Adventure Magazine Cover, October 10, 1921 — page 51: what you’re looking at

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

The Silent Captain Steve sank very low and insisted on a wedding, so they held the ceremony in Steve’s bedroom with the boss and the boys looking on. The wedding celebration con- sisted of a crowd of cow-punchers sitting on the porch and swearing. - But Steve grew better. Wilcox spoke freely with him on many matters. “I’m trying to find a way out,” grunted the boss, sitting beside Steve’s bedside and chewing a dry cigar. “It is not a matter of winning. I will win. Men like Curry fight a losing battle. They are trying to uphold savagery in a state becoming civilized. But how am I going to drive them out without sustaining losses myself?” “Tt can’t be done.” “Tt must be done. It seems wrong that decent men should lose their lives against rogues.” “Huh! gun throws jest as far as a Christian’s The boss changed the subject. But he noticed that the Curry outfit and its allies were not so cocky as before. There were fewer attacks and the range seemed less overawed by them. There were reasons. Wilcox kept slamming them. He was growing in power. Men were flocking to enlist in his fight. Even the town, once thoroughly under the thumb .of the range-riders, began to assert itself and several killings were necessary to make it knuckle under again. Suddenly Curry decided to try for peace. It came after Wilcox had swooped down on a little private Curry corral and man- handled a couple of men badly. Wilcox was now the attacker, going far afield. It portended ill for Curry. His leadership was in danger. - Curry arrived at the fag-end of a warm afternoon. He came at the head of a jingling, clinking cavalcade of six men pic- turesque with black or white “chaps,” red scarfs, six-shooters, cartridge-belts, spurs, stamped leather saddles, silvered bridles, braided martingales, trailing tapaderos and all the equipment of range plutocrats. It was a splendid troop and excited comment— not entirely tactful—from the Wilcox men who gathered on the front porch to receive them. : “Oh, mama, look at the show!” bawled Tupper, in a raucous stage whisper. ‘You couldn’t match them clothes an’ hosses for three thousand dollars, gents! Or, take the I’ve noticed that a rogue’s six- |?? Al whole outfit, for three thousand dollars an’ two bits!” But the riders held their tempers and lined up while Curry dismounted and asked for Wilcox. There was parley and cere- mony on the porch. Finally Tupper en- tered the big room, bowed, and ushered the visitor inside. ‘Your visits seem to be a habit,’® com- plained the boss to his lean-jawed visitor. “Yeh. Well, it may be the last.” “T hope so.” “Veh. SodolI. I came to see if mebbe we couldn’t fix up some sort 0’ peace.”’ “All right.” ~- “Then it’s settled.” “Certainly. You will surrender yourself to the sheriff. Return your stolen cattle. Send all your friends out of the country.” “What——?”’ ‘Just that.” (ge <4 “e . Za) | CURRY’S eyes flashed yellowish | like a baffled tiger’s. He stood over the table, armed and dangerous, wondering whether to kill this immovable blockhead or make him suffer some other way. The boss merely smoked. The man standing over him was nervous, cruel, un- tamable, crazy to find some way to overawe this quiet person in the chair, who looked somewhat bored. It was a trying situation. “Do you want this killin’ to keep up?” snarled Curry. “No. I want it stopped.” “How? Your way?” ‘“There is no compromise.” ““Mebbe,” came Curry’s trembling voice, “‘mebbe if I git rid of you now there won’t be no more trouble!” The boss’s calm eyes met Curry’s squarely. . “Possibly. You can shoot me very easily. After that you will live about one second.” The gunman knew it was true. There were shadows outside every window and behind the open rear door of the room. The Wilcox boys were taking no chances. Curry began pacing up and down like a caged wolf. : ‘You're a butcher!” he snarled, turning suddenly. ‘All you think of is what you want! You don’t care who’s hurt!” Curry stopped and pointed a finger. ‘‘Wilcox it’s on your head! Every drop o’ blood on. the range from now on is your fault—and COnmiclbooks C C@