Adventure Magazine Cover, December 18, 1919 — page 181: what you’re looking at

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

Number Ten Boots wire fence a hundred yards from the ranch-house. Rancher Tom passed the reins to Switser. “The gate’s too heavy for you,” he said. “It drags. You can drive through and then stop for me. Hold ’em tight, son. They’re all fire and brimstone. That’s « their names, ‘Fire’ and ‘Brim- stone,’ ”’- Connie’s fingers closed mechanically on the long strips of leather. Alden stepped out of the vehicle, ran to the gate and swung it open. One of the posts was a lightning-riven and much decayed pine tree; the other was a sap- ling oak. “Get up, you pair’ o Dobbins!” cried Switser, shaking the reins. The sorrels didn’t move. Before Alden could call out a warning, Switser foolishly snatched the whip from its socket and. struck the horses hard. Fire and Brimstone leaped madly. There was a splintering crash of col- lision mingled with a cry from the throat of Rancher Tom, and Connie was thrown violently, head foremost, over the dashboard. There ‘came another splintering crash and a great weight bore Switser hard down on his face. He heard sounds of vicious and rapid blows, then an ear-splitting roar, and after that the bright afternoon sun seemed to Con- nie to go out like a candle smothered in a gale. . ° \HE feuse at the Rancho Alden was not an elaborate thing but it was big and comfortable, having been built with an eye to the time when it would in all probability be occupied by more than a mere man and his black cook. It was a low structure after an old Spanish style, witha patio or court in the center and a veranda running entirely around the out- side. ‘Lines of tall and beautful cabbage- palms shaded the veranda, and two of these same cool, green trees grew in, the ‘patio. Night had fallen when Connie Switser came to himself again. He was lying abed in the house at the Rancho Alden, and Rancher Tom and a wizened little doctor from Dale were standing beside him. A burning oil-lamp on the dresser made a dim and yellow light in the room. The first word the injured man heard 167 \ the ee say was not altogether pleas- ing to him. “Dissipation,” that was it. “Tt ain’t anything to you!” said Swit- ser weakly but with much bad spirit. He looked toward Alden and, remember- ing something. of the wreck of the buck- board, went on sourly: ‘Didn't quite get me killed, did you? Better luck next time! You might try shootin’ or poisonin’. Say, did you save my coffin-nails ?” Rancher Tomi was silent for a full minute. When he he said simply— “I saved your coffin-nails.” “T want one and I want it right now.” Alden turned questioning eyes toward the doctor. The doctor shrugged. “Might as well—but give him only one for tonight.” The owner of the Rancho Alden faced about and beckoned, and a huge, yeung- ish man in boots and khaki, whose sun- burn amounted. almost to the hue of weathered copper, came from somewhere in the shadows. “Open the package on the table in the livin’-room, Bud,” he ordered, his voice heavy with mingled pity, contempt and exasperation, ‘‘and bring this rat a cigaret.”’ The big cowman hastened away and returned shortly. He ‘delivered the cigaret, scratched a match on the floor spoke, and held the tiny flame a convenient dis- tance from Switser’s.mouth. Connie put the cigaret between his lips but he did not light it just then.. He seemed to have developed a curious interest in the cowman’s burly countenance, Then Switser turned half over in .bed and looked. at the cowman’s laced boots. They were big ones and not a number smaller than ten. The match went out. big boots poised another. “Say when,” he growled. “When,” clipped little Switser. The match became a flame and Connie lighted his coffin-nail. The doctor and Rancher Tom went into the living-room. Rancher Tom car- ried himself stiffly and limped badly. The cowman sat down in a straight- backed chair and eyed the crook nar- rowly as he inhaled and exhaled cloud The man in the EOPNICLOO© SS (E@