Adventure Magazine Cover — page 118: what you’re looking at

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

‘a os ood = ris: insists on takin’ him with us, spite of the fact that he knows this ain’t no country for pack-animals exceptin’ they’re men.’ “Look here,’ I cut in quick. ‘We're goin’ out to make a killin’. Don’t let’s allow anything to interfere with that, which is sure the main idea of this here trip. Let’s make a agreement. Don’t let’s start no discussion about nothin’, no time. You two toss a coin concernin’ this ca-vye-oh.” Believe me, I’m goin’ to have harmony on this journey! Well, they fuss a while, an’ then Ole finally digs up a dollar an’ tosses her in the air. An’ I don’t s’pose I need to mention that Michael Joseph Ryan wins. “That proves once more that I’m always right,” he announces, serious as a judge. “That equine goes along. Moreover, he earns all the grass he can gather, nights, by packin’ a good two hundred of grub an’ extry stuff that otherwise we can’t take. Maybe I ride some, too. We make this trip in style an’ comfort.” | “All right,” Ole agrees as usual. “An’ remember, the welfare of this spavined charger is in your hands. You takes care of him. An’ I hope he kicks your fool head off!” Next mornin’ we take the trail bright an’ early, givin’ it out that we're all goin’ back to my claim an’ ‘that Michael an’ Ole is goin’ to help me do some dead work, so’s to get the ground ready for Winter. The first two days we mush along fine an’ dandy. All hands, includin’ Michael’s mouse-colored bronc, is loaded to the limit. But the third out things begins to pop. It’s along in the middle of the afternoon an’ we’re swingin’ down off a low ridge on to a swampy flat. Me an’ Ole is ahead an’ maybe two hundred yards out in the swamp when we hear Michael yell. Nacher’ly we look back. There’s the Irishman standin’ on a niggerhead, throwin’ chunks of moss an’ dirt at the horse. An’ that poor, mis- fortunate critter, less’n fifty feet from hard -ground, is mighty near out of sight! Nothin’ but his pack an’ his head is above ground. He’s mired down for fair! “T told you!” Ole exults, soon as we get back to the scene of trouble. ‘‘Jes’ exactly what I done said. The very first piece of soft goin’ we strikes, your slate-colored hoodoo jes’ nacher’ly ups an’ disappears. An’ from now on we hit nothin’ but swamp. Adventure You oughta brung along a divin’-suit for him to wear.” “Tt’s his own fool fault!” Michael ex- claims. ‘Comin’ down that ridge I cau- tions him, repeated, to step from ‘one niggerhead to another. I explains to him careful. Now look at him! He’s jes’ nacher’ly stubborn. He ain’t got hardly no more sense than you have,” he declares, glowerin’ at his pardner. "Course, we got to save the poor plug. We go to cuttin’ brush an’ poles, an’ we corduroy all round our pack-train; an’ after about two hours’ work we get him out on top. Then we skirt that bog, goin’ a good two hours more out of our way. We sure put in a busy an’ profitless afternoon. That night while we’re sittin’ around the fire the horse comes up an’ sticks his head into the smoke. The poor dumb critter. is tryin’ to get some relief from the meskeeters, which is sure enough plentiful an’ voracious. “Look at his eye,’’ Michael invites, sur- veyin’ his property. ‘“‘He’s cock-eyed. An’, by gosh, that gives me a idea. I got a fifty per cent. uncle which I don’t see but one time—an’ that’s a plenty. all the same like this here mustang! More’n that, they got the same expression on to their faces, by ginger! ‘“‘Whoop-e-e!”’ he yells. “‘Here’s where I get hunk with that’crooked-opticked relative of mine for nosin’ into a otherwise perfect family. I christens this fruit of the gamin’~ table after my ole man’s little half-brother. His moniker from now on is ‘Fagan.’ ”’ Now I’m claimin’ that the horse resents this here cognomen that his master sticks name he moves away out of the smoke an’ stands off to one side, where he poses, head down, a fair picture of dejection. He looks so plumb downhearted that we quit gazin’ at him. Nobody: pays him no mind for quite a while. Then Ole happens to look toward him. One look’s enough. The Swede springs to his feet, lettin’ a whoop out of him rough enough to grind a ax on. An’ he’s got somethin’ to holler about. For there’s Fagan, about half a slab of © bacon danglin’ from his mouth, chewin’ away as contented as a clam! “Look! Look at him! Look at the meat- eatin’ son-of-a-goat!’’ Ole beseeches. So I look. “That’s right! Stand there an’ gape at Eomichbooks He’s cock-eyed - ~ him with. Soon as he hears Michael say that . (E(0)