Adventure Magazine Cover — page 98: what you’re looking at

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

88 “T won’t,”’ Racey said, turning at the door to bestow a last grin upon Mr. Pooley. “So long. Glad I called.” Mr. Pooley laughed outright. “G’by,” he called after Racey as the door closed. Mr. Pooley leaned far back in his chair. He saw Racey Dawson stop on the sidewalk in front of the two detectives in their chairs. The three conversed a moment, then Racey entered the Kearney House. The two de- tectives remained where they were. Mr. Pooley arose and left the room. ) “YOU gotta get out of here!” It vem was Mr. Pooley speaking with great “ asperity. “Why for?” countered our old friend Mc- Fluke, one-time proprietor of a saloon on the bank of the Lazy. “Because they’re after you, that’s why.” “Who's they?” “Racey Dawson for one.” McFluke sat upright in the bunk. “Him! That ie “Yes, him,” sneered. Pooley. “Scares yuh, don’t it? An’ he’s got two detectives with him, so get a move on. I don’t want you anywhere on my property if they do. come sniffin’ round.” “T’m right comfortable here,” declared McFluke, and lay down upon the bunk. “You'd better go,” said Mr. Pooley softly. “Not unless I get some money first.” “So that’s the game, is it? Think Ill pay you to drift, huh? How much?” “Oh, about ten thousand.” “Ts that all?” “Well, say fifteen—an’ not a check neither.” “No,” said Mr. Pooley, “it won’t be a check. It won’t be anythin’, you worm.” So saying, Mr. Pooley laid violent hands on McFluke, yanked him out of the bunk, ‘and flung him sprawling on the floor. - “Not one cent do you get from me,” de- clared Mr. Pooley. “I never paid black- mail yet and I ain’t beginning now. I al- ways told Harpe you’d upset the apple- cart with yore bull-headed ways. You stinking murderer; it wasn’t necessary to kill old man Dale. Suppose he did hit you, what of it? You could have knocked him out with a bung starter. But no, you had to kill him, and get everybody suspicious, didn’t your? Why, —— you, you make me — Adventure feel like cutting your throat, to have you up- set my plans this way!” McFluke raised himself on an arm. “T didn’t upset yore plans none,” he de- nied sulkily. ‘‘Everythin’s comin’ out all right. , he wouldn’t play that day anyway. Said he’d never touch a card or . look at a wheel again as long as he lived, an’ when I laughed at him he hit me. What else could I do? I hadda shoot him. I ) “Shut up, you and your ‘T’s’ and ‘He wouldn’t’.and ‘I hadda.’ If you told me that tale once since you came here you’ve told me forty times. Get up and get out! Yore horse is tied at the corral gate. I roped him on my way in. C’mon! Get up, or will I have to crawl yore hump again?” But McFluke did not get up. Instead he scrambled sidewise to the wall and shrank against it. His eyes were wide, staring. They were fixed on the doorway behind Mr. Pooley. “T didn’t do it, gents!” cried McFluke, thrusting out his hands before his face as if to ward off a blow. “I didn’t kill him! I didn’t! It’s alla lie! I didn’t kill him!” Fat Jacob Pooley whirled to face three guns. His right hand fell away reluctantly from the butt of his six-shooter. Slowly his arms went above his head. Racey Dawson and his two companions entered the room. The eldest of these companions was one of . the Piegan City town marshals. He was a friend of Jacob Pooley’s. But there was no friendliness in his face as he approached the registrar, removed his gun and searched his person for other weapons. Jacob Pooley said nothing. His face was a dark red. The marshal produced a pair of handcuffs. The registrar recoiled. “Not those!’ he protested. handcuffs on me!” “Put yore hands down,” ordered the mar- shal. “Look here, rl go quietly. T’Il1——’ “Put yore hands down!” repeated the in- exorable marshal. Jacob Pooley put his hands down. Racey and the other man were hand- cuffing McFluke, who was keeping up an in- cessant wail of, ‘I didn’t do it! I didn’t, gents, I didn’t!” “Oh, shut up!’ ordered Racey, jerking the prisoner to his feet. ‘You talk too much!”’ ‘“‘Where’s yore Wells Fargo and Pinker- ton detectives?” demanded Mr. Pooley. “Don’t put COMNKE TOOLS (E@)