Adventure Magazine, March 1916 — page 111: what you’re looking at

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

Li'l Son-of-a-Gun —full name John Barton Redding—godfa- thers. This was the first time he had seen his charge since the christening. The cowboy had thought but lightly of his responsibilities until the baby, a week before, had toddled his way across the ranch- house veranda into Sandy’s heart by way of his forefinger, which the child had confi- dently clutched, looking into Sandy’s frank- ly admiring face with a “‘g-r-r, goo!” that brought forth from his delighted godfather the softly reiterated title, ‘““The li’! son-of-a- gun; the li’l son-of-a-gun!”’ Sandy Bourke had broken all of his own records by staying on the Curly O for over three years, most of the time as foreman. Superintendent Barton had begun to hope- fully regard him as a fixture, but the touch of his godson’s clinging fingers had roused a yearning in Sandy’s heart-strings which he thought to assuage by his universal pana- cea for all trouble not physical— moving on. Sandy, tender-hearted, yet woman-shy, as some dogs dread gunshot despite their instincts, called it the “‘saddle itch” and styled himself as born with the “roving heel.” In his heart he longed for a hearth- side of his own, half conscious that he want- ed some one to tend it for him, yet, unless his chivalry conquered his timidity, the threatened propinquity of a girl or the neighborhood of anything approaching sen- timent found him hopelessly embarrassed, or, as he called it, “hog-tied an’ helpless.” He had never been in love with Barbara Barton, but her romance, and its conse- quent wedding, had taken place under his eyes and in his heart, and found the latter lonesome. The fingers of the li’! son-of-a- gun had fixed his determination to apply ~ his remedy. He had resolved to put his savings and some well-earned extra sums and windfalls into a ranch in Wyoming, upon which he had long set his dreams, a place of open range and sheltered pasturage amid the hills, where a crystal trout-stream ran the year round, willow-set, across open up- land or through outcropping prairie. His two saddle-chums, Mormon Peters and Sodawater Sam Manning, were to go with him as minor partners, as soon as the Spring round-up was over on the Curly O. Close pals were the three, of tested friend- ship—the only kind worth having—and the — triumvirate, known as the ‘‘Three Musket- 109 eers of the Range,” were looking forward to the pride of self-ownership, Sandy mounted Pete and jogged out of the cactus thicket ranchward. As he drop- ped easily down the slope toward the draw at the top of which stood the Curly O head- quarters, he saw a horseman riding furious- ly toward him, and halted Pete for better inspection. “It’s Mormon,” he muttered, ‘‘burnin’ leatheh to beat the band. He ought to be plumb ashamed of hisself with his weight on that li’l] hawss. An’ no hat! He must be shore locoed.” The man, an overstout cowboy — the Porthos of the trio —in blue shirt and leather chaparejos, galloped up, the pony covered with lather, his own bald head smoking with the evaporation of its sweat under the noon sun. He reined up with staring eyes and working lips about a tongue-that refused to perform its office. “‘What’s eatin’ you?’ asked Sandy. “Quit makin’ motions with yore hands. [I ain’t a deef-an’-dumb asylum. Hev’ you got a sunstroke? Talk, darn you, talk!” ““The kid!” gasped Mormon. “Talk!” shouted the exasperated Sandy. Mormon gulped and moistened his lips. “Swiped! Kidnaped!” he cried. “When? Where? Talk as we go.” Sandy wheeled Pete by the side of Mor- mon’s panting pony. “Off’n the verandy, ’bout an hour ago,” said Mormon. ‘“Sam’s gone to Rubio to raise a posse an’ wire Redding. Barton’s prit’ nigh——’” But Pete, urged by unusual spurs, was flying up the draw, drumming the brown turf in great strides, his belly eles to the ound. ““Move along there, hawss!’’ low in his saddle. The pore li’l son-of-a-gunl”’ cried Sandy, II = CURLY O headquarters was in RB -| confusion. A dozen cowboys stood aimlessly about, watching the ranch- house, their ponies idle by the corral fence. One of them walked over to Sandy as he dismounted. “‘We’ve rode all roun’ lookin’ for trail,” he said, “‘but we can’t find no sign.” “Then of course they ain’t any,” replied Sandy with a note of sarcasm in his voice “Move along! Kidnaped! | cS: Comichboo