Adventure Magazine Cover — page 107: what you’re looking at

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

Tippecanoe and Cougars Two by iA ‘ ° W:-C Tu Author of ‘Sparing the Family Tree,” ‘‘Figures of Speech,” etc. N THIS here vale of tears where a person ain’t got but one way out and has to die to find that as exit, I’ve met a lot of fools. Yea verily, they have come from the ends of the earth to do injury to my nervous system, but while I may never look the same, I have managed to keep my carcass out of the loco-lodge in spite of their hav- ing done unto me things which I could never have doné unto them. Some of them have been of the common or hillside variety, which you may bust with a six-gun and not figure that you’ve ruined any of God's beautiful works; while others has been of educated stock, pe- culiar to look upon and listen to. But to all ye fools, whether ye be shepherd or scientist, I say unto thee: there is a place at my table—come and get it! But, ail ye of absent mind—vamoose! A fool is merely one who is destitute of reason; but an absent-minded man is an- ointed of the devil, and his days are few and far between if he gets in range of my wickiup. Tell yuh why I’m against every- body who forgets to remember. “Tippecanoe” Seeley was one of the reasons. When it came to forgetting he was seven thousand degrees in the shade. He never thought of anything with more than one syllable, and his back-trail was littered with things he’d forgotten to do. Everything he done was with a reverse English. If he wanted his dog to follow him he’d throw rocks at it instead of whis- tling. He’d cook mush for his supper, think- 7 97 ing it was breakfast, and then sit up all night kicking about the dark days we’re having in this Western country. He packed a .45 Colt and filled his belt with .45-70 rifle cartridges. He was a peculiar-looking hombre. FEat- ing his own cooking had just about finished up what Nature was ashamed to do to him. Mostly always he’d have his pants on back- wards or his shoes on the wrong feet. One nice thing about him was the fact that he never repeated what was told to him—he never remembercd it. Me and ‘Magpie’ Simpkins, my pard- ner, are doing a little work on our alleged gold-mine on Thunder Creek about five miles from Piperock. We cut out a road to our cabin and she’s some road, I’d tell aman. Beyond our cabin is the Thunder Creek trail, which hugs the side of an awful steep mountain for several miles. Our cabin was built on the only place where we could find room to hook it on to the side of the hill, and we’ve got about fifteen feet of ground for a front yard, and the rear of the cabin sets back into the hill. Beyond our front yard the landscap just falls for a mile. We’ve sure got a restricted building-site, a wonderful view and nothing to see. One morning I’m sitting in the cabin cooking a pot of beans, when all to once I hears a awful noise coming up the road. I pokes out my head and sees an automobile heaving and twisting towards the cabin. That road is barely out of the pack-trail age, which means she’s still within the CO lNOOKS C©