Adventure Magazine Cover, February 3, 1921 — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

12 “Hasn’t worried me any,” the trapper as- sured him. , “Been in California long?” ‘Since early forty-nine.” “T was there some considerable. remember ye, nor yer name.”’ “You wouldn’t ‘less you was in Frisco and leaned toward green-topped tables.” “T see. What’s th’ matter with th’ In- jun? Never see a foolish one afore.” “Bad in the head. Pit River Indian. Fool enough to take his family down to the Sacramento. Double fool to find some gold. His folks, five of them, was rubbed out. He got shot in the head and went crazy. Ever since then he’s Heer cutting notches on his stick.” ‘Poor devil!”’ “Call him just plain devil. Treacherous and bloodthirsty trash. Ought to be all wiped out. They fix a stone arrowhead to a ten-inch stick with a bit of sinew. Shoot it into a man and blood softens the sinew and leaves the head in the wound. Bad business getting it out. But it really isn’t worth trying as they first poison their arrow- heads with rattlesnake venom. Pal of mine shot with one. Wasn’t a bit pretty in dying.” “This feller’s the only one left of his family,” mused the trapper. “Only one left,” mechanically answered the gambler, beginning to deal the cards. “Why’d ye bother to take him along with e?”’ ‘“He’s my luck. Stood behind me when we played for the gold. I had the devil’s own luck i “Ye ought to,”’ broke in the trapper. —and I cleaned up. Got the notion he was lucky to have around. Went down the valley. Usually had a winning: streak when Pete—my name for him—stood back of me. Every gambler is more or less foolish about his luck, you know.” “So I’ve heard tell. Never entered yer noodle, did it, that it might bring bad luck to wipe out a parcel of Injuns jest to git a few ounces o’ dust?” Don’t OAKES looked up in surprize, his aie face growing hard. “ me, but if you ain’t one of them missionary sharps. Them Pit River In- dians any relation of yours? Better men than you have been careful not to dip their paws into my dish.” “Had my paws in quite a few dishes and Adventure never had my claws clipped yet. So ye’re Old Oakes, gambler. Frisco man. Queer I never heard of ye. Queer ye should quit yer reg’lar stampin’-grounds an go’ ram- blin’ up in that forsaken country. ’Course, ye couldn’t have known when ye started that ye’d have a fine chance to murder five poor devils.” “Tt would be queerer if you meddled much more in my affairs and lived to tell about it,’ whispered Oakes. California Joe leaned on his rifle and stared at the self-confessed murderer closely.. Then he shifted his attention to the Indian. The latter had not suspended his work, and the stick was whittled to bits. As if possessing eyes in the back of his head, Oakes tossed a cottonwood branch over his shoulder. ‘The Indian seized it and began cutting more notches, the knife trav- eling with incredible swiftness in making ten cuts, or five notches. Then the blade flashed down the wood and a new record was commenced. “Ever strike ye that that chap is tryin’ to count coup, a notch for every death his crazy brain is plannin’?”’ ‘He can’t count above five,” mumbled the gambler, now frowning over a combi- nation of face-cards. “Curse it! You show up in my pile every time. I’m in dia- monds, and here’s you, the king of spades. ‘This tent ain’t big enough for the two of us. This village ain’t big enough for both of us, either.” “T ain’t here for a smoke- talk. Jest to size ye up. When we’re both, clear 0’ this place I’m going to run across yer luck some day an’ spile it. I know all about yer dirty tricks, an’ how ye sold four white men an’ their goods to save yer own mis’rable hide.”’ With a snarl the gambler thrust his hand inside his woolen shirt, but the long barrel of a Colt revolver sent the hand back to the cards. ‘‘An’ it won’t happen that way, neither,” resumed the trapper. “Ever try to draw on me ag’in an’ [’}] pot ye if my head’s dragged th’ next second. “My business with ye jest now is to tell ye to quit makin’ me out bad medicine to th’ Kiowas, or I'll start some medicine that'll hang yer ha’r up on their scalp-pole. 9 Plenty of squaws in this camp that’s crazy . to add another stripe to their leggin’s. Th’ COMMICLOOKS (C@