Adventure Magazine Cover, March 20, 1925 — page 161: what you’re looking at

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

Deuce High in a hurry and havin’ got purty well weaned away from our mammy’s teachin’s, still we all of us has a heap uh respect fer them as does know the ropes. And I’ve seen some mighty tough hands, when the end uh their trail was in sight, ask fer a sky- pilot tuh help ’em find a easy crossin’ over the Big Divide. Bill looks around, plumb desp’rit. ‘“‘___|_ Ain’t none uh you boneheads ever got religion?” he growls. “T traveled across the Nation oncet,”’ says a Texas boy, kinda hopeful, “‘with a Quaker doctor spread.” Bill whirls on him, quick as arattler strikin’. “Why the dad-blamed didn’t yuh say so afore? Git on yore laigs and let’s have '’er, both barrels!’ he bawls at the Texican. “Don’t know as I recollect much about the fine points uh the game,” admits the boy, plumb shameful. ‘Yuh see, my part uh the act was tuh shoot at glass balls throwed in the air. Used fine birdshot, savvy? I was kinda loaded up with bitters and tonic, which was what the boys useta drink in the Territory, and what mite uh preachin’ the doc done didn’t stay bogged down in my haid, so tuh speak. All I kin mind offhand is that he uses “thee” and “thou” a —— of a lot.” And that cuts the Texican into the culls. It’s up to Bill tuh play the joker. And he does. Since then, I been tuh a heap uh churches, camp meetin’s and sech, and some uh them sky-pilots shore slings out some fancy pray- ers. But I ain’t ever listened tuh none, ner reckon I ever will, that could make a man feel as clost tuh the Big Boss as Bill does when he gits warmed up. ’Way down in- side uh his heart he’s a-thinkin’ uh them kids uh hisn and the wife that’s a-waitin’ fer him. And while he don’t use no big words, he talks straight out like a man. He tells uh how this Wyoming boy is like a maverick whose mammy has died in a norther, leavin’ him tuh shift fer hisse’f. Whipped outa the herd and shiftin’ fer his- se’f, without no horns ner a mammy tuh look after him. Jest a-driftin’. “Lord,” says Bill, ‘all us boys is tough hands, a-driftin’ the same as that boy is. And mebbyso some uh us has been as o’n’ary as Wyoming. We’re plumb igno- rant about religion, as Yuh kin see fer Yore- 143 se’f; but we’re all ashamed right now, I reckon, that we done paid so much atten- tion tuh liquor and poker and let our souls kinda pick their own trail. But shucks, there ain’t no use in goin’ into that. You know what a triflin’ lot cowpunchers is. I’m jest explainin’ how nary man in camp here is a holdin’ nothin’ a’gin’ the Wyo- ming boy. “Jest give him a square deal tonight, that’s what we're all a-askin’. The sky- pilots all claims Yo’re square, and I reckon Yuh are. And I reckon You savvy what that boy’s been through and how he’s come out white. There ain’t many men that’s got the nerve tuh do what that boy done to- night. And it don’t seem right, somehow, that You’d let him get killed by a murderin’ pisano like this Cordero coyote. Which I reckon Yuh won’t. “As fer us boys here in camp, we ain’t a-askin’ fer nothin’ that we ain’t got com- in’. We’re purty o’n’ary, I reckon; but we won't holler if the deal goes the wrong way. Jest a square deal, God, that’s all we want. And—and much obliged.” ““He means ‘Amen,’”’ corrects High Pock- ets, a-slappin’ at bis eyes with the off cor- ner uh his apron. But Bill’s lookin’ thoughtful like out the tent door and don’t hear. Leastways he don’t take the trouble tuh argue the point. McCloud’s a-layin’ back, a-settin’ of his teeth tuh keep from groanin’. Nobody says nothin’, and we’re bogged to the hocks in thought. Then bam! And we’re on our feet, a-clawin’ at our smoke-poles. “‘We’ve been blowed up!” whispers some gent as I throws my hat over the candle. And nobody doubts his word. We crouches there in the dark, expectin’ we don’t know what. The hair. along the back uh my neck seems tuh be reared up. That there explosion sounded like it was Just outside the tent. But nobody seems tuh be hurt; and while I sniffs the air like a houn’ dog, drat my speckled hide if I kin smell ary sign uh burnt powder. Only a kinda sweetish, plumb pleasant smell. I hears a feller sniffin’ along side me; then he groans Miser’ble, like he was mebbyso shot in the belly. “Hurt ‘bad, pardner?” I asks, a-edgin’ closter. The gent cusses low and methodic, and I CORnNIECLO© S (©