Adventure Magazine Cover, February 3, 1921 — page 178: what you’re looking at

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

172 threw them to the platform and leaped to the ground as the train gained headway. He returned to the town hall, up-ended his suit-case and sat down to listen. _ “Jnasmuch as Sam Davis, out of a Chris- tian spirit and with the welfare and health of the sovereign State of Texas at heart, has given the deceased fitten burial, it is the order of the Court that said Sam Davis be recompensed with the deceased’s six-gun which appears to be in reasonable working- order. The estate of the departed unknown having been duly probated, court is now closed and Bill Kincheloe is forthwith in- structed to return all weapons to their rightful owners.”’ He dropped his official dignity and -his frock coat and walked behind the bar. ‘‘Name your pizen, gentlemen.” He turned warmly to Michael Winthrop. ‘“‘Won’t you jine us, sir? We aim to con- sume your friend’s nine-fifty.” “8 THE crowd thinned at last, and min Michael Winthrop found himself alone with Judge Goode. “T haven’t told you who I am,” and Connolly’s first impulse was to reach for his card-case; but stifling this he put out his hand and with his friendly baseball player’s grin said— “My name’s Connolly, Mike Connolly of Boston.” For perhaps the first time in his twenty- five years Connolly had failed to introduce himself as Michael Winthrop Connolly, and so had failed to elicit the inquiry— ‘Are you a descendant of Governor Winthrop?” “Well, sir, by gracious, Pm glad to know you.” This from the judge. “T suppose you’ve been wondering what made me leave my train and come back?” “Tt mought be so. If so you want to tell me how come you stopped off at Val Verde I’m a-listening. If not, there’s heaps of other conversation.” “T took a liking to Val Verde and its ways as I listened to your court-proceed- ings. It looked to be about the most different place from Boston that a man could find.” “Well, she’s a nice little town, quiet and peaceable. They ain’t been a killing in four months. Well, sir, by gracious—”’ the judge pulled out an antique inch-thick watch with a chased-gold case worn smooth as glass— Adventure “Val Verde has increased her permanent population by one adult male, the Court has probated that poor pilgrim’s estate, and I reckon we-all better be hitting out for home. Mother gets a leetle mite put out if I’m late for meals.” Mike protested valiantly and sincerely, for his acquaintance with Texan or other country hotels was that of the babe unborn, but the judge merely picked up one of Connolly’s bags, urged the young man into the cooling evening air, slammed the door to, without locking, and closed the town hall and seat of justice for the day. Coatless business men in white or near- white boiled shirts, wearing their vests as a mild concession to convention but omit- ting collars and ties as a concession to com- fort, idled before their stores in the slack half-hour before closing. Judge Goode introduced Mike. ‘My friend, Michael Connolly, sirs.” Much shaking of the horniest hands that Mike had ever grasped, offers of licorice- cured plugs, repeated reckonings that he would sure like the town and surrounding country. One citizen shook Mike’s hand as if it were the hand of the Governor of Texas, and asked in admiring but regretful tone— “You the new editor, eh?” The judge gave a little start. “Why, no, sir, he ain’t. That feller that was coming from the Houston Post sent a ‘ wire this morning and I guess he’s changed his mind.” ‘Sho’ now, editors is gettin’ scarce, ain’t they? Yes, sir, they sure is.”’ As they walked the straggling three or four blocks to Judge Goode’s home, Mike was aware of a keener scrutiny in the old man’s eye as it rested upon him. It re- minded Connolly of his Boston tailor’s critical way of inspecting a suit at the final fitting. They turned in at a gate guarded by two “cemetery trees,” and walked through an old-fashioned garden crowded with zinnias, petunias, marigolds and sunflowers. “Mother,” explained the judge to the short, white-haired, high-stomachered ol lady on the front gallery, ‘‘this is my friend, Michael Connolly of Boston, and I reckon he’ll stop with us a spell.” “Be you the new editor?” she queried anxiously, her mild moss-agate eyes linger- ing on Mike’s, and Mike was puzzled at CORMICLOOOkKS (C@