Adventure Magazine Cover — page 170: what you’re looking at

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

Eee Ss BS ee SSS ees »< 168 _ ain’t nothin’ I can do but set there and let things go. We went surgin’ around the corner and into the main street. Yaller. Rock County sure was there. Every hitch- rack is packed with horses, and between the racks and the middle of the street stands the ‘population of a county, waitin’ for us to show up. They lets out a cheer when we showed up, and we ain’t more than halfway to ’em, when up the street comes old Cod Liver Oil -and Runnin’ Dog, both of ’em decked out in War-paint, nose-paint, war-bonnets, and ridin’ painted ponies. I reckon it was a sight worth seein’. Honest to gosh, I sure did feel aboriginal. I was stoical, too. The only emotion [ can show is with my right leg—the left one has gone to sleep. Then the East met the West. We got within twenty feet of each other before them pinto horses got a good look at Gunga Din and Sahara. Cod Liver Oil’s pinto just spread its legs, bawled like a calf —and fell down, sendin’ the old buck into a somersault almost under Gunga Din. Run- nin’ Dog’s pinto turns around on one hind leg, shuckin’ old Runnin’ Dog, and went past us like a streak. Gunga Din reached down, wrapped his trunk around Cod Liver Oil, and stood the old boy on his head twenty feet away. “Yee-ow-w-w!” yelps Liniment Lucas. “Some show!”’ And into it all comes Pete Gonyer, drivin’ a team of broncs hitched to a covered wagon. He is the Comin’ of the White Man. He came—I’ll say that much for him. The yellin’ is too much for that team of broncs, and here comes Pete, feet braced against the front-gate of that wagon, haulin’ short on the lines, while behind him billows that wagon-cover, like a anchored balloon. Runnin’ Dog has got to his feet, with the war-bonnet over one eye and blood in the other one. “W hool’” he screams. mokst ta tet!” It was the first elephant he ever seen, and he called it a big evil with two heads. There ain’t no chance for me to move Gunga Din out of the path of them two broncs; so I sets supine and lets death rush down upon us. But it don’t rush all the way. About twenty feet away, them two broncs get their first look at the East, and they don’t like it. They dig their heels into “Hyas masahchie Adventure that hard street, set down in their harness, and out of that cloud of dust comes Pete Gonyer, all spread out like a flyin’ squirrel, and he lands all spraddled out on the head of Gunga Din, still hangin’ onto his lines. As old Judge Steele might say—“Pandy- ammonium reigns.” The two broncs regains their equili- brium, ducks sideways and tries to go around us. They were goin’ pretty good when they took up the slack on them lines, and Pete Gonyer lifted right off the dome of Gunga Din, sailed off through the air and butted Dirty Shirt plumb off his camel. He not only butted him off, but took him along. Then Gunga Din lifted his trunk high in the air and bugles loud and free— ““Ra-a-a-a te ta-a-a-a ta ta-a-a-a!” 7x RIGHT then I want to get down. ak I don’t reckon that any Harper mf ever lived that wanted to get as) * down as badly as I do; but there ain’t no safety on the ground. Every horse at them hitch-racks are heavin’ and surgin, folks yelpin’. I want to yell, but that darned paint has set, with my mouth half open, and all I can do is say— “Hoo, hoo, hoo!”’ like a darned owl. Then cometh Victory—and Progress. Pete Gonyer has made a riggin’ to fit over the top of Scenery Sims’ automobile, kinda like a platform, and there’s a railin’ all around it, decorated with flags and colored cloth. The driver ain’t in sight, and the danged thing looks like a runaway raft. On the front of the arrangement stand Mrs. Wick Smith, all gauded up in cheese- cloth and a silver crown, which is settin’ down over one ear, kinda rakish-like. One hand is grippin’ the rail, while the other hangs to a big banner. Behind her stands Mrs. Gonyer, dressed in white, tryin’ to hold up one hand, like an Injun givin’ a peace-sign, and hangin’ onto her is Mrs. Mighty Jones, wearin’ a night- gown and a pair of paper wings, one of which has climbed up on her shoulder, makin’ her look like a broken-winged duck. I seen all this in a lot less time than it takes to tell it. The thing is comin’ too danged fast, I sabe that much, and I know that an automobile don’t scare at elephants. A runaway horse goes past me, hits its nimp against the platform of Victory and Prog- ress and skids the thing aside. Mrs. Smith goes down in a lump, and ecomicbooks com