Adventure Magazine Cover — page 171: what you’re looking at

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

Law Rustlers “{ don’t reckon they was. Paw and maw split up when I was knee-high to a tall Injun, and paw took me with him. Paw thought he was a two-gun man and I becomes a orphing at a tender age.” “You helpin’ out folks thataway is goin’ to stop me and you from ever seeing Alaska, Hashknife.”’ He turns in his saddle and smiles at me. Hashknifé ain’t no beautiful critter. He’s one of them hard-eyed, thin hosed and thin- lipped hombres. His cheek-bones are kinda high and his ears kinda bat out and his hair -isroan. He'll fight at the drop of the hat; fight with a foolish grin on his face, and he ain’t afraid. That’s why I like Hashknife. I’m kinda scary, myself, and I need moral sup- port as I trail through life. When Hash- knife smiles, every dog within half a mile begins to wag its tail. Hashknife calls me and him, “cowpunchers of disaster.”’ He turns and smiles at me. “Sleepy, Esee by the almanac that she’s goin’ to be awful cold in Alaska this Winter. Mebbe we better pick out one of their warm Winters.” “T think,” says I, kinda mean-like, “I think you’re going into Willer Crick to see somebody—and she ain’t no preacher.” ‘““No-o-0, Sleepy. ’Course Id like to see her and apologize for not marryin’ her that -time. Girl kinda expects a apology in a case like that. Mebbe her uncle told her why, but he’d sure paint us black so that she’d be glad I left her at the altar.” THEM Willer Crick hills sure do Ee} look natural. We rides past the old — Godfrey ranch, which me and Hash- knife owned forafew days. The old ranch- house is still squeegeed from the force of the dynamite, when the “‘heirs apparently,” as Sol Vane called ’em, dug into the alleged grave of poor old Godfrey. It looks lke nobody had ever lived in it since we left. We rides on past the Sillman ranch, where Hashknife came danged near being a bride- groom and a cash-widower. We don’t see anybody around there, but Willer Crick is a great place for folks to not be in evidence. About a mile farther on we comes to the town. It sure is some town. There’s a saloon, a store and a blacksmith shop on one side of the street and on the other side is an old shed, a long tie-rack and a pile of old «© closer to us. 165 lumber. The saloon is two-stories high, and the upper half has a sign which pro- ~ claims it to be the Town Hall. There’s several saddle-horses tied to the rack. The town hall has an outside stair- way and around the bottom of this is grouped four men. When we get off our broncs one of the men strolls over to us. It’s Al Bassett. Al was one of those who was very active in seeking our demise when we were in Willer Crick before, but me and Hashknife never figured him much of anything but a talker. He squints at us. “Howdy, Bassett,” grins Hashknife. ‘‘Re- member us?” “Well,” says Bassett, drawing a deep breath, “well, ye-e-s, I do.” He stares at us like he was kinda wonder- ing why we came back there again. His mouth kinda gaps as he stares. “Better look out or you’ll get your tonsils sunburned,”’ says Hashknife. Them other three fellers moves over We never seen them before. Bassett turns and starts to speak to ’em, but just then we hears loud voices, and out of the the door of the store backs a man. In one hand he’s got a six-gun and in the other isa package. He turns his head away from the open door and just then comes the thump of a pistol-shot. The feller kinda jerks around, drops his gun and packag@and falls against the side of the building, where he slides to the sidewalk.. He ain’t no more than went flat when out of the store come a man, bareheaded and in his shirt sleeves, with a gun in his hahd. He stoops over, picks up the package and then looks down at the man. Bassett steps in past us and says: “What was the matter, Cale?” ‘““Well—” the man licks his lips and then wipes the back of his hand across his mouth—‘‘well, I tol’ him I wasn’t ‘lowed to sell him nothin’. He gits kinda uppity and drags his gun. ‘Then he he’ps himself to a bottle of medicine, flings the money on the counter and backs out. Yuh notice he didn’t git away with it, don’t yuh?” Bassett nods and turns the man over. He’s been drilled dead-center. The store- keeper is staring at me and Hashknife. “Mind tellin’ why yuh killed him?” asks Hashknife soft-like. ‘Where I came from, buyin’ medicine is a necessity—not a killin’ matter.” COPMICOOOKS (0)