Adventure Magazine, Mid-September 1917 — page 8: what you’re looking at

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

6 **‘Cutnose’ Canter bad man,” he an- nounced without preliminary, in a harsh guttural monotone. “He ain’t a he-angel,’”’ agreed Chuck, wondering how Cutnose Canter, a gentle- man of uncertain temper, habits, and means of livelihood, residing in Farewell, had merited even the passing attention of such a superior Indian as Willie’s Old Brother-in- Law. ‘Has he been runnin’ off any o’ yore cayuses?” he cast at a venture. The Piegan shook his head. He held up two fingers. “Cutnose Canter have two frien’,” he said. ‘‘Dey ridum ’roun’ you’ ranch— Soogan, Packsaddle ’way down yonner.” Willie’s Old Brother-in-Law swung his arm in a half-circle to the south. ‘Not ridum daytam’tall,’”’ he continued. “‘Ridum nighttam. Moon show dem. Cutnose Canter go back Farewell. Frien’ go sout’. Bimeby frien’ come ’gain mabbeso. You watch Cutnose Canter. Goo’-by.” . Willie’s Old Brother-in-Law rose to his feet and stalked round the boulder. He ap- peared a moment later astride an ornamen- tal pinto and rode off eastward. The cow- puncher flipped the dropped reins over his horse’s head and mounted. ‘“‘Cutnose an’ friends,’”’ he mused, spur- ring the pony into a lope, “‘ridin’ our range at night. That’s shore an odd number, espe- cially when they ain’t done no rustlin’. An’ they ain’t yet, or the Injun would ’a’ said so. Friends went south. By-an’-by they’ll come again. But maybe they won’t go again. We'll see what the doctor says, huh, Peppermint? Weain’t overlookin’ any bets, are we, yuh graybacked lump o’ sin? That’s right, waggle yore ears. Yuh know what’ll happen to yuh if yuh don’t agree with me, y’ betcha.” = BOY) to Moccasin Spring, the loss of his fares ; trousers completely forgotten in speculation concerning the actions of Cut- nose Canter and his mysterious friends. The mental exercise of necessity sharpened his eyesight, and an hour later he perceived that which otherwise might well have es- caped his attention. ‘That’ was an ex- ceedingly faint column of smoke spiring above a clump of red willows on the quarter- mile distant bank of Soogan Creek. Chuck immediately turned his horse’s head toward the red willows. CHUCK loped steadily on his way Adventure Leaving his mount in a blind gully two hundred yards from the creek, Morgan ‘“‘Injuned” forward on foot. In his hands his cocked rifle was held in readiness for a snapshot. For he had a vision of a rustler at work. That slim column of smoke could signify nothing but the ne- farious heating of a cinch-ring or a running- iron. “The fool,” he breathed. ‘He just don’t care where he does his brandin’.”’ He slid up to the willows, sidled noise- lessly round the clump, and peered between the leaves of a sweeping branch at—the Kid’s Twin placidly frying bacon over a tiny fire. Chuck’s eyes widened, then narrowed. For, on the bank behind the Kid’s Twin were most of the outfit’s missing articles. And the Kid’s Twin was wearing the others. Chuck swept aside the willow branch and stepped into view. The Kid’s Twin, a yellow-haired youth with ingenuous baby- blue eyes, was a person of nerve. He did not start at Chuck’s sudden appearance. He displayed no dismay. “S’down an’ rest yore hat,’ he invited, waving a hospitable hand. ‘“Yo’re just in time for dinner.” Chuck did not sit down. He spread his legs and stabbed an accusing finger at the Kid’s Twin. “T admire yore gall,” he observed acridly. ‘““Yo’re wearin’ my pants!” ‘“‘Shore,”’ agreed the Kid’s Twin, “but I dunno as I’ll wear ’em again. They fit me kine 0’ too long an’ too quick.” “That’s shore a_ calamity,” Chuck drawled with sarcasm. “I’m sorry y’ain’t suited, but seein’s yuh took ’em without any askin’ J guess yuh’ll have to stand it.” “T guess so,” chuckled the Kid’s Twin, “but don’t let it happen again.” “You can bet I won’t!”’ snarled Chuck, who was really very angry. ‘I know what [_———”’ ; “Aw, whatcha yowlin’ about?” giggled the Kid’s Twin. ‘‘You ain’t the only jigger I borried from. Didn’t I take Dave’s six- shooter, an’ Sam’s chaps, an’ Buff Warren’s hat? An’ here you gotta beller yore head off about a measly old pair o’ pants. You act like they was really valuable. C’mon, be sociable. S’down an’ have some coffee. IT made plenty, an’ you can have first whack at the cup. Was the gang mad about me glommin’ their stuff?—Shore, I know yuh’Ill be damned. All punchers is, so yuh needn’t CoOMmiclsoo C©