Adventure Magazine, March 1916 — page 150: what you’re looking at

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

mn ree Pht Tey At ewth? fee Pep OR ope be een 2 aad re Piast Al ne at vay ° + “¢ uw le WM er er a> ee i ee a writ © ae em Ce Bey ed cml Tae Wer Per ee ae che ek) fee) ee ee Oe eee ee erty sy fh ye SAY yy, - iT Fire 4 ‘ : nr 1a8 .}Y me ee! : : ‘ $ AY? - - f hi! 7 ie aT ‘ 7 : * . : a | wey : + 4h : yeas xi ‘ ' ’ ie ; ‘ . : +"¢: . y 7 - ‘ - - ‘ . 7 . An m * : . 7 “Ye bet he will. Better start now.” “All right. Let’s get a-goin’.” “One’s enough. You go, Tommy. I'll stay an’ caper around. I might run onto somethin’, Ye can’t tell.” “Td kind o’ like to have ye here when I get back.” “Don’t worry none. From what I know o’ Old Salt you an’ him won’t be here before tomorrow mornin’! I’ll be here then.” “All right. I’ll slide instanter. So-long, Johnny.” CHAPTER IV THE SKINNED CATTLE HIS is a devil of a time to haul a man out o’ bed,”’ complained Mr. Saltoun, stuffing the tail of his nightshirt into his trousers. ‘“‘C’mon in the office,” he added grumpily. Mr. Saitoun, while Loudon talked, never took his eyes from the puncher’s face. In- credulity and anger warred in his expression. “What do you reckon?” the owner in- quired in a low tone, when Loudon fell silent. “Why, it’s plain enough,” said Loudon, impatiently. “The rustlers were night- drivin’ them cows when one of * em busted her leg. So they shot her, an’ the calf got away an’ come back after the rustlers had gone on. They must ’a’ been night-drivin’ *cause if it had been daytime they’d ’a’ rounded up the calf. Night-drivin’ shows they were in a hurry to put a heap o’ range between themselves an’ the Bar-S. They were headin’ straight for the Fallin’ Horse an’ the Three Sisters.” “T see all that. I’m still askin’ what do you reckon?” **Meanin’?”’ *Who-all’s doin’ it?”’ “T ain’t changed my opinion any. If the rustlers don’t ride for the 88, then they’re related mighty close.” “You can’t prove it,’’ denied Mr. Sal- toun. “IT know I can’t. But it stands to reason that two or three rustlers workin’ for them- selves wouldn’t drift cows west—right across the 88 range. They’d drift ’em north toward Farewell, or south toward the Fryin’ Pans. Findin’ that cow an’ calf on the 88 range is pretty near as strong as findin’ a man ridin’ off on yore hoss.”’ “Pretty near ain’t quite.” Adventure “T ain’t sayin’ anythin’ more.” “You’ve got a grudge against the 88, Tom. Just because a left-handed sport on a sorrel cuts down on ye it don’t follow that Blakely is the sport. Ye hadn’t ought to think so, Tom. Why, Blakely stayed here the night before ye started for Pack-saddle. He didn’t leave till eight o’clock in the mornin’, an’ then he headed for the 88. It ain’t likely he’d slope over to the creek an’ shoot you up. Why, that’s plum foolish, Tom. Blakely’s white, an’ he’s a friend 0’ mine.” Mr. Saltoun gazed distressedly at Lou- don. The puncher stared straight before him, his expression wooden. He had said all that he intended to say. “Well, Tom,” continued the owner, “I don’t enjoy losin’ cows any more than the next feller. We’ve got to stop this rustlin’ somehow. In the mornin’ [’ll ride over with ye an’ have a look at that cow. Tell Chuck Morgan I want him to come along. Now you get some sleep, an’ forget about the 88. They ain’t in on this deal, take my word for it.” It was a silent trio that departed in the yellow light of the new day. Chuck Morgan endeavored to draw Loudon into conversa- tion but gave it up after the first attempt. The heavy silence remained unbroken till they reached the mouth of the wide draw be- yond Little Bear Mountain. “‘There’s a hoss,”’ said Loudon suddenly. A quarter of a mile away grazed a saddled pony. Loudon galloped forward. The animal made no attempt to escape. It stood quietly while Loudon rode up and gathered in the reins dragging be- tween its feet. The full cantinas were in place. The quirt hung on the horn. The rope had not been unstrapped. The slicker was tied behind the cantle. Under the right fender the Winchester was in its scabbard. All on the saddle was as it should be. “Who’s hoss?” inquired Mr. Saltoun, who had followed more slowly. “Ramsay’s,” replied the laconic Loudon, and started up the draw at a lope, leading the riderless pony. Loudon’s eyes searched the ground ahead and on both sides. He instinctively felt that some ill had befallen Johnny Ramsay. His intuition was not at fault. When the three had ridden nearly to the head of the draw, where the trees grew thickly, Loudon saw, at the base of a lean- comircbooks co