Adventure, July 1, 1928 — page 129: what you’re looking at

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

THE MAN WHO HATED HIMSELF fumbled with clumsy hands at a witch’s knot in his horse’s mane. His brain was working swiftly. Why had Horace lied? Why had the wagon boss told the sheriff that he, Buck Bell, was going into a line camp at Rocky Point? “T wouldn’t be tellin’ this to everybody, understand,” continued the sheriff. “I know I kin trust you, Bell.” If the sheriff had taken a sharp knife and struck the cowpuncher in the back he could not have hurt Buck Bell more than he did when he spoke those words. They rode on in silence. Buck was chilled to the bone by the wind; it bit through his inadequate clothing. Dick urged the bottle on him to warm his blood. “TI got some stuff that’ll be driftin’ with the storms this winter, Bell. I spoke to the Old Gent about it. He said it'd be all right if you boys kinda kept an eye on ’em and feed a few if need be.” “Shore,” mumbled Buck. “Shore thing.” Their trails parted a little farther on. The sheriff made Buck take his overshoes and the bottle. “Tl be back home in a couple o’ hours. Don’t be a damn’ fool, Bell. So long. Good luck, old-timer. “See you next spring when the chinook melts you outa the bad lands.” When they had parted Buck rode on, the ache in his heart more bitter than before. The words of the sheriff’s song came drifting back out of the storm—the song of Sam Bass. ““ |. . Sam he is a corpse and six foot under clay.” Buck stayed that night at a line camp, and pushed on the next morning. He kept wondering why Horace had lied. It hung like a sand burr in his thoughts all that day. He stopped late the next after- noon at a horse camp; and because they were short handed, Buck worked there a week. Then he drifted on once more, refusing a cent for his labors. It was the ethics of the grub line that forbade his accepting payment. They had given him and his horse food and shelter. He asked no more, though the work had been hard 123 and he had eaten but two meals each day. Breakfast before they rode away; supper when they came in after dark. He had ‘made the biscuits, helped with the dishes, and split wood, to boot. And he had given them what was left of the whisky. ECAUSE Rocky Point lay along his route to somewhere south, he rode up there one evening at dusk. A saddled horse was humped in the lee of the shed. Hollow eyed cattle bawled in the corral. No smoke came from the little log cabin. Filled with grave mis- givings, Buck Bell stepped into the eabin. The moan of a man in pain came out of its dark interior. He found Cotton Eye lying fully clothed in bed, his leg broken between the ankle and knee. He had been like that since the day before, he told Buck through set teeth. “Horse fell on me, comin’ up the river.” Buck built the fire and made the crip- pled man as comfortable as possible. Then he took care of the horses and scattered hay for the gaunt cattle. When he came back to the cabin, he hid his fears under a careless banter. “T’ll throw some soup into you, Cotton Eye. And coffee. Now roll over on your back and cuss me while I git this boot cut off. Tl be as gentle as a cow with her first calf, pardner.” Those men of the frontier were steady of hand and ingenious of brain. Broken bones and gunshot wounds were not un- common. A man needed to know the rudiments of crude surgery in those days when doctors were few and far between. There was no sleep for either man that night. Buck fashioned a sling to hold the suffering man while he pulled the frac- tured bone: into place. The erstwhile nighthawk groaned. Buck swore softly as he labored. He splinted the leg with stout willow sticks and strips of tanned rawhide saddle strings. Beads of sweat covered the drawn face of Cotton Eye. He lay back, whimpering a little through clenched teeth, sick and faint, but game enough. Buck held a cup of black coffee to his mouth. comicloooks.com