Adventure Magazine Cover, December 10, 1922 — page 88: what you’re looking at

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

| 82 “Defend ‘yourself, Peets,”’ he says, short and sharp. “I’m going to kill you where you stand!” ~ “What with?” Peets demands, with a grin. ‘That funny little trinket? You’re a comical cuss, anyhow! I hate to do it.” Peets knows that Zeb is aimin’ to play by the rules, otherwise the boy would have drawed and fired at the start. The itch to kill is tearin’ at the gun-man. He begins to fear that Zeb will weaken and quit, an’ his plan now is to force the play. His right hand flashes to his gun, but he only taps it with his fingers and draws his hand away—empty. The move is almost too speedy for your eye to follow, but it serves its purpose. Zeb draws the little gun from his pocket, Peet’s gun roars, and Zeb crashes to the floor. Peets grins as he slips the gun back in the leather; he eyes the crowd, close, watchin’ sharp for a hostile move. The men are froze in their tracks, starin’ at Zeb a-lyin’ there so still and limp, face- down on the floor, with the little gun still gripped tight and fast in his clenched right hand. ‘Then, sudden-like and all unex- pected, the crowd in front splits and makes a wide lane leadin’ to the door. The high-brows tell us that when the human animal learned how to talk and think, he lost his instinct slick and clean. Well, maybe they’re partly right, maybe the chap that lives in a swivel chair and only has to push a button to get anything _ he wants—maybe he’s a little shy. But the man that sleeps and works and plays, with danger at his elbow, or lurkin’ just around the next turn in the trail, or over the next hill; the man that’s been com- pelled to look out for himself, all the time, just naturally picks up something you can’t call anything else but instinct. If this ain’t so, then tell me how it hap- pens that when every man in the house is starin’ sharp at Zeb and Peets, this lane to the door should open up just like it did? Nobody has said a word, yet the crowd _ splits wide, and plumb sudden, at that. Like a flash it happens, and there, just in- side the door, we see the Smilin’ Kid. He stands there, with his arms folded across his chest, starin’ straight at Peets, and the distance between ’em is maybe ten ~ feet. The Kid is hatless and barefoot, wears nothing in fact but pants and coat. His hair is wet and all mussed up, the bare flesh Adventure shows through the opening in his coat— shows that he wears not even an undershirt. The ivory stocks of his two guns glisten in the lamplight, in the holsters at his thighs. The crowd fairly holds its breath, there ain’t a sound, you might have heard your watch a-tickin’. At last Nig Peets and the Kid are face to face! “I’m a second too late, it seems,” says the Kid, with a queer smile. Peets is taken completely by surprize, his eyes waver, it is plain that for once in his life a deadly fear has gripped him tight. His jaw sags down, he swallows hard, two little rivulets of tobacco juice ooze from the corners of his mouth and dribble down his chin. From force of habit he falls into the gun-man’s crouch, with his fingers twitchin’ near his gun-butts, but the fear of death is heavy upon him, and he does not draw. His face twists in a horrible grin, showin’ the long yellow fangs that shear together like the teeth of a wolf. “Vou don’t have to draw, Mr. Peets,” says the Kid, soft and easy, with a smile that carries a rank insult. ‘You know the rules—you can sneak out, you know!” Peets shuffles his feet, but he does not draw, and the Kid stands sneerin’ at him. “You came here to kill me, Mr. Peets,”’ the Kid goes on. “I have your letter, it is tacked on the wall for all men to read. You came to kill me—by your own account. You wound up by murdering a child! Look him over, gentlemen, give it a name!” Peets glares at the Kid, his chest heaves sort of jerky-like, his leather face twitches, but still he does not draw. Then, slow and easy-like, watchin’ Peets like a hawk, the Kid starts toward the gun-man, with his arms still folded across his chest. Peets wavers, for a breath, then, with the speed of a strikin’ rattlesnake, he draws both guns. There’s a flash and a sharp report. Peets crashes to the floor, just like he might have dropped if both legs had been carried away by a cannon shot. The crowd is amazed, for the Kid’s two thirty-eights are still in the holsters. He holds a smokin’ gun in his right hand, but so swift has he drawed it, from under his left arm, that almost it seems as if he has made no move at all. He watches Peets close, for 2 moment, to make sure that he ain’t shamming, then he turns to look at Zeb. The boy begins to moan and flounder around, and finally, with a little help from Gomichooks (E)