Adventure Magazine Cover — page 154: what you’re looking at

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

152 git away with it. Let’s rattle our hocks and tap that keg.” TWO hundred head of saddle horses, | } of all sizes, shapes, and colors, milled «| in the rope corral, kicking up dust as they ducked and pushed and crowded each other. In the center of the corral stood half a dozen cow-punchers, their loops spread, their eyes searching the milling remuda for the horse they were to ride on circle that morning. Ribs Austin, Tad and Shorty stood together and as the horses crowded past, the Slash R boss pointed out to the two new hands the string of horses each of them was to ride. To the uninitiated, it would seem an im- possible task to tell one horse from another in the dim light of dawn, packed as they were in the corral and enveloped in a dust cloud that rose and settled and rose again. Yet a man is considered a poor hand if he can not rope out his own horses on a dark morning. ‘“‘Yonder’s yore top-circle hoss, big fel- ler,’ announced Ribs as he designated a high-headed sorrel. ‘‘Better throw yore line on him.” Tad, holding his loop across his right shoulder, nodded. The sorrel ducked his head, was lost to sight for a moment, then showed again ten feet to the left. Tad’s loop shot out, settled, and went taut as the big cow-puncher braced himself. The sor- rel ran on the rope, whirled, and as Tad pulled gently on the rope, walked mincingly toward the man who had snared him. ‘Tad, moving with that slow, easy manner that comes from years of handling half-broken horses, reached up and slipped the rope behind the sorrel’s ears. ‘The animal fol- lowed him out of the corral without tighten- ing the slack. ‘“‘That ‘Paint’ hoss yonder is yore meat, little ’un,”’ said Ribs in an offhand manner, as he pointed to a raw-boned pinto. ‘“‘He may swaller his head fer a few jumps. Reckon yuh kin set him?’’ Shorty did not answer. His rope flipped back in a short, upward movement and the next instant the big pinto was dragging the short-statured cow-puncher about the cor- ral. Ribs grabbed the flying end of the rope and the combined weight of the two men brought the horse to a whistling, stiff- legged halt. Shorty approached the pinto warily. Adventure He grinned as he was met by a pair of wicked fore feet. The pinto’s hoofs had missed Shorty’s head by a scant foot, yet it left him un- moved, save for a determined look in his gray eyes. Ribs Austin, at the end of the rope, grinned evilly. It had been weeks since the pinto had been saddled and no man had yet ridden the Slash R Paint without being thrown. “Still feelin’ lucky, little ’unP’’ he called in a bantering tone that caused Shorty’s eyes to snap with anger. “Tf yo’re meanin’ me, mister,”’ the little cow-puncher replied as he again approached the horse, ‘‘my name’s Carroway. Shorty Carroway, savvy. And I’m still feelin’ lucky. lucky. That goes more ways than one.” Shorty half-turned, his hand creeping towards his gun. ‘“‘Meanin’ jest what?” sneered Austin. “Grab yore own meanin” and you won’t be fur from right.” ‘“That’s fine talk, stranger.” Ribs Austin, his bulk still braced on the taut rope, shifted a trifle to free his gun hand. It was Frenchy who broke the tension. “By gar, de Shorty’s goin’ to ride de Paint, Reebs. Don’ go for mak’ de fight talk now. Long tam we don’ see Paint get rode. I’m want bad for to see: dees show, me.’ His white teeth gleamed in a wide grin. ; Tad Ladd, unseen by either Ribs or Shorty, had slipped into the corral. Hidden by a gentle horse, he had stood motionless, his .45 in his hand. Now he shoved the gun back in his waistband and as Frenchy and Shorty led the Paint outside, he was reach- ing under his horse’s belly for the flank cinch. ‘“‘Drawed a snake, pardner?”’ he grinned as he unhooked his stirrup from the saddle- horn and straightened up. “Looks thataway, Tad.” He turned to Frenchy. ‘Me ’n’ Tad’ll handle the calico pony now, Mister.” “Oui,” grinned Frenchy. ‘‘Watch dem front foots, Shorty. Han’ by gar,” he added in a lower tone, “keep de eye hon de boss. You mak one bad play hin de corral. Reebs, she’s shoot queck.”” “Thanks, Frenchy. But I ain’t aimin’ to let no kettle-bellied, wind-broke - DOOLK CO