Adventure Magazine Cover — page 170: what you’re looking at

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

164 ain’t never been a liar foaled yet that could do that place justice. That there sign is a compliment to that community.” “Well, I’m glad to hear the worst. Adios, brothers.” We watches him jog out of sight and then we pilgrims on. Some time in the dim and distant past a colony of men and women and dogs and mules and kids pilgrimed from the South and settled in the Willer Crick hills. Seems that they was kinda anti-everything, and wanted to form a little empire of their own. They picks out this spot, took up their farms and drew sort of a dead-line against the rest of creation. They didn’t want schools—not believing in education, and they made their own queer laws. They intermarried until it took ’em a month to figure out a legal heir in case one of the land owners shuffled off. A few of ’em, called the Council of Three, assisted by Sol Vane, who does the lawin’ for the Crick, had enough education to see that the rest of the colony didn’t get anything that the council OLD SHACK. ™ WHERE 4 Bundy was | KIDNAPPED- @sSiILLMAN RANCH Map for “Law Rustlers"® and one didn’t want ’em to get. Glory explained the system to us. “My !’ snorts Hashknife. “TI could shoot once and kill your uncle, a cousin, a half-brother, a brother-in-law and a nephew.” Which wasn’t true in Glory’s case, being as her dad had busted the law by marrying outside the colony. This close relationship has bred a fine bunch of chinless horse-thieves, gun-men Adventure and hard drinkers. Seems like the men with the least chins always carries the most guns. There had never been a Willer Cricker arrested for anything else. Willer Crick dealt with ’em in their own way, and kept its mouth shut, except when it came to lying about their own innocence. Me and Hashknife rides along for a while and then Hashknife pulls up his horse and looks back. I looks back too, but there ain’t nothing to see except the hills. “Sleepy,” says Hashknife, kinda like he was thinking, “what do yuh reckon they'll do to the Reverend Cobb up there?” “Well, if Gospel was something they could steal, I’d say they’d entertain him over night.” “That’s what I was thinkin’, Sleepy. In the words ‘of the immortal George Wash- ington: turn, boys, turn, we're goin’ back.” “George never said that,” says I. was Bryan.” “All right, all right; have it your own way. What I don’t know about geography would make a set of hymn books, but I know somebody said it.”’ “Why go back, Hashknife? wouldn’t hurt a preacher.”’ ““Not while he’s preachin’; but he can’t sermonize all the time. Willer Crick needs reformin’, Sleepy, but it’s got to be done in a language they understand.” “It’s a fool idea,” I argues, ‘Willer Crick ain’t forgot us. They may be ignorant, but their memory ain’t weak. They may be shy on literature and art, Hashknife, but they sure as can shoot, and they’ll just about put the kibosh on us ever getting to Alaska.” “You sure do get morbid, Sleepy. If Willer Crick had brains I’d pass ’em by. They can’t think beyond next drink-time. If they recognize us they’ll think like this: there’s them two crazy cowpunchers who depleted our community. Wonder who they’ll smoke up this time? That’s the way they’ll think.” “‘And then start to shoot in self-defense. A preacher don’t mean nothin’ to me, Hashknife. What do you want to foller him in there for?”’ “T dunno, Sleepy. I ain’t been to church since Sittin’ Bull first sat down, but there’s somethin’ kinda helpless about a preacher— and Willer Crick is so ornery.”’ “Was your folks religious?” “Tt Willer Crick Gomicbook (E@