Adventure Magazine Cover, February 3, 1921 — page 32: what you’re looking at

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

26 “Don’t blame ’em for gittin’ th’ notion it pays to carry th’ pipe ag’in’ th’ whites an’ to sculp women an’ children. Never made Injuns good by givin’ ’em presents. No treaty can last that’s built up on blankets, rum, guns, an’ gewgaws. “Wal, I opine th’ government’s crazy to clicker with th’ Kiowas. Made a big feast for Many Lances an’ got him drunk, huh?” “Many Lances dead. Killed by Pawnee government scout.”’ ‘“‘Jewhilliker cats! There ye set, ca’mly eatin’ dawg, knowin’ that th’ first minute th’ Kiowas hear ’bout Many Lances bein’ rubbed out means that our ha’r will be hung up ’side o’ them other sculps on th’ medicine-pole!”’ “They'll hear some time termorrer, prob- ‘ly. Nearly killed my hoss keepin’ ahead o th’ news. Knew I couldn’t git through once word was brought.” “Wal, dod-dern! , Totin’ any more trouble in yer pack?” “Little million comin’ to git Colorado gold.” “News has swept th’ Missoury then,” sighed California Joe. ‘We'll soon be overrun by greenhorns tryin’ to hire us to dig ditches. An’ won’t there be a heap to pay when th’ Injuns see ’em comin’!”’ “Snake medicine very strong. Fog to- night. We’ll push.” ‘“‘Honestest word ye ever spoke, ye gos- sipin’ ol’ hound. Wal, light up ’n smoke. Wish we had somethin’ to drink ’sides river water.” CHAPTER IV ON THE LARAMIE TRAIL yp wo hours after midnight the trappers * awoke and made ready for their flight. California Joe whispered: “Kiowas don’t take to snake medicine - very keen. If ye’d fetched a sun or a buf’ler or a peyote-plant medicine we might cut th’ ace.” “Steal their medicine-box. crawl,” growled Reason. “They ain’t got it here. If they had ye’d see ol’ Ansote, th’ medicine-keeper. If they raised crops I’'d have scared up a good rain medicine, but bein’ hunters, they don’t give a cuss for rain. sartain; we'll be chewed mighty fine to please th’ sun once they hear how Many Then they’d One thing’s Adventure Lances pegged out, or if they git to believin’ there ain’t no trade goods comin’. Where’d I lay that knife?” “T hung th’ snakeskin on it. Stuck in th’ pole. That skin’s best one I ever see. Kiowas be ——-. I know a good medicine as well as they do.” “Takes religion to make a man hoot an’ stick up for his luck,” murmured Joe ad- miringly. ‘Ye ain’t made such a long talk in th’ last six years. But ye used to say th’ same ’bout that spider medicine, th’ one ye swapped for a bunch o’ red feathers. Busted yer leg two hours after makin’ th’ dicker.”’ Internal rumblings that might be diag- nosed as suppressed oaths over recollec- tions of the spider talisman caused Cali- fornia Joe’s seventy-five inches of brawn and muscle to shake with silent laughter. Composing himself, he gravely suggested— “Promise yer medicine a feast; we'll need all th’ luck we can git.” The village was quiet. A preliminary reconnaissance satisfied the two wanderers that they would have a simple task in avoiding any guards, for the fog had sub- merged the plain in a wet fleece and the sense of sight was useless. Reason rolled up his blankets with the snakeskin inside and announced that he was ready. Joe whispered to him to lead the way. Finding the flap, Reason gently pulled it aside and commenced crawling out into the fog. His head and shoulders had advanced through the opening when something furiously fanned his face. Duck- ing back and colliding with Joe, he gasped— “What’n ’s that?” . California Joe disentangled his long figure and gave a sibilant signal for silence. All was quiet outside. After half a minute of tense waiting Joe took a turn at recon- noitering the opening. He met with the same experience. Chuckling softly, he explained to his mystified partner: “Forgot all ’bout him. I reckon that must be Bill. Cinnamon bear they keep tied up for th’ younkers to torment. Come nigh sp’ilin’ yer dawg-gone dandy face. ‘‘Seein’ as how Bill seems to be holdin’ good keerds, mebbe we’d best rip a hole through th’ back o’ th’ tent. Got yer saddle? All right. We're off.” A long three-cornered cut, and the two slipped out into the dense mist. It was impossible even to make out the nearest Gomichbooks (C@)