Adventure Magazine Cover, October 10, 1921 — page 178: what you’re looking at

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

168 here we are, best o’ friends, neither o’ us with even the shadow of a grudge. Great world, Old Man. Wonderful how we crit- ters can accomodate ourselves to well nigh anythin’ that comes along, men an’ horses. ‘“‘Now, you for instance, narry a thought of the old life. Tell the truth, yuh don’t miss the ladies an’ the desert so much, now do yuh, Solomon, Old Hoss? O’ course not, an’ why the devil should yuh? Both sure got their sandy sides, the desert an’ the women. Why, shucks! I reckon we know when we're best off, eh? I’d tell a man we do. “Got the edge on yuh there, Solomon— always havin’ been a single, simple critter, maybe I don’t know what I’m missin’; but you'll have to put up with the handicap, an’ make the best of it.”’ The sugar supply exhausted, the big sorrel lost interest, turned to a snorting in- vestigation of the thick dust floor of the paddock, and finding a likely spot, rolled over and over, oblivious to all beyond the paddock bars. The man slipped down from his perch and made his way toward the cook-shack. It was getting on toward chow time, and a man must eat. He lighted the lantern, for it was dark indoors, and set about preparing an evening meal that should put to shame any thought of dainties bountifully spread down in Sleepy Junction. As he worked he whis- tled, cheerily and clear, and once he heard an answer from the paddock. Then there came an impatient whinney and stamping of hooves from near at hand and Worth stepped to the door. It was almost dark, and the saddle and _ black- smith shop loomed near. “Must o’ forgotten the cream pinto, I reckon. Have to turn ’im loose with the rest of ’em in the big corral after I clean up this mess.”” And the man sat down to enjoy his evening meal. The quiet of deep dusk had settled. It was the hour for dreams and memories, if one had them. ‘Sorta wish I’d stepped out among ’em tonight—feel restless, somehow,” and the man set about tidying up and leaving things as he had found them. Worthington had all but finished his work when the scream of a horse sounded from the direction of the corrals, followed by the clatter of falling bars, quick, high oaths, and the thunder of hooves that swept by, Adventure and into the night. The man leaped through the door and raced for the sorrel’s paddock. The bars were down. The desert stallion was gone! Worthington turned, sick at heart, and ran toward the corrals beyond, his mind whirling, a blind rage consuming him. Here, too, he found the bars down and the corrals empty. The raiders had been thorough in their work—not a saddle-horse was left upon the ranch, and the boys were eighteen miles away, with little prospect of return before morning. The man made his way in the direction of the cook-shack. He was breath- ing rapidly, through clenched teeth. In vain he sought to collect his scattered faculties and think clearly,.coolly. AS HE passed by the saddle shop <2 a dim form reached out in the dark- ness. The man whirled to strike. A friendly nicker, demanding attention and companionship was anything but hostile. It was the cream pinto, overlooked by the night-riders, completely forgotten by the man. He stroked the velvet nose of the pony a moment, then hurriedly sad- dled. Running to the cook-shack, he re- turned in a few moments with such food as his saddle-bags would hold. Then he strode to the bunk-house, slipped his cart- ridge belt and Colt’s from the peg over his bunk, strapped it about him, kicked off his shoes, donned his boots, seized his blanket and hastened back to the waiting pinto. A few moments later there was a swish of scattering sand and gravel, a quick _ pounding of hooves, and the cream pinto, - with Worthington astride him, was off into the south. © The moon had not yet risen but the man held confidently to his course. Though he could see nothing in the darkness, he reasoned that the thieves would make straight for the Border, scarce fifty miles away, and that they would not attempt to hide their tracks until well on the other side. As he rode he kept a careful lookout, ahead, the Don’s men—he felt instinctively that it was the Don—would not look for pursuit so soon, but he did not intend to stumble upon a lagging vacquero, dropped behind to reconnoiter. The little cream pinto pushed forward eagerly, ears pricked into the black night, but the man in the saddle held a steady COmiclbooks Cc C@