Adventure Magazine Cover, December 18, 1919 — page 138: what you’re looking at

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

124 able to talk for some time. After a while he shuts off the tears and looks at Hassayampa. “Chuck told you that? Haw! Haw! Haw!” Hassayampa sets there, fooling with his six-shooter and staring at Jay-Bird’s tears; then he swings his bronc around, abrupt- -like. “Where you—Haw! Haw! Hawt going?” asks Jay-Bird. “T’m going to kill Chuck Warner. He lied to me!” “Kill him a few .times for me, Has- sayampa,”’ yells Jay-Bird. “He never told me the truth in his life.” Clang! goes a bell. Bang! Bang! “Dirty Shirt is drunk,” opines Magpie, “As usual,” nods Jay-Bird. “Are you going to be active in the celebration. Tuesday,. Magpie ?” “Ain’t decided yet. I’m going to let Ike help ’em out. Feel it’s my patriotic duty to let ’em have a little assistance.” “Magpie Simpkins,” says I, “me and you are pardners in material things, but when it comes to my soul you don’t own a share of stock. You ain’t going to loan me and I ain’t going to have no hand in anything. Sabe? I’m going down-town right now, and if you hear my old .41 talking out loud you’ll know that brotherly love has snuck up on me and I’m playing safe. Good-by!” If we had a newspaper in Piperock, you'd likely see something like this: The follering guests registered at Holt’s hotel today : “Piegan” Peters, “Tombstone” Todd, “Ace- High” Anderson, “Dynamite” Davidson, “Ca- lamity” Calkins, “Sad” Samuels, “Windy” Wilson, “Shiner” Seeley, “Slow-Elk” Sloan, “Ornery” Olsen, “Hip-Shot” Harris and others too ornery to mention. Every danged one of them are practis- ing horse-thieves.. Brotherly love don’t mean nothing to that bunch, unless the brother owns some middling good stock. Then I meets Darty Shirt. He’s about six and seven-eighths drunk and he greets me more with hi is eyes than his tongue. He squints one eye at me and then holds § out his six-shooter for me to shake hands with, “Comp’ ments of the sheason to the Harper twins,” says he serious-like. “By cripes, Ike, your brother looks more like you than you do. Fact.” _ Adventure “Which one, Dirty?” I asks and he rubs his eyes. “Ex-coosh me! My mishtake, I’m sure. You folks goin’ to shelebrashun? If so—why not? All three nods to- gether. Good!” “Anything going on up-town, Dirty?” “Naw! Pete Gonyer and ‘Slim’ Haw- kins are up in Holt’s hay-mow nurs- ing a pair of Winchesters, while they makes out schpecifications for tug-of- war. “Mush be amachoor,’ ‘Stric’ ly amachoor.’ ““Amachoor what?’ asks Calamity. ‘Horsh-thieves,’ says Slim. “Now everybody’s sore, Ike, ‘cause they’re all professionals. Why, there ain’t ’nough amachoor horsh-thieves around here to tug the hat off your head.” Just then Magpie shows up with two saddle-broncs and a hurry-up expression on his face. “Get on, Ike,” says he. “Hurry up!” I gets on that horse and follers him. That’s the trouble with me; I’m a born follerer and no questions asked. We thunders ‘through Paradise like Paul Revere advertising a flood, and I don’t overhaul Magpie until his bronc begins to miss a step here and there. “Magpie,” says I, “let’s stop and fight.” : He yanks up his tired bronc and stares at me. “Stop and fight?” “Uh-huh. I’m just as big a coward as you are, Magpie, but I won’t run no further.” “There ain’t nothing to fight, Ike.” “You didn’t think I’d stop if I thought there was, did you? What in the devil are we killing our broncs for, ?’d lower myself to ask?” Magpie rolls a smoke and loops one long leg around the horn of his saddle. When Magpie appears to get confidential I feels that life is but a fleeting flower. says Slim. KE, me and you has scrabbled mighty hard for existence, ain't we? We've punched cows for forty a month, pros- pected everywhere and found nothing much, and we run the sheriff’s office with a gun in one hand and our life in the other, ain’t we? What have we got? I S EOPMIEL OOO (E)