Adventure Magazine Cover, March 20, 1925 — page 155: what you’re looking at

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

Deuce High gruff-like, I reckon, fer he’d shore give mea start. ‘Don’t laugh like that.” “Beg yore pardon,” he says like a kid might that’s been caught stealin’ jam outa his mammy’s cupboard. “T’ll not do. it again.” And so fur as I know, he kept his word. Wore out as he was, he shaved and took a bath at the lower water hole afore he turned in that night. He’d had raisin’, that boy had. It stuck out all over him. It was a day er two afore the question uh his name come up. We’d been jest kinda shyin’ off from givin’ him ary handle; savvy? All uh us bein’ old hands and brung up thataway, we ain’t a-goin’ fer tuh make no breaks in perlite manners. It was the boy hisse’f that brings up the play one eve- nin’ when we’re a smokin’ of a cigaret afore we ketches up our night hosses. “Boys,” says he, a slow grin a-spreadin’ on his face, “yuh none uh you asked me my name. I’m obliged a heap and I shore ap- preciate the delicacy. But a man can’t go around without a handle uh some kind. Supposin’ yuh calls me Wyoming.” “That yore range, son?” asks some cow hand from up thataway, rearin’ to augur some with a cow hand from his own country. “No, it ain’t,” grins the boy. “I never set foot in the State. That’s why the name Wyoming suits me so well. It’s so —— noncommital.” And that’s how Wyoming gets his handle. As the days drags along like a slow-mov- in’ trail herd passin’ a dry water hole, we learns several things about Wyoming. He’s the best roper in the outfit, sets a pitchin’ hoss like he’s built on the critter’s back, and he’s as quiet as a new kid at Sunday school. But man, how he does set around a-listenin’ to the other boys swappin’ lies of an evenin’! And he never laughs. Not oncet. And there’s another thing about the boy. He wakes too easy. Let a hoss git tangled in his stake rope, er a coyote yap, er ary noise bust the quiet uh the night, and Wyoming is sittin’ reared up in bed with his gun in his hand. But I never lets on that I taken notice. That is, only oncet. It was the night after our pzsano hoss wrangler had been found dead in a little ar- royo. Old Lorenzo was a shore good hand with hosses, and we mourns his loss con- sider’ble. Him bein’ bushwhacked that- away shore gits the outfit ringtailed. It 137 means one uh the boys has got tuh jingle the hosses; and, wuss than that, it means that this coyote of a Pancho Cordero is hover- in’ around somewheres in them hills with his greaser outlaws. Kinda hoverin’ like a flock uh turkey buzzards. It has us shore spooky that night. We sleeps with our boots on and our guns handy like. And we doubles the guard on the remuda. It must’a’ been clost tuh third guard time when the play comes up. Me and Wyoming had been on cocktail, the shift that takes the herd from the day herders, holdin’ the dogies till fust guard time. And havin’ ras- sled a heap uh yearlin’s durin’ the day, we beds down pronto. But I ain’t too weary, as the feller says, tuh fergit about ol’ Lorenzo and wonderin’ when this Cordero aims tuh open up the jack-pot. As I says, it’s about third guard time, and I’m a-rasslin’ with a bad dream. Sud- den like my eyes flies open. I don’t move. Jest lays there with my hand on my gun, wonderin’ what’s woke me. Then from the mess tent, which is dark inside, comes the low sound uh voices like some gent is talk- in’ to somebody else. And in the dim light uh the moon I sees a saddled hoss in front uh the tent. “Shh!” It’s Wyoming speakin’ in a whisper, and he’s grippin’ my arm tight. “What’s wrong?” I asks, kinda het up fer a second. “It’s jest one uh the boys come in off guard. Like as not he’s woke the cook and the o’n’ary ole grub sp’iler is cussin’ him out.” “It’s a stranger,” whispers Wyoming, and I sees now that he’s plumb dressed and has hishat on. ‘Him and the boss is in the mess tent a-augurin’. I reckon it means that the law has done caught up with me.” It’s too dark tuh see the boy’s face, but there’s somethin’ in his voice that hits’me under the ribs. Ever been alone in camp of a moonlight night when a wolf howls off In the distance? Sounds silly as , mis- ter; but that boy’s voice has that same far- off, lonesome note the same as a lone wolf’s. I puts on my hat, tucks in my shirt tail, and when the Wyoming boy eases past the corral to where his hoss is staked, I’m right behind him . And while I’m bringin’ up the drag I’m thinkin’ fit tuh crack every bone in my head. “Hold yore fire a spell, son,” I tells him as he jerks his cinch tight. ‘Yo’re a-goin’ off half cocked.” CO CORnnIELO©