Adventure Magazine Cover — page 159: what you’re looking at

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

A Day on Razorback out the way to Sam. The blacksmith dis- mounted and disappeared into the thick of the woods. Bill gave another whistle, a sharp variation from his first, which was also answered, and then he turned to us: ‘Jest make yerselves to home. It won’t be long.”” And he kept his hand on his gun as if to add that it would be well for us to accept the situation gracefully. IN THE course of time the black- ~@uea smith reappeared and with him was aman of Bill’s tallness but bigger— a giant of a man who investigated us keenly from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. He asked a few questions and Boggs answered promptly—something about our travels and why we had wanted to come over Razor- back road; also a little information about our machine. For a moment he stood in silence like a rural magistrate about to announce sentence. “T reckon ye’re all right,” he said, “‘but of all the blamed fools I ever seen ye’re the goldarndest. Ef ye call ridin’ over Razor- back spote’—he meant sport—‘‘ye’re plumb easy to please. Fact is, we thought ye crazy, and we don’t want no lunatics on this mountain.” We laughed and they laughed with us, Sam most heartily of all. ‘‘That’s what I told ’em,”’ he exclaimed. “I tell ye,’ he said to us, ‘ye ought to be glad Bill or somebody didn’t shoot ye on sight!” We invited all to go with us the rest of the journey, but they declined. However, as we were about to start, Sam called to us: “Likely as not ye’ll git on the wrong road. T’ll show ye the way fer a dollar.” ‘““Done!”’ said Boggs. “ Jump in.” “Bill,” called Sam to our hotel friend, “if anybody’s goin’ down, tell ’em to leave word at the shop that I won’t be back till late.” “All right, Sam. 7’Bliged to ye for helpin’ us out.” ‘Welcome. Glad to do it.” Sam nestled down in the seat and we waved our adieus. Nothing was said for several minutes and as the road improved we made good progress. Boggs and I were steeped in silence, but presently we were aroused by chuckles which came from the rear seat. “Sam,” said Boggs, growing familiar, “let us into your joke. After what we have been through we’d like to laugh.” 915 “Whole thing’s funny,’ said Sam. “Whole crowd’s funny. Ye’re the funniest part of it. Reckon ye don’t know why really and truly they spied on ye. Well, they thought ye were revenue agents! They don’t want nobody on these mountains unless they know all about ’em. Why, they even didn’t want me to come—me who has been blacksmithin’ down there for over a year and not hurtin’ a soul. Fact is, it’s the first time I ever got over—and then it was because I was helpin’ ’em find out who ye were. Bill didn’t even want to send me up the mountain to bring down his brother, but he had to, ’cause he was holdin’ to his gun and watchin’ ye two. I reckon ye’ll never forgit Razorback.” “Never,” said Boggs, ‘‘and we’ll never forget you.” ‘Pleased to have met ye,” said Sam and when he took the dollar that Boggs gave him he asked for a card, ‘‘so’s I’ll have something to recollect ye by,”’ he said pleasantly. And a few minutes after we left him we were bowling over a good road and seeking supper and a night’s rest. FOUR months later I happened in Boggs’ office in the city skyscraper and we fell to talking of our trip and Razorback—of the queer people and the blacksmith. The secretary brought in a card: “L. Q. Poytrew, United States In- ternal Revenue.” “T don’t know him, but show him in,” said Boggs. The door opened and in came a man dressed faultlessly in the mode and carrying himself with fine grace and confidence. The suggestion of a smile was around his lips. He approached Boggs and laid a dollar upon the desk. “‘T wanted to return it before, but——”’ “Bless my soul!” exclaimed Boggs, jump- ing up and grasping his hand, “‘if it isn’t the blacksmith!” “Was the blacksmith,” said the caller with a cackle. ‘‘We’ve just finished break- ing up the biggest moonshine still in the State and putting the whole gang in the penitentiary. They ought to have been hanged, for they killed one of our men and wounded two others. That’s why I was sent down there—why I ran that black- smith stunt for over a year—until you came along and gave me my chance to locate the plant. But—it sure was lonesome!”’ Comicbhook ©