Adventure Magazine, March 1916 — page 110: what you’re looking at

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

| 108 men, then the meaning of the Irishman’s words seeped slowly through his awakening brain. He had succeeded! A delicious feeling— the feeling of a man who has won—ran through his veins, filling them with strength and vigor, rousing him and sweeping clear his mind. He thrilled with purpose. The dangers Adventure 4 he had run were forgotten. And _ his thoughts turned to Milly, but with her im- age came that of Arnold. He ground his teeth, set his chin, and with a quick move- ment sat up in bed. “Here!” he cried, kicking off the bed- covers,- and turning to the astonished watchers. ‘Give me my clothes. I’ve got to catch the next train north.” L SON-OF A-GUN= SANDY BOURKE STORY 6y J.ALLAN eee > Author of “The Gold Lust,” “The Island of the Dead,’’ etc. you-all expec’ me to catch him 2S with you pawin’ an’ raisin’ a SS dust?” Pete, favorite mount of Sandy Bourke, foreman of the Curly O, thus admonished, looked at his master with up-pricked ears and luminous, understanding eyes, snorted once in protest of his enforced idleness in a thicket of high-stemmed, leafless ‘“fence- post”’ cactus, and stood quietly. Sandy resumed his search for the elusive quarry which had shown itself once and then hidden in some cavity of the weathered trunks. ~ “You-all had betteh surrendeh, li’] bird,” said Sandy, “for I shore need you as a pres- ent fo’ li’l son-of-a-gun. I ain’t goin’ to huht you none. Ah! Got ye.” And his gantleted hand brought forth a protesting, tiny bunch of feathers, biting at the glove and blinking at the sunlight, presently re- : SI still, you Pete, you! Howd’ CX solving itself into a flustered but resigned birdlet, the dwarf cactus-owl of the dry belt. Sandy pondered a minute over his cap- ture, then stuffed the bottom of the empty rifle-holster on his saddle with his bandanna neckerchief, deposited the owl in it carefully as in a nest and capped the holster with dried mesquite. “T don’-know as he can play with you much,” he said, tucking in the brush, ‘“‘but dolls is awful sca’ce hereabouts an’ yo’re shore an amusin’ li’l cuss, ef it’ s only to look at, for the li’l son-of-a-gun.” The li’l son- -of-a-gun was the two-year- : old son of Barbara Redding, daughter of Superintendent Barton of the Curly O, now on a visit to the li’l son-of-a-gun’s grand- father and only grandparent, from the Red- ding standard-cattle ranch at Boville, on the Pecos River, New Mexico. Sandy, who had been best man at the wedding, was one of John Redding, Junior’s, Eomichoo S (e{0)