Adventure Magazine Cover — page 59: what you’re looking at

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

The Lucky Crash He was a small man—not over twenty- five, either, Tex thought. His face, with its short, curving nose, and slightly receding brow and chin, announced to the world the reason for his nickname, “Weasel.” There was a certain combination of recklessness and impudent hardness discernible that was good reason for believing that his reputation was deserved. Williams stooped, gun ready for action with its business end forward. As _ he pulled away the torn linen barrier that shielded MacDowell the fiyer took his chance. Like a flash of light his hand shot forward and flung the revolver outward as it went off. Williams, already stooped over, lost his balance completely: Tex flung himself on the momentarily helpless outlaw, who was no match for the six-feet-two pilot. Tex flung Williams’ gun away with his left hand—his right held the thin neck with sinewy fingers that were cruel in their strength. In a few seconds he was sitting astride his prisoner who was stretched face-down be- neath him. Although his ankle was giving him pain so great that he almost collapsed Tex leisurely plucked the second gun from its holster and sent it spinning into the mesquite. He pulled his own Colt, cocked it, and held it trained on Williams while he got to his feet. “You may arise, Weasel, my boy,” drawled the flyer, pale lips smiling crook- edly. “And now that you’ve given away the fact that you’ve got the carburetor by leaving the palatial Pullman in favor of the ’squite, I sure wouldn’t hesitate to kill you if you got gay.” The little outlaw got up, dusted himself off, and nonchalantly inquired, “Mind if I smoke?” Tex grinned appreciatively. “Roll me one too, will you? ‘em with one hand but Vl be pour out the tobacco without two.” Tex received his cigaret at arm’s length, Colt cocked and ready, but Williams made no move. The whistle of an engine stabbed the silence of the brush with a sudden screech. Tex gave joyful thanks to whatever keen eyes had seen him fall—he suddenly felt as if that ankle would make him keel over yet. The agony was almost unbearable. “Carburetor’s in the bag, I suppose?” he asked his prisoner. | I can roll if I can 53 Williams nodded. “Well, are you aimin’ to walk me to the track, loot?” he inquired, his freckled, sinis- ter face showing no trace of rancor or sul- lenness. “No, we'll wait. Sit down.” Weasel Williams obeyed and smoked silently. He blew contemplative smoke rings, watching them with his bright little eyes half-shielded from the sun by lowered lids. Apparently he had neither comment nor inquiry to make about his capture. Tex eased himself to the ground slowly and for a moment the pain let up. Then it increased again until the set face was white beneath the tan and his long fingers gripped the Colt with almost maniacal strength. He wondered how long it would take the sheriff to track Williams—or should he risk taking the outlaw through the mesquite toward the railroad? For ages, it seemed, he sat there, head reeling but gun-hand steady and eyes alert. If Wiliams knew what the Army man was going through, he gave no sign. Sheriff Trowbridge finally burst into view at the head of all the male passengers on the train and likewise the train crew. “Seen you fall and backed up, Great ! He’s got Williams, too!” “Uh huh. It was a lucky crash all around, sheriff. The carburetor is in that bag, I think.”’ Mr. George Smithers, manager of Mc- Mullen’s leading store, investigated the bag and announced that it was there, hold- ing it up in proof. “How did you do it?’ demanded the sheriff, while two men were efficiently re-searching Williams. “Why he just—” and Tex quietly crum- pled to the ground. The sheriff found the wrenched ankle in a trice. While he was binding it with a huge khaki handkerchief soaked in water from a tiny puddle he looked up at Mr. Sam Edwards, rugged old-timer and present mayor of McMullen. “Vou knew his daddy, didn’t you, Sam?” he queried. “Uh-huh. Tex isa chip off the old block, Bill.” Weasel Williams, surrounded by his captors, took a last puff of his cigaret and broke into the conversation. “So Dav—a feller was tellin’ me,” he admitted. Tex. Go NOO|KS = a (F@)