Adventure Magazine, Mid-September 1917 — page 42: what you’re looking at

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

40 was stuffing cartridges into the pockets of her buckskin shirt. “Y’m going after that man,”’ called the Rainbow, and she stuck two fingers between her pretty lips and whistled shrilly. From the cottonwoods on the other side of Soogan Creek came an answering whinny. There was a trample of hoofs and a splash as a rangy red horse burst through the fringe of trees and leaped off the bank into the water. The red horse crossed in a wild flurry of spray, scrambled up on the level ground and galloped to the Rainbow. “How about yore uncle?’ suggested Chuck, as the Rainbow knotted a long raw- hide thong round her mount’s lower jaw. “T can’t do any more for him than I have done,” said she. ‘Staying with him won’t help him at all. Besides, here comes Aunty Little Deer.”’ True, an extremely fat squaw was wad- dling rapidly toward them. She carried a bucket. The Rainbow, cupping her hands round her mouth, shouted a string of Piegan at the fat squaw. Aunty Little Deer shrilled something in return and speeded up her waddle by several revolutions. Chuck was already in the saddle and gal- loping hard for the box-elder bushes. He knew perfectly that there would be no one there now, and hadn’t been fifteen seconds after the third shot had been fired, but he had a man-like and human desire to do something ahead of the Rainbow. She had taken the initiative so far. When the Rainbow, riding bareback, reached the box-elders she found the puncher leaning from his saddle and looking down at the ground. ‘“‘Somebody’s been a-lavin’ there,’ he remarked. ‘‘Yuh can see where the grass’s been pushed down an’ where he’s busted off a couple o’ the box-elder branches to get a clear range. ‘There’s a spent shell, too.” ‘‘And there are two more,” said the quicker-eyed Rainbow. She forced her horse through the bushes to a depression in their midst. ‘‘“Here’s where he tied his pony,” she de- clared. ‘He rode off across Soogan.”’ The Rainbow led the way across the creek on to the open stretches of the Buffalo Flats. Here the Rainbow lost the trail, but picked it up twenty minutes later and two hundred yards up-stream behind the scattered cotton-woods on the bank. “T thought he was heading east,’’ ex- Adventure plained the Rainbow. ‘“‘That’s what threw me off. But he’s riding due north—right up the creek.”’ “Got any idea who the gent is?” asked Chuck, who had his own opinion in the matter. ‘“‘Lanpher, maybe,” replied the girl, her eyes on the ground. ‘‘Maybe Cutnose Canter. Neither of them like uncle, as probably you know. Oh, the devil! I felt a drop of rain!” Chuck looked skyward. So intent had both been on the trailing that neither had remarked the gathering of the thunder- heads. Now the heavens were half-ob- scured by the rolling storm-clouds. Swiftly the sunlight was blotted out. Within fifteen minutes the rain was pouring down, lightning was flashing, and thunder crashed and volleyed incessantly. It wasa lively little Summer thunderstorm, and when it blew away eastward half an hour later, and the sun came out, the Rainbow looked hopelessly at Chuck. “No use following the confounded trail now,” she mourned. ‘I suppose I’d have lost it on the hard ground though,” she added philosophically. “Whoever he is,” said Chuck, “‘he’s goin’ up the creek, an’ the Dales live at Moccasin Spring. He may be goin’ there, yuh can’t tell. Anyway, that’s where I was headin’ when I stopped at yore camp.” “T’ll go with you,” cried the Rainbow. “If yuh do, lemme do the _talkin’,”’ begged Chuck. “Yo’re all right, but yuh do things too prompt an’ vigorous. It’s just possible yuh might shoot the wrong man.” “Don’t you fret about me shooting the wrong man, old-timer,” the Rainbow said, with a flash of her white teeth, turning her bold black eyes on the puncher. “I never have gone off half-cocked yet, and I sha’n’t begin now. However, if the right man turns up [ll get him so quick it’ll curl his hair.” The ;words were civilized, but the Rain- bow’s expression as she uttered them was not, decidedly not. Chuck could almost see the scalping-knife. CHAPTER XI THE 88 HORSES “T DON’T guess it can be Lanpher,” Chuck stated, when they were not more than a mile from Moccasin Spring. CoOMmiclsoo C©