Adventure Magazine Cover, April 1916 — page 109: what you’re looking at

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

Paradise Bend “Vou better, my frien’, or mabbeso some b] 3 tam she skeen you.” A WEEK later Mackenzie returned. That evening, after supper, Double- day told Loudon that Scotty wanted to see him. Mackenzie, chair tilted, feet propped on the table, his hands clasped be- hind his head, was staring up at the ceiling when Loudon entered the office. The chair descended on four legs with a crash, and the ancient arose briskly. _ “Stranger,” said Mackenzie, his blue eyes no longer frosty, “I was mistaken. Yo’re a gent an’ a white man, an’ I ain’t holdin’ out nothin’. Shake.” Loudon grinned and shook hands. was satisfied with the other’s apology. “That’s all right,’ said the puncher. “I knowed ye mistook me for somebody else. But I’d sure admire to know, if it ain’t private, who ye thought I was.” “T don’t mind tellin’ ye. I ain’t ever talked about it much. Dunno why. No reason why I shouldn’t. Sit down, Lou- don, an’ Pll tell ye. When I first seen ye there in Main Street that 88 brand on yore hoss made me suspicious. “Sam Blakely o’ the 88 an’ me ain’t friends. We had a run-in some eight years ago over at Virginia City, an’ I kind o’ left Sam the worse for wear. I heard later how Sam was yellin’ ’round that he’d get even. Knowin’ Sam, I believed it. An’ when I seen you ridin’ a 88 hoss, I says to myself, ‘Here’s Sam done gone an’ hired a party to do the gettin’ even.’ When ye wanted to ride for me, I was sure of it. ‘So when you got down to fix yore cinches I expected to be plugged the next second, an’ I throwed down on ye. Yore askin’ me to send yore hoss an’ saddle to Johnny Ramsay was what stopped me. I knowed if Johnny was a friend o’ yores you was all right. So I sent ye on, an’ I trailed ye clear to the ranch. If you’d turned back I’d ’a’ downed ye. But ye didn’t turn back. “Well, after I seen ye talkin’ to Double- day— Sure; ye know that little hill ’bout half-a-mile south? I was on top of it with a pair of field-glasses—after I seen ye talk- in’ to Doubleday I moseyed south again to the Cross-in-a-box.”’ ‘*Two hundred miles!”’ exclaimed Loudon. ‘“*Bout that,” said Mackenzie easily, quite as if a four-hundred-mile ride in ten He 107 days were an afternoon jaunt. “Ye see, I wanted to talk to Jack Richie. Didn’t want to go to the Bar-S if I could help it. Me an’ Saltoun never did pull together. He thinks I’m a fool, an’ I know he’s crazy. “Well, I talked with Jack, an’ he ex- plained everything. Said who ye was an’ how ye’d bought yore hoss from the 88 an’ how ye’d creased Sam Blakely, an’ all. That was fine work. Too bad ye didn’t down him for good. He’s a varmint. Worse’n a rattler.” Ye’d ought to ’a’ plugged Marvin too, after him tryin’ to make ye out a rustler thataway. A sport like that’ll stand shootin’ any day. What’s the matter?” For Loudon was amazedly staring at Mackenzie. 7 “Four hundred miles,” said the puncher, “to see whether a forty-five-dollar-a-month hand was tellin’ the truth!” “Ye was more than a hand,” rejoined Mackenzie, with a slight smile. ‘‘Ye was opportunity, with a big O. Ye see, when ye asked for a job I needed a man. I need- ed him bad. I was sure ye was out to down me. But when ye said ye knowed Johnnie an’ I changed my mind about droppin’ ye, it come to me, provided you was straight, that you was just the feller for me. You was sent to me, like. You was Opportunity, see? ‘An’ I ain’t never passed up an oppor- tunity that I ain’t been sorry. I’m kind o’ superstitious thataway now, an’ I’ll go out o’ my way to grab what I think looks like an opportunity. I knowed I couldn’t rest easy till I found out some- thin’ about ye. So I done it. An’ I’m glad I done it. ‘Doubleday tells me yo’re the best roper he ever seen, an’ yo’re a wonder with the stallions. A good man with stallions is somethin’ I’ve wished for ever since I owned the Flyin’ M. I never had him till you come. Opportunity! I guess ye was, an’ then a few. Now I don’t know whether ye care about stayin’, but I sure hope ye I'll see that ye don’t regret it.” “Sure [ll stay,’’ said Loudon. ‘“Them stallions is where I live.” “Then fifty-five a month goes for you from now on.” In this auspicious fashion began Loudon’s life at the Flying M. Yet Loudon was not precisely happy. The cheerfulness in- duced by the whole-hearted Burrs had been CoOMmicboooks CO