilight. “And now, Mr. Meakin,” Scrub said quietly, “ bein’ as Caborca could not have framed up the race without you startin’ him at it, I’m sayin’ the same words to you which I said to him. Only you’ve got a streak in you which is ten times worse than hisn. Caborca never pretended to be a bosom lover of mine. He’s only a wizened toothless little coyote. You’re a coyote likewise, but you got teeth. This here stampede is due to the fack, Mr. Meakin, that you told me there was water in this creek. Bein’ as you have no remarks to make—and ain’t callin’ me a liar, I’m axin’ you—if your guts ain’t got a good diges- tion for lead—to go the same place Cabor- ca’s went—only go farther!” The same moment of silence ensued as these words took effect. Meakin, white- faced with the grueling his body had re- ceived in the stampede—as well as with his present shame and anger—slunk to his horse, crawled up to the saddle and rode away. ‘Now, then, for the drags!” Scrub cried. The silent men hearing these words became suddenly enthused with life. They leaped to the mounts and wheeled about. Their shouts reéchoed from granite walls and their lasso-ropes whizzed and sang above their heads as they sped up the cafon after the scattered herd. Cal Triggers, comfortably helpless, had listened to the arguments of Scrub and the sheriff with a detached amusement. When the posse had gone, his’ head was clear enough to enjoy the scene in which he found himself. He was lying down, his shoulder, badly wrenched, was paining, and his leg throbbing. It was quite dark, and above him he could see only the silhou- ette of the girl as she poured out another drink for him. Two cowboys were behind her, their forms, topped with big pointed sombreros, looming in the dusk and the light of their cigarettes waving occasionally like fireflies. Beyond were the crags of the canon side, and above them the first stars. “Now I’m not hurt. Don’t figure that, DOOK C©