Adventure Magazine Cover — page 163: what you’re looking at

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

A Touch of Irish of mosquitoes—the story he had heard in fragments at Spring City. He was inclined to agree with the town loafers that the trouble might have been averted if the sheriff’s office had contained men of understanding hearts. From what he had heard, it appeared that Van Haarten, a young sheep-herder of celebrating pro- clivities, had ridden into Spring City several days previously with a Winter’s pay and the youthful desire to punctuate the lonely monotony of sheep-herding with the hilari- ous abandonment of liquored-up sociability. In the foolish optimism of health and high spirits, and all the town loafers to applaud and assist in the enterprise, he had started in to drink the town dry. But ‘‘Earless Pete” Anderson, the saloonkeeper, had an endless supply of hardware on hand. Finally young Van Haarten awoke one morning in a corner of the saloon feeling far less amiable toward the world than when he came there, and an impatient search failed to reveal even a copper cent in his pockets. He was broke again. Realizing that he had spent a whole Win- ter’s pay in that saloon, and observing Earless Pete’s grotesque visage where he was shifting glassware behind the bar, the youth arose and advanced toward him. “Vell, how you vass dis morning?” in- quired Earless Pete ingratiatingly. But Van Haarten wasn’t in good humor, so, ignoring the pleasant greeting, he said with a scowl: “Guess I’m busted again, Pete. Pour me a stiff one to sober up on, an’ lend me a dollar for breakfast, an’ then I guess I’ll be siftin’ outa this here town.” Earless Pete’s manner changed instantly. This victim had evidently been sucked dry sooner than he expected. “Vat in da vorl’ do you t’ink I iss?” he demanded savagely. ‘Do you t’ink I hand out money an’ drinks to all da low-down bums dat come in here? You get off my place, or I t’row you out!” Quick resentment seized Van Haarten’s unstrung nerves as he heard the insulting language and noted the change in demeanor. “The you will!” he retorted, drawing a heavy pistol from its holster. “Lemme see them dirty hands 0’ yourn. Good. Now use ’em tuh pull out that cash drawer, or T’li send yer —— nose where yer ears is. No, set it right here. Git them prayer handles ’way up there!” 161 When the angry youth had gathered a handful of coins into his pocket, he re- treated toward the door. As he left the building he fired two shots, spoiling forever the big mirror behind the bar, which was the pride of Earless Pete’s heart. Gun in hand and seeing red, Van Haarten had then paraded up the street looking for the restaurant. Entering, he threw Pete’s money on the counter and demanded hot coffee and rolls. “‘Come to life!” he snapped at-the sleepy- looking waitress whose bovine countenance and waddling gait bespoke the land of wooden shoes and the Catte The two or t ed customers in the place gianced up apprehensively at the big pistol laid on the counter and at the scowling face of its owner. Van Haarten was conscious of the scare he had thrown into them, and it made him all the more egotistically aware of his grievance. He drew from his rich, sheep-herder’s vocabu- lary to find suitable epithets for Earless Pete, telling the whole world he’d finish teaching that skunk how to treat a white man next time he came to town, and con- cluded by cursing the town and everything in it without restraint. Hearing shots at the saloon, some one had anticipated Earless Pete’s movements by hurrying to the sheriff’s office to inform that arm of the law of the possible trouble. The deputy sheriff was sent to investigate the matter and met Earless Pete running toward him, from whom he received a richly embellished account of the affair. Another citizen reported having seen the desperado enter the restaurant. Already thoroughly scared, the nervous deputy hurried toward the eating-house. When fifty yards away he was chilled in the neck by the sight of Van Haarten emerging from the entrance, still holding the pistol in his hand, “You’re arrested!” yelled the excited deputy, at the same time opening fire on the sheep-herder. Van Haarten returned the fire with steady nerves, and the officer sud- denly spun around, shot through the right shoulder. Hesitating for just a moment, apparently for the realization to soak in that he was now an outlaw instead of a citizen, the youth dashed across the street toward the place where his horse was stabled, firing a shot or two by way of intimidation over the heads of the men COMMICLO® S (C@