Adventure, February 1917 — page 116: what you’re looking at

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

_ forget that you ever knew - this now. Cripes! headed, bunch uh coyote bait! 114 a perfectly good husband in the land of the living doesn’t feaze me either. Your threat to come to Piperock to see me is amusing. I’ve made a hit with a big cowboy up” _ here, who would take you apart like a picture puzzle if I said the word. Take my advice, Jackie, and Rosalind Sig looks at th’ letter for uh while and then stares at th’ road. . He gits up suddenly and looks at th’ hoss tracks in the road and then hops for his bronc. 7 “Gosh!” says he. ‘*Th’ stage - is past!” -And he spurs up th’ hill and throws th’ quirt into that bronc and fogs th’ hills. He’s plumb miscalculated th’ time, and by - racin’ fer three miles across th’ hills he’s got uh chance to cut in ahead of th’ stage. “Lord A’mighty!” he whoops, when he hits th’ road agin and sees uh cloud wh dust still hangin’ around th’ first turn of th’ road. ‘“Mebby I’ll catch ’em yet. I shore got to do somethin’ to crab this hold-up play! Ican’t let Ren take uh chance like Mebby Art is lookin’ fer uh play of this kind and he’ll fill Ren fulluh buck-shot. Git a-goin’ yuh buzzard- If I can git close enough to attract Art’s attention before he drives out of th’ ford, Ren will sabe that somethin’ has gone wrong and keep out-a sight.” — The four hosses of th’ stage had jist finished drinkin’ as Sig races in sight, and as they starts out th’ other side Sig waves his rifle and starts shootin’. That bronc wasn’t noways gun broke, so it starts sun-fishin’ at th’ first shot and bores straight fer th’ stage. Sig sees Art Miller stand up in his seat and throw th’ whip to his leaders with one hand and fire both barrels of his riot gun with th’ other. Sig ducks jist in time to save his life. Art shoots uh lil high and when Sig ducks all he gits is th’ rakins of about six shot across his shoulder. One shot punctures th’ brone’s ear and it shore moves up and down a-plenty. Th’ stage is rockin’ and swayin’ up th’ toad as fast as four scared and whipped cayuses can yank it and Art Miller is bracin’ hisself and throwin’ leather promiscuous. Sig lost his rifle and is now ridin’ with both hands. Art drops his whip, wraps his lines around his arm and, in tryin’ to put more shells in his gun, swings his team off th’ road. They go good for about ten jumps and then they're into th’ timber. Adventure ” t Natcherally th’ leaders goes on opposite sides of uh tree, with th’ result that th’ wheelers skid to one side and th’ stage turns uh handspring. I-reckon that Sig’s bronc thinks it’s uh real party fer its benefit, ’cause it pitches right into th’ tangle and Sig lights sittin’ down through th’ glass door of th’ stage, which is reposin’ serenely on its’ side when he arrives. Sig sits there fer uh few minutes collectin’ his thoughts, when he discovers that he’s sittin’ on somebody’s head. “Rosalind!” is th’ first thought that comes into his head, so he slides part way out and takes said head between his hands. “Rosalind!” he wails. “My Gawd!” He can’t see very plain until he climbs out and leans over th’ casing. ‘Speak to me, Rosalind!” he sobs. ‘‘Hu-honey, I wants yuh to—the devil!” A figger rises up from th’ coach, looks him in th’ eye and spits out three perfectly good teeth. — “T begs yore pardon,” says Sig, in uh dazed sort of uh way. “Yo’re welcome,” says th’ other party, puttin’ his finger into th’ place where his teeth used to be, and lookin’ foolish. “Uh—hu—huh!” says a voice behind them, and there stands Art Miller. Most of his clothes are missin’ and he’s nursin’ uh skinned elbow and leanin’ agin’ uh wheel fer support. “What happened, driver?” asks th’ party of th’ missin’ teeth. Art looks over th’ wreck and then back at th’ bald head stickin’ out of th’ stage. “If it was yore eyes instead of yore teeth I might take th’ trouble to explain,” he snaps. “Take uh look and form yore own conclusions.” _ “We—huh—seem to have wrecked.” “We—huh—have!”’ snapped - Art, ‘and then to Sig: “What do yuh mean by stam- pedin’ my outfit thataway, eh? Comin’ along a-shootin” like uh crazy half-breed!”’ “Art,” says Sig, ‘I shore begs yore pardon if I done wrong, but I’d almost swear that I hears somebody yell ‘Hands up!’ at you,- when you pulls out of th’ ford, and I comes to yore rescue. Dog-gone it all, that’s allus th’ way. When yuh tries to do uh feller uh favor he don’t appreciate it.” Sig looks sorry fer himself and rolls uh smoke. “VYore hearin’ is fine,” states Art, after thinkin’ fer uh minute. “‘Jist as we pulls (EOAAIICE S JOO (E@)