Adventure Magazine Cover, April 1916 — page 138: what you’re looking at

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

136 watair. She all ready fresh w’en dat feller she come. Un how can we follow wit’ de tire’ pony? Oh, she have eet figure all out. For w’y? Can you tell me dat, Tom?” “T dunno. It sure is too many for me.” He painfully made his way to the spring, drank, and then soaked his sprained ankle in the icy stream till Laguerre came to help him into the saddle. On the bank of the Hatchet they found Laguerre’s pony lying where it had fallen. The animal was not dead. It was sound asleep. “Hear dat?” said Laguerre, late in the afternoon. Loudon listened. From afar off came a buzzing murmur. It grew louder and loud- er. “The boys are sure some het up,” served Loudon. The posse straggled into view. The boys were “‘het up.”’ They were all talking at once. Evidently they had been talking for some time, and they were full of their sub- ob- Adventure ject. At sight of Loudon and his bootless leg the clamor stilled. “Hit bad, Tom?” called- Doubleday. “Hoss fell on me,” explained Loudon. “Ye don’t have to say nothin’, Double- day,’ he added, as the foreman dismount- ed beside him. “I know just what hap- pened.” “Oh, ye do, do ye?” snorted Doubleday wrathfully. ‘I might ’a’ knowed there was somethin’ up when that gent an’ you fel- lers didn’t catch up. An’ us ridin’ our heads off from hell to breakfast! Why, we’d be combin’ this country yet only we met some 0’ the cavalry from Fort Yardley an’ they said there ain’t been an Injun off the reservation fora month. They sure give us the laugh. ———! That’s his hoss! Did ye get him?” “We did not. The fellah got away nice as ye please on my hoss Ranger—yep, the hoss Rufe Cutting stole in the Bend. Gim- me the makin’s, somebody, an’ I’ll tell ye what happened.” TO BE CONTINUED Tr “ERTTERS UP! 6y E-RICHARD SCHAYER ET—TERS up!” The flaps of the postman-cor- poral’s tent were thrown back. = He squatted over his mail-bags andee the wavering light of three candles stuck on a packing-box. Through the dark came the splash of heavy boots in the mud. A crescent of men in water-soaked khaki huddled outside the door in the pitiless rain. ‘“Strapper ’Arris, 4478!” called the corporal. ‘Ere y’are.” A big carter from Chis- wick stuck a dripping, mud-streaked paw into the candle-light and clutched his pack- et. ‘“Baccy from the Misses,” he chuckled, withdrawing into the gloom. “Roughrider Derrod, 3676.” “Right’o!” A little figure almost lost in the smallest service overcoat issued, wrig- . gled forward for his letter. “From lovin’ Ma to ’er Byeby Boy,” jeered a raucous voice from the darkness. CoOMmichoooks (CO