Adventure Magazine Cover — page 46: what you’re looking at

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

THE PASSING OF BARBARY TIM by Joseph Blethen Pq HE range boss grinned.as he slipped me a pass To his midnight necktie show; ‘Come on,” said he, ‘‘we wants a scribe So all them papers will know.”’ A wandering scribbler far from heme, I trembled in my boots; But no one slacks in Coulee Flat, Where a man is known as he shoots. I went along as a critic cold To watch a rope go tight, There in that plan of man to man, Where a life for a life is right. This Tim had seen some better days And some nights that will never grow cold— But finally landed behind the bars For beaning a guy for his gold. So along about twelve.on the night of the show The range boss tipped me a wink That plainly said: ‘‘You interview him, While I go fish for a drink.” And while he rustl’d a bottle or two Of the essence of barleycorn With which we all might irrigate Our nerve for that dismal morn— Poor Tim and I had a midnight chat As cheerful as ever could be, For Tim had something on his chest And he lifted the lid for me— * * * “Them vigilantes sure do go When once they start to move; They got the goods on me all right, An’ it’s wastin’ time to prove. “T’ve lived a bit; I got no kick; ‘Don’t steal—don’t squeal’—is the way; But who the —— is the hangin’ sharp That fixes the time of day? 40 “Some things jest nacherly strike a man wrong, An’ he wonders who lets ’em go free, Such as drinkin’ with poker or weddin’s at noon Or this business of hangin’ at three. “From the quarter-deck of a spotted hoss I'll navigate to my God, An’ you'll plant me under a sage-brush plant Instead of my native sod— “But why let a guy get a slant at the dawn Of a day that can never be his? Say! Hang ’im at night when the sun is low An’ he’s ready to sleep as it is! ‘‘Just string ’im up when the stars come out An’ the ranchers. has hit the hay, An’ he won’t know a dawgone thing When the roosters go yellin’ for day ‘““Go on, send a note to your Editor sharp Back East there to call ’em all in, An’ tell ’em to fix a nice little law To make hangin’ at daybreak a sin. “T’ve played my hand an’ cheated—say! I’m tagged. I know I’m It; But I hope they hang the next son of a gun At a time of the day that is fit.” * * * And that was the way that Barbary Tim Orated there to me As we waited around till the range boss came With a rope and drinks for three. And they sat poor Tim on a spotted horse And led him under a tree, Where a rope went tight to make things right At the ugly hour of three. ’Twas “Curtain” for Tim, the range boss said When we reached the end of the play, And all that was left was the critic’s job— , And here she is—as she lay. COPNIGLOOOKS: (E@)