Adventure Magazine Cover, October 10, 1921 — page 170: what you’re looking at

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

‘X 160 cattle among the Chiricahou draws; repair- ing the dam at Willow Spring, that the com- ing dry season should not find the cattle on the south range without water; and arrang- ing for cattle shipments from Sleepy Junc- tion. Each day brought the man and the great desert stallion into closer accord. Ever mindful of the big sorrel’s comfort, Worth’s thought was of the horse, before all else. Each evening he swung the heavy stock saddle to the ground and gently pat- ted the stallion’s withers and back till damp- ness and lameness had left it. And Solo- mon learned to quest through the man’s clothing, seeking with twitching eager lips, deep into pockets where hidden sugar lumps were ever to be found. There remained but another week before the rodeo when Chip Dawson rode into camp in the gathering dusk, thick coated with the choking yellow dust that grew worse and worse as the dry season progressed. He brought tidings from the Bar B, over on San Simon Creek, whence the Old Man had dis- patched him to arrange with Belding, the Bar B’s owner, a joint shipment of beeves. He put up the tired travel-stained pony and joined the little group about the door. ‘‘News from the Don, boys! Chet Lane, over to the Bar B, tells me the Don’s back- ing his Black with all he’s got—an’ his herd o’ vacqueros are with him toaman. Beld- ing reckons there’ll be twenty thousand pe- sos on E] Diablo, an’ the boys over at the Bar B are sure rarin’ to know how Billy Day’s a-showin’.”’ “Twenty thousand, eh?” came slowly from old J. B. “Lot o’ money, my boys— to shoot up on a horse race. But give that whelp an inch an’ he’ll take a mile—if we don’t fade the four-flusher we’ll get little peace on the Border. Gregorio’s been makin’ his money too fast—faster than hon- est men make it in these parts,” he added darkly. “Well, we ain’t goin’ to have to raise the whole ante right here, I reckon, so why get hermantile? There’s Belding an’ the Bar B boys; an’ MacQueen’s Circle K crowd will - want in on it, sure.” “Not so sure, Windy. They haven’t for- gotten the lacing the Black handed Billy Day last year. No, they don’t forget so easy,’ answered old J. B. as he thrust back his worn Stetson from white locks that con- trasted with the mahogany burn of his weather-beaten face, ‘‘an’ I don’t know hut Adventure what it’s better so. Belding and Mac- Queen are friends o’ mine, their men are friends o’ yours, an’ we’ve got mighty little grounds for believin’ the little bay can show the Black a clean pair o’ heels. “No, boys. Admittin’ there’s snothin’ I’d like better’n hangin’ up the Don’s hide, still it ain’t our place to let these friends o’ ourn in on a likely trimmin’.’’ The old man rose and left the little group, while the remaining men talked in subdued tones foratime. ‘Then they, too, dispersed —some toward the bunk-house, others toward the spring or the cook-shack. Stub found Worthington at his elbow as he peered through the corral bars. “STUB, yore worried. What’s the big idea? Billy Day fallin’ down?” “Naw!”’ retorted the little ex- jockey, instantlyhostile. ‘‘Gamest little hoss in the country—fight to the last ditch, an’ die a-runnin’.”’ ‘“‘Won’t argue with you there, Stub, Old Man—Billy Day’s game clear through—but he’s a long ways from bein’ the fastest horse in these parts.”’ ‘‘What the —— do yuh mean by that?” The little man, white under the tan, faced the tall Worthington with hands clenched at his sides. He loved the little bay and be- lieved in him, heart and soul. This seem- ing slur upon the horse’s prowess, so dear to the heart of the little ex-jockey, had cut to the quick. “Just what I say,” coolly answered the other. “ , stub, I like the little bay. He’s some little horse—but take Solomon there. He’d just up and leave ’im. Billy’s not big enough—an’ he’s shy on the legs to make a real runner.” Stub controlled himself with an effort. His eyes flashed with anger, but he asked casually enough: “How much chance do you reckon yore sorrel’d have with you in the saddle—I shore wouldn’t ride him, if I could—against the Black with the Don’s boy Pasqual tippin’ the beam at a hundred an’ twelve a-ridin’ im? A of a lot, I'd say!” Stub laughed in harsh derision. Worthington glanced down at his booted and spurred feet and murmured—‘“‘A hundred and seventy-odd.”’ Then he looked up, a chal- lenge in his eyes. “Pretty good chances, Stub. I reckon ‘better than Billy Day’s got as it is.” The COmGcdoo Cc S C@