Adventure Magazine, Mid-September 1917 — page 31: what you’re looking at

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

Longhorns “T got it. I got it. I knowed it. I knowed it. She all just goes to show—one thing leadin’ to another—simple, y’betcha.”’ “If yuh know what yo’re chatterin’ ’bout, which I doubt, yuh might tell a feller,”” was Racey’s sarcastic comment. ‘‘Shore, shore,’ said the abstracted Chuck. ‘What was yuh sayin’ Racey, ’bout him bein’ there two nights?”’ ‘‘Why don’tcha listen. I was a mile past that. I'll bet you’ve been a-settin’ in the sun with yore hat off, Chuck. Yuh act a heap strange to me. Here I go askin’ yore opinion on what looks like the beginnin’s o’ rustlin’, an’ yuh shout ‘I got it!’ at me. ‘T got it! I’d shore admire to know whatcha got.” ‘Nothin’. Nothin’ a-tall. I was talkin’ in my sleep. Don’t mind me. But look here, Racey, you shore think too much. Don’t do it. She’s bad medicine, an’ likely to overstrain yore intellect. Then where’ll yuh be, huh?” “T’ll be in the kitchen in less’n half a minute,” declared Racey, rising hastily. “T dunno what’s the matter with yuh, but yo’re shore too many for me this mornin’.”’ But Chuck Morgan merely laughed and went on with his stitching. After dinner Chuck removed his work to the eastern side of the bunkhouse that he might have the benefit of the afternoon shade. And here Laguerre found him when he rode in from Cow Creek in the middle of the afternoon. It was too late to start for the Buffalo Flats that day, so Laguerre set himself to oiling and overhauling his saddle. Chuck, having made sure that Jimmy was busy in the kitchen, spoke of Lanpher and the dead cow and what he had learned from Racey Dawson. “Don’t yuh see?” he said, summing up. ‘‘Here’s the cow—dead an’ skinned. Here’s the stranger hotfoots for the 88 before the cow’s cold. Or, even before the cow’s killed, for the matter o’ that. Well then, after that he don’t go to Farewell, the stranger don’t, like he says he has to, but camps on the Lazy. He’s waitin’—waitin’ till Lanpher runs them nesters out. Why? ’Cause he has a use for the old C-Y ranch an’ he don’t want them nesters there. Why does Cutnose happen along so careless an’ free not a long while after Lanpher’s been there? ‘‘Why, to see what’s happened. Yessir, Cutnose wants the old C-Y ranch for somethin’. Yuh can’t explain his scratchin’ 29 round there any other way. An’ it’s a cinch him an’ that stranger who goes to the 88 an’ the tall feller with the brown beard an’ the Cross-T cayuse who sells the beef to the Dales are all friends, y’betcha. Them last two are the chunkers from south Willie’s Old Brother-in-Law seen ridin’ round our range with Cutnose, yuh can gamble on that.” “But w’y do dey wan’ de ol’ C-Y shack?” puzzled Laguerre. ‘I cannot see w’y, me. Eef dey are on de rustle, w’at good de —— ranche”’ “T dunno, but they think she’s some good. All we gotta do is find out what that is, an’ we got ’em.”’ ‘““Yeah.”’ It was obvious that the half- breed was doubtful of the outcome. But Chuck Morgan was not doubtful. He hada hunch, and he meant to follow that hunch for all he and the hunch were worth. “Took!” suddenly said Laguerre. ‘Look w’ere he come, dat Lanphair.”’ a riding up at a sharp trot. He did not see the two men beside the bunkhouse, for they were quickly hidden by a corner of the corral as he rode on. Lan- pher’s eyes roved furtively hither and yon after the fashion of one who seeks. Whether he found that which he sought it is difficult to speak with certainty, but at any rate he approached the porch of the ranch-house with a countenance less troubled than it was when he was passing the corral. At no time had he seen Chuck Morgan in the lee of the bunkhouse. Mr. Saltoun was sitting on the porch of the ranch-house. His eyes narrowed at sight of the visitor. He did not like Lanpher. He had never cared much for the 88 since the days of Blakely, the one-time manager, who was a notable rustler, and was finally killed in recondite fashion by Telescope Laguerre. Incidentally every man of the old 88 outfit had necessarily been shot, lynched, or had departed elsewhere. ‘The present 88 outfit, from the manager down, were a new lot, and reckoned honest. Yet Mr. Saltoun did not like them, and would not, while he lived. He had lost cattle be- cause of Blakely, and the memory rankled. ““A’ar’yuh,” he said with chill politeness. as Lanpher stepped up on the porch. “Vuh’ll find that chair right comfort- able.”’ SURE enough, the 88 manager was COMMIGHOO ©