Adventure, January 20, 1922 — page 155: what you’re looking at

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

Powder lag Two fiddlers added to the general confu- sion by screeching out a hoe-down. Three bartenders dished out cheap whisky, while rough waiters hurried hither and yon, carry- ing orders to the games or to those unable to navigate from table to bar. Frenchy was looking toward the door as three men came in. The man in the lead was inches taller than any man in the room. His neck was so short that it appeared his head was set flush with his shoulders, his long arms swinging even below the bottom of his holstered gun. His face was like a piece of carved mahog- any, carved to a perpetual sneer, and his eyes were black as ink and without depth. A lock of greasy hair curved down over his forehead from under the back-flung brim of his sombrero. He wore a beaded vest, heavy with brass ornaments, and below it flashed the two heavy silver buckles of his ornamented belt. His chaps were heavily ornamented with silver studs and carved rosettes, and the spurs above his high heels were heavy with silver and gold. He stopped and swept the crowd with his eyes, his glance traveling from man to man. He only gave Frenchy a passing glance and then turned to the bar. The two men stepped in beside him. A bartender hurried to take their order. The big man slopped the liquor on the bar indifferently and then spat out his drink. “Rotten!” he snapped and flipped the uncorked bottle off the bar under his feet where it gurgled its contents along the rough floor. ‘‘Gimme good whisky, —— you!” he roared at the bartender. ‘‘None of that pizen!”’ ? The bartender placed another bottle on the bar, along with fresh glasses. “That’s the best in town, Mora,” said the bartender. “Don’t tell me what’s the best!’ growled Mora. “I'll do the talkin’.”’ Frenchy studied the big man. So this was Black Mora. Frenchy looked at the huge, hairy wrists, the big, powerful hands; the shoulders of an ape. Mora’s forehead was broad and intelligent, but the back of his huge head was almost flat. His hips were narrow and his feet small. Frenchy noted that Mora’s gun had _a beautifully carved handle. In Frenchy’s mind there was not the slightest doubt but that Black Mora was deadly efficient. The two men with him were ordinary cow- 153 puncher types, well trained to follow their master. Mora turned and saw Frenchy looking at him. There was nothing offensive in Frenchy’s attitude; rather he was admiring this huge piece of fighting machinery. Mora placed his glass on the bar and turned toward Frenchy. ‘Whatcha lookin’ at?” he growled, eyes half-closed. Frenchy feigned not to have heard the question and turned his head slowly toward the poker-table. Blaze Carlin was looking at Mora. He and Frenchy exchanged glances and Frenchy turned back to Mora. ““Didja hear what I said?” growled Mora. Frenchy smiled and shook his head. “De little question she’s get lost in all dis talk. I’m ver’ sorry.” ‘‘Frog-eater!”’ rumbled Mora, stepping closer and glowering at Frenchy. Blaze moved his chair back from the table slowly, watching Mora. As Blaze’s right hand drew back from his chips he touched a heavy glass beer mug. His fingers twined into the handle and he leaned forward in his chair. Frenchy had not moved. Mora’s throat rumbled a curse and his right hand shot out to grasp Frenchy by the throat, but Blaze shot to his feet and flung the beer mug with such unerring aim that it caught Black Mora over his right ear, when the latter’s hand was brushing Frenchy’s chin. Mora dropped like a log. For a moment nobody spoke nor made a move. Frenchy leaned against the bar, the butt of his pistol braced against his right hip, covering Mora’s two men. acne “Ho, ho, ho!” he chuckled. “De beer mug save Mora’s life. I’m to kill him when he touch me, de beeg pig!” Mora stirred and then sat up, staring vacantly. His eyes fastened on Frenchy and the muzzle of the unwavering pistol. He put his hand to his head and drew it away stained with blood. His eyes traveled around the saloon, as if seeking the man who had hit him. He got to his feet and leaned against the bar, his eyes narrowed to mere slits. Frenchy did not move a muscle. The room had gone suddenly still. Then a woman laughed harshly and Black Mora’s muscles seemed to jerk from the insult. It ae as if some one had laughed when a king fell. COMICLOOOlkKs (C@