Adventure Magazine Cover, December 18, 1919 — page 42: what you’re looking at

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

a“ 28 West, he might have had to go to both saloons for them. Packard began investigations at the Old Trusty saloon, whose doors stood invitingly open to the faint afternoon breeze. In the long room half a dozen idle men looked up at him with mild interest, with- drawing their eyes briefly from solitaire or newspaper or cribbage game or whatever had been holding their careless attention as he entered. A glance at them showed him no familiar face. He turned to the bar. Behind it. a man was polishing glasses with quick, skilful hands. Steve knew him at once for Whitey Wimble. He was a pronounced albino, unhealthy looking, with over-large, thin ears, small pale eyes and teeth that looked like chalk. Steve nodded to him and spun a dollar on the bar. ‘Have something,” he suggested. Wimble returned his nod, left off his polishing to shove forward a couple of the glistening glasses and produced a bottle from behind him. “Regards,” he said apathetically, taking his whisky with the enthusiasm and ex- pression of a man stedfastly obeying his doctor’s orders. ‘Stranger in Red Creek?” “T haven’t been here,’’ Steve answered, “for several years. I never saw the town any quieter. Used to be a rather. gay little place, didn’t it?” “Tt’s early yet,” said Whitey, going back to interrupted task. ‘“Bein’ Saturday, the boys from the ranches will be showin’ up before long. Then it ain’t always so quiet.” Packard made his cigaret, lighted it and then said casually—‘How are you fixed for dollar bills in your strong-box?” “Nary,” returned Whitey Wimble with- out troubling himself to look into his till. ““We don’t see over much rag money in Red Creek.” “Guess that’s so,” admitted Steve. ‘“‘They do come in handy though sometimes; when you want to send a dollar in a letter or something of that kind.” “That’s a fac’, too; never thought of that.” Which, since he never ‘wrote or received letters, was no doubt true. ‘Men around here don’t Have much use for paper money, do they?” continued Packard carelessly, his interest ,seeming to center in his cigaret smoke. ‘“I’d bet a Adventure man the drinks nobody else has asked you for a dollar bill for the last six months.” “You'd _ lose,” said Whitey. “I had three of ’em in the drawer for a coon’s age; feller asked me for ’em jus’ the other night.” Ves?” He masked his eagerness as he thrust a quarter forward. “The drink’s on me then. Let me have a cigar.” Whitey also took a cigar, indicating friendliwise the better box. “Who was it asked you for the paper money?” Steve went on. “He might have one he doesn’t need.” “Tt was Stumpy Collins. black across the street.” “T’ll look him up; yesterday he had them, you say?” Wimble shook his head, gave the matter his thought a moment and said: “Tt was las’ Saturday night; I remember ’cause there was a right smart crowd in an’ I was busy an’ Stumpy kep’ pesterin’ me until I ’*tended to him. He won’t have nothin’ lef’ by this, though; it ain’t Stumpy’s s way to save his money long. Firs’ tinie I ever knowed him to have three dollars all at once.’ From the Old Trusty, Steve went across the street, leaving his horse in front of The boot- -Wimble’s door, where there was a big pop- lar and a grateful shade. Crossing the second of the two bridges he turned his eyes toward the railroad station; the red touring- car stood forth brilliantly in the sunshine, a freight train was just pulling 1 in, Terry was not to be seen. ‘‘She’ll eat before she starts hack home,” he thought, hastening his stride on to Hodges’ place, the Ace of Diamonds. “T’ll see her at the lunch-counter.”’ Tucked in beside the Ace of Diamonds was a bootblack stand, a crazy, home-made affair with dusty seat. ‘The wielder of the brush and polish was nowheré in evidence. Steve passed and turned in at the saloon -door, wishing to come to Hodges, Blen- ham’s pal. For it required little imagina- tion to suspect that it had~been Hodges at Blenham’s behest, or Blenham himself, who had sent Stumpy across the street to the Old Trusty. Here, as in Wimble’s place, a few men loitered idly; here, as there, the proprieter stood behind his own bar. Hodges, a short, squat man with a prize-fighter’s throat, chest and shoulders and a wide, thin- GEomichbooks lh eee : waxy a? « = at on! eee | ai — ee we ee a ee © com +