Adventure Magazine Cover, October 10, 1921 — page 169: what you’re looking at

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

Solomon the big sorrel stallion till Worthington was all but upon them. “Man O’ man! self!” cried Stub. | “Back, boys—he’s not as soft spoken as he’s goin’ to be. Watch his teeth an’ feet. Steady, Solomon, Old Boy—nothin’ to get-all riled up over. All friends o’ mine—an’ yours too, when you get to know ’?em.”’ “Wall, of all the fools,” from Windy Seemans, “here we been a-mournin’ yuh f’r dead, an’ yuh show up astride that ’ere big sorrel devil that horse hunters an’ horse thieves from here tuh Brownsville, an’ the Lord himself don’t know how far down into Mexico, been a-chasin’ for nigh onto two years now!” “Lord a-mighty, what a hoss,”’ Bill Ford’s only words. Half an hour, with Solomon cared for and occupying the lower paddock, the curious men lounged in the cook-shack doorway while the hungry Worthington cut a de- structive path through the array of food which Greaser Charlie heaped before him. To the man who for weeks had eaten noth- ing but salt meat and hardtack, the food be- fore him was a banquet. He found time for only an occasional short reply to the volley of inquiries, until half of a juicy blue-berry pie had been dis- posed of. Then he wiped his lips, drew a deep sigh of satisfaction, and tilted cemfort- ably in his chair. “All ready, boys. Fire away,” he in- vited, and for an hour or more the lean brown men sat about the cleared table while Worthington recounted the pursuit of the stallion, the capture, and the days spent in breaking him to the bit, the saddle, and a rider. Then the men rose, Stub took down the lantern that hung by the range, and led the way to the bunk-house. A desert stallion, perhaps the most noted outlaw on the range, had been captured— but the grim calls of the following day were not to be denied. As riders who spent long hours each day in the saddle, covering count- less dusty miles, these men knew the value of sleep. Worth tumbled into his welcome bunk, tossed restlessly for a time, the soft resiliance of springs a contrast to the bed of packed sand he knew so well, then dropped off to sleep till the clang of Greaser Charlie’s blows upon the great iron triangle that hung If it ain’t Solomon his- were Big 159 outside the cook-shack door, announced break fast and the duties of a new day. THE days that followed were filled full from morn till dusk. Windy and Big Bill rode the north range, . reporting numerous breaks in the fence which demanded attention. Chauncey De- vine, blond slim puncher from southern Cali- fornia, with José, the half-breed, roped, lunged, and rode the fiery little mustangs down in the south corral that would in time make valuable cow ponies for the Horse Shoe. Astride an unbroken bronco, the grin- ning Chauncey asked for nothing more. He sat his saddle with the ease of one born never to walk, gave the mustang his head, fanned the flattened ears with his Stetson while he roweled the foam-flecked flanks with each leaping twisting buck of the mad- dened pony. Nose between fore-feet, close to the sand, eyes bloodshot with the goading rage of defeat, back arched high, legs wide spread and rigid, the wicked bronco bucked straight away, sunfished, leaped stiff-legged, reared, fell back, rolled—but all to no avail. Always there was the alert rider astride, or clear of the lashing hooves and ready to vault to the saddle before the struggling pony could regain his feet. Stub spent his time, when not busied at chores about the ranch house and corrals, with Billy Day. The little man spent hours out upon the range with the little bay, now riding at an easy canter; then, lying upon the fleet horse’s neck, he coaxed from the willing Billy greater and still greater bursts of speed. As Stub whispered bits of encouragement | and the bay, responded with a drum of pounding hooves, it seemed that horse and rider fairly flew. But ever present in the mind of the little ex-jockey was the vision of a great black fighting stallion that struck to kill, and ran like the wind—the Don’s El Diablo—and while Stub was ever an op- timist, he was not the man to underrate a rival. Stub was worried—signs of it broke forth at meal times—he was not his usual doughty self in the evening when the boys, their day’s work done, smoked and talked, and talked and smoked, out under the cottonwoods. Worth and Solomon accompanied old J. B. on his tours of inspection, seeking lost. COniCclbooo Cc SS C@