Adventure Magazine, March 1916 — page 139: what you’re looking at

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

Paradise Bend who punched for the Cross-in-a-box outfit, And not for a month’s pay would Loudon have had Johnny Ramsay see him purchas- ing yards of red ribbon. Ramsay’s sense of humor was too well developed. When four houses. intervened between himself and the post-office Loudon returned to the street and entered the Blue Pigeon Store. Compared with most western fron- tier stores the Blue Pigeon was compactly neat. A broad counter fenced off three sides of the store proper. Behind the counter, lines of packed shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Be- tween the counter and the shelves knotted ropes, a long arm’s-length apart, depended from the rafters. Above the canvas cur- tained doorway in the rear, hung the model of a black-hulled, slim-sparred clipper. At the jingle of Loudon’s spurs on the floor the canvas curtain was pushed aside, and the proprietor shuffled and thumped, for his left leg was of wood, into the store. He was a red-headed man, was Mike Flynn, the proprietor, barrel-chested, hairy-armed, and even the backs of his ham-like hands were tattooed. -“Good aft’noon to ye, Tom,” said Mike Flynn. ‘‘’Tis a fine day—hot, mabbe, but I’ve seen worse in the Horse Latitudes. An’ what is it the day?” “Red ribbon, Mike,”’ replied Loudon, de- voutly thankful that no other customer was in the store. Mike glanced at the sample in Tom Lou- don’s hand. “Sure, an’ I have that same, width an’ . all,”’ he said, and forthwith seizing one of the knotted ropes he pulled himself hand over hand to the top shelf. Hanging by one hand he fumbled a mo- ment, then lowered himself to the floor. “An? here ye are!”’ he exclaimed. ‘The finest ribbon that ever come West. Match- es the bit ye have like a twin brother. One dollar two bits a yard.” “T’ll take five yards.” “Won’t ye be needin’ a new necktie now?” inquired Mike Flynn, expertly measuring off the ribbon. “I’ve a fine lot in—grane ones, an’ blue ones, an’ purple ones wit’ white spots, an’ some black ones wit’ red an’ yaller figgers, not to spake o’ some yaller ones wit’ vilet horseshoes. Very fancy, thim last. God be with the ould days! Time was when I’d not have touched yaller save wit’ me foot, but ’tis so long since I’ve —— 137 hove a brick at an Orangeman that the ould - feelin’ ain’t near so strong as it was. An’ here’s the ribbon, Tom. About them neck- tiesnow. ‘They’re worth seein’. One min- ute an’ I'll delight yer eyes.” Rapidly Mike Flynn stumped ’round to the other side of the room, pulled down several long boxes and deftly laid them, covers off, on the counter. Loudon did need a new necktie. What man in love does not? He passed over the yellow ones with violet horseshoes so strongly reconi- mended by Mike Flynn, and bought one of green silk. “Ve’re a lad after me own heart, Tom Loudon,” said Mike Flynn, wrapping the necktie. ‘‘Grane’s best when all’s said an’ done. The color of ould Ireland, God bless her. An’ here comes Johnny Ramsay.” Loudon hastily stuffed his purchases in- side his flannel shirt, and in a careless tone ~ asked for a box of forty-five caliber car- tridges. He turned just in time to ward off the wild rush of Johnny Ramsay, who en- deavored to seize him by the belt and waltz him round the store. “Wow! Wow!” yelled Johnny. “How’ S Tommy? How’s the boy? Allemane left, you old bronc buster!” “Quit it, you idjit!” bawled Loudon, the crushing of ribbon and necktie being im- minent. Ramsay stepped back and prodded Lou- don’s breast with an inquiring finger. ““Paddin’,” he said solemnly. ‘Tryin’ to give yourself a chest, ain’t ye, you old bean- pole? Ouch!” For Loudon had dug a hard knuckle into his friend’s left side, and it was Ramsay’s turn to yell. From behind the counter Mike Flynn beamed upon them. He liked them well, these careless youngsters of the range, and their antics were a source of never-ending amusement. Entered then a tall, lean man with black | hair, and a face, the good looks of which were somewhat marred by a thin-lipped mouth and sharp, sinister eyes. But for all that Sam Blakely, the manager of the 88 ranch, was a very handsome man. He nodded to the three, his lips parting over white teeth, and asked Mike F lynn for a rope. “Here’s yer cartridges, Tom,” called Mike, and turned to the rear of the store. Loudon picked up his box of cartridges, stuffing them into a pocket in his mee com (E 00 (E(@) | ) AND ns 4 ie t « - / ‘4 oy PRP a 4 al R25) Pn , : i | * Ae BED eae 5S ee A Vi os LP Py | és ATT ‘rat fe MA pes at DA LAY WOR Aree RMAC per egaEst