Adventure Magazine Cover, December 10, 1922 — page 146: what you’re looking at

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

140 hand guns, he raced behind the cabin and to the horse-hovel. He heard some one exclaiming in a low voice as he reached the hovel. Thrusting his head around the end of the shelter, he aimed a gun and in a jerky voice com- manded— “Put up your hands!” “They’re up. What of it?” demanded a . querulous voice. Beach winked his eyes to make sure he was not being deceived, but there was one man only in the road. He was considerably above average height. He was staring around to locate the owner of the voice, his long arms held straight above his head. “Well, they’re still up. What next?” And now the voice was even and drawling. ‘Come up here to the shed where I can look you over.” The man promptly obeyed, remarking: “Ringing bells and holding folks up! All dod-rotted foolishness.” “Halt!” snapped Beach. The man’s voice and bearing puzzled him. He quit the shelter of the shed and stood before his prisoner. The newcomer was clad in buckskin and had a long yellowish, white beard. On his shock of white hair were the tattered fragments of a hat. “Who are you?” asked Beach. “Vm ‘Old Mis’ry.’. Who’n be you, so pert with your bell-fixings and your gun ways?” “You’re a mountain-man?”’ “Tt reckon. My arms are gitting tired. My rifle’s where I dropped it when I hit the bell. And I’ve got only a knife in my belt. If I turn my back to you can’t I drop my arms? What’s your notion anyway?” “Put them down. You're not the fellow I was looking for,” said Beach as he low- ered his own weapon. “TI took you for a road-agent. Six of them paid me a visit yesterday. I killed one and wounded an- other. Been expecting them back. My name’s Beach Content. Caretaker for this mill property. If you’re a mountain-man you ought to know Ned Williamson. He’s a friend of mine.” and eggs! Ned Williamson? Course I know him. S’pose you squat and pow- _ wow to me about this fuss you had. I ain’t been held up before since I was in St. Looey. I’m just meandering back from a ride up Crow Creek way. Started with a Adventure bunch of old-timers and struck a side-trail that led me back down this way. T’others went on north. Felt empty under my belt and reckoned to scare up some grub in your cabin. Didn’t know any one was at home. “Then that danged bell begun! Hope it ain’t scared outer my hoss. Left him down the road a bit. He don’t mind shoot- ing and war-hooting, but bells might strike him as being different.” He whistled sharply, and out of the shadows came’ a rawboned horse. ‘““There’s the old cuss now. He’s pretty well tuckered out. I'll strip him, and then we'll powwow.” The saddle was soon off the tired animal, and the mountain-man was ready for a talk. “You come into the cabin and we'll talk while I cook something to eat. I slept out under the trees last night,” said Beach. “Mighty good place when you don’t want to git cornered,” endorsed the mountain man. ‘Always want enough room to swing my rifle as a club.” He picked up his rifle, an old Hawkins, descendant of the older Kentucky gun, and trailed along at Beach’s heels. Beach felt a mighty uplift of spirit. He believed that he had found a friend where he had expected to face an assassin. He built a fire and began preparing the break- fast, and as he worked he told Old Misery all his troubles. The mountain-man made no comments while the eager speech was pouring forth, but his long beard trembled and jerked as he heard how Baldy had died. He rose from the three-cornered stool and at once resumed his seat when the narra- tive reached the killing of the Wild Cat. When Beach finished and filled a plate with beans and bacon the old man smote his skinny hands together and exclaimed: “By gorry! I reckoned you’d had a war- dream and was yarning. I’m beginning to think you did go through with everything you’ve said.” With that he fell to eating, and Beach said nothing more until the keen appetite was satisfied. Old Misery, leaning back in huge content and filling a black pipe, nursed his rifle be- tween his knees and with a wide grin re- marked: ‘“Younker, you’re all Just about that. I know the breed of that Wild Cat. I seen him in Virginny City. Didn’t know the one called Baldy, but I ‘low he needed to be wiped out. The Injun trail I GComichbooks (E(0)