Adventure Magazine Cover — page 178: what you’re looking at

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

176 honest emotion on the downcast face, his mind was unconsciously veering around from its initial attitude of hostile watchful- ness to an acceptance of the fugitive’s view- point—the viewpoint of a spirit of the wilderness striving desperately to avoid be- ing deprived of freedom; of one newly made an Ishmaelite by the blundering arm of the Law, seeking to escape the too severe consequences of a thoughtless moment. “Where was yuh hittin’ fer, kid?” . The note.of sympathy was caught by the sheepherder. “T was makin’ fer the Henry Mountains,” he answered quietly. “Don’t yuh do it, kid!’ Swazey returned earnestly, entirely oblivious of the fact that his impulsive words represented surrender. “Tf yuh git in with Butch Cassidy’s outfit, then your goose sure is cooked. Go the other way. When yuh git tuh the forks of ‘the road—” he waved his pistol toward the East— ‘‘take the old Fremont trail to the north. They’s plenty of cow an’ sheep outfits in Uintah needin’ help. You can start in respectable there.”’ Swazey paused for breath. He was talk- ing with shameless eagerness. ‘An’ lemme tell yuh this, kid: From now on git sense. ’Sall right tuh git on the war- path occasionally, but it pays tuh figger on how the public is going tuh look at it.” There followed an awkward pause, during which the nervous horse pawed restlessly. Then the sheepherder looked up. “Say, lemme—” he broke off as if check- ing himself from making a request his pride forbade, and looked sullenly at the horse’s withers. “Sure!” Swazey heartily granted the un- spoken request. “T’ll let yuh take ’im fer three-four months. Then you bring ’im back or send me.a hundred dollars.”’ Swazey paid out enough rope to slacken it. ‘Slip that lasso off,’”’ he ordered. The blond youth patted the buckskin softly and reassuringly on the side of the neck, gradually advancing the caresses up to the rope. Then he very gently and care- fully loosened Swazey’s noose until he was able to erect a loop over the horse’s ears. Letting the loop fall outward, he gripped hard with his legs as the horse lunged away from the falling rope. Anxious to get out of that fearsome wash and the confinement of its high banks, the horse needed no urging to break into a run. Adventure Once started, it was easy to keep him gallop- ing eastward when he emerged from the wash. His rider never looked back. Swazey watched with folded arms until the big buckskin disappeared among the clay humps, and then, excitement passed, he turned wearily back to his horse. When he had mounted he rode on to the top of a tiny knoll and turned his eyes eastward. Already in the distance a tiny dust cloud was nearing the place where the road forked—one white, ribbon-like branch turn- ing southeastward toward the Colorado River, where the peaks of the Henry Moun- tains marred the sky-line in the hazy dis- tance, and the other turning abruptly north- ward to the crossing of the Cottonwood. Then the dust speck arrived at the parting of the ways and turned unhesitatingly northward. over Forever’s desert. Riding thoughtfully along the homeward trail, Swazey reined in his horse, and with hands resting on the horn, sat gazing into nowhere. He mused aloud— ‘“‘Where’d I hear that saying, ‘A touch of Nature makes the whole world brothers?’ ” Presently the big fellow pulled himself together. “See here, cayuse, we’re gittin’ sick!” His spurs hit the horse’s sides with a bang. ‘‘Whoop!”’ he yelled. Out whipped the big revolver and three shots in quick succession awoke the echoes along the cliff-line, each shot followed by a spat as a boulder got what was coming to it. For a mile the ‘Wild Irishman” rode like Tam O’ Shanter. Then slowing up he patted the reeking horse and apologized— “‘Jist to find where we’re at, old son.”’ When Swazey arrived at the camp on Ferron Creek, the first paling light of dawn was showing in the east. As he was about to lead his tired horse into the semi-darkness of the stable, a huge, blanketed form crowned with lank, black hair uprose on elbow from a pile of hay within, and in the husky voice of sleep, demanded— “Didja git ’im?”’ “Nope,” Swazey lied. sheriff.”’ THE dusk of evening began to settle “He got away, Gomichbook (C@