Adventure Magazine Cover, December 10, 1922 — page 87: what you’re looking at

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

A Fool and His Fiddle aimin’ to do the boy no serious hurt. He’s in for a rough time for a minute or two, but it’s better to let him take his medicine than to start a gun-fight and maybe get the boy killed—which would just about be his luck if the shootin’ ever starts. So nothing is done about it, and by and by Peets yanks Zeb up a-standin once more. “There!’’? Peets roars. “That ought to make a man out of you! It'll make you smell like a sure-enough man, anyhow, and that’s a lot better’n nothin’!” Zeb stands shiverin’ and rubbin’ his eyes, and he don’t know what’scomin’ next. Peets grins and bites off a big chew of tobacco. “Now young feller,” says Peets, slippin’ the plug back into his pocket, “grab your hat and I'll start you for home.” Somebody hands Zeb his hat, he puts it on and staggers toward the door, Peets nails him by the collar again. “Now, you white livered Sunday-school sissy!’’ Peets hisses in Zeb’s face. ‘“The next time a gen’l’man asks you to ake a drink, maybe you'll have enough sense not to insult him. Git out—and keep a-goin’!” Then Peets kicks him through the door and turns to the bar for his neglected drink. Zeb limps around to the Pioneer Hotel and goes straight to his room. He drags the old valise out from under the bed and opens her up, movin’ slow and sure, like a man with a fixed purpose in his mind, and plenty of time to carry it out. He drags out a short-barreled thirty-two pocket pistol, tests the action careful-like, then opens a box of shells and loads her all around. He shuts the valise, shoves it under the bed again, picks up his fiddle box from the top of the dresser and snuggles it under his left arm. Then he puts his right hand, with the pistol in it, into his trousers pocket, and slips around to the Palace bar. The Kid hasn’t come on shift yet, so he turns the fiddle over to the bartender and strolls back to the stage. He sets on the corner of the stage, for a minute or two, then Madge comes in through the side door, and Zeb runs to meet her. “T think ’m going to quit, Madge,” the boy blurts out. “Quit!” the girl exclaims. “I thought you liked it here. What is the matter?” “Nothing much, and I do like the place, when you are here, anyhow. But—lI can’t tell you—maybe it will be all right, and well, if I don’t see you again, good-by.”’ 8] Zeb takes his hand out of his pocket long enough to shake hands with Madge, then he shoves it back again and lays hold of ‘the pistol. The girl stares, too puzzled to say anything, and Zeb walks out. He goes along, slow and easy-like, till he comes to the Silver Bell, hesitates for a minute, with one foot on the step, then he shoves the swingin’ door aside and steps inside. Peets is still at the bar, standin’ exactly like he was when Zeb first seen him. Peets glares at the boy, but he don’t say a word, and Zeb walks slow.and easy back to the gamblin’ tables at the rear. He looks on at the games for a while, then he strolls back toward the front, with his right hand still in his pocket. 1 AND NOW Id like to know the whys and hows of it— What it is that sometimes drives a man into doin’ a fool stunt, regardless of results. No doubt Zeb’s recent maulin’ by Peets weighed heavy on his mind; no doubt his horror over the killin’ of Madge’s father had something to do with it; no doubt he felt that his honor demanded some sort of action; no doubt he feels, keen and sharp, that he’s nothin’ but a joke—a mere laugh- in’-stock for these fightin’ miners. But he must know that nothin’ but death, sure and swift, could come from meetin’ up with Nig Peets in any sort of gun-play. But, what- ever might be runnin’ in his mind, there’s one thing sure: he’s made up his mind to kill or be killed, and that’s all to it. Well, when Zeb is fair in front of Peets, he stops and faces the gun-man, and partly draws the little pistol from his pocket. White to the lips, he is, and his face looks drawn and thin, but there’s not a tremor in body or voice as he faces the fastest gun- man in the West. “T came here to kill you, Nig Peets,” the boy says, steady and even, with a slight movement of the hand that holds the little joke of a pistol. Peets laughs outright—a hoarse “Haw- haw” that carries to all parts of the room. “Hot over that little shampoo?” Peets grins. “Took you a of a long time to get your dander up.” The crowd gathers fast, front and rear, but they keep well out of the line of fire. Men call, hoarsely, urgin’ Zeb to drop his gun, not to be a fool, to put up his hands; but the boy never hears a word of it. (ECO A MICE S 900 ~ €Or