Adventure Magazine Cover, April 3, 1918 — page 134: what you’re looking at

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

132 Wagon Slue, and arrive in town from the north. Between eleven and twelve Johnny dis- mounted at the hitching-rail of the Three Card. He was to meet Laguerre at the Three Card. But the half-breed was not in the saloon, nor was he at the Jacks Up, nor at Soapy Ragsdale’s. Buster was in charge of the store, but he didn’t know where pop was. Guessed he must be ’round some’ers. Johnny guessed so too and, on his way to the Broken Dollar, looked in at the Golden Rule. Cal Mason was there buying tobacco, and Dan Smith, the mar- shal, was picking out a shirt, a beautiful thing of savage orange, thickly besprinkled with a chaste design of purple horseshoes. Cal Mason greeted Johnny with a grave “Hare yuh?” behind which lurked the smile of friendship, but Dan Smith did not go beyond a stiff nod. Johnny, his sar- donic eye fixed on the marshal’s ultra- bilious choice, leaned against the counter. “Now, that’s what I call a shirt,” he observed cheerfully. “T dunno as yuh got any license to call it anythin’,” said the liverish Dan Smith. “I was just admirin’ it, Marshal,” in- sisted Johnny. “No offense, but yuh’ll shore be right up in style. Back East they sell shirts like this here so fast that the factories all have to work overtime. Yessir, shore do. An’ why, ’cause all the laundry- men buy ’em. No soap-wrastlin’ Chink o’ the lot thinks he can go out walkin’ Sunday afternoons less’n he’s inside one 0’ these shirts. Funny, ain’t it?” Johnny’s eyes were no longer sardonic. They were calm and sweetly innocent as they gazed into the face of the marshal. The latter, very angry, could have slain him willingly. But there are times when to take offense means to make oneself ridiculous. Dan Smith did not wish to appear ridiculous. He compromised by according Johnny no further attention and taking the shirt. Johnny, allowing him thirty seconds’ handicap, followed. He was in time to see the marshal pause a hundred feet away, swing his arm, and hurl something in be- tween two houses. After which the mar- shal went into the Jacks Up Saloon. Johnny hurried to where the marshal had stood and dived into the space between the two houses. Groping purposefully in the darkness, his fingers encountered a paper- -tinctly. . the roulette table. Adventure wrapped parcel. He swept it up and re- turned to the street. In the light from an open window he tore off a corner of the wrapping. A vivid purple horseshoe backed by savage orange stared him out of coun- tenance. The marshal, drinking with friends at the Jacks Up bar, felt a- touch on his shoulder. He turned to behold the too-familiar fea- tures of Johnny Ramsay. The puncher laid a parcel on the bar, a parcel from whose torn wrapper protruded the tail of Dan Smith’s recent purchase. “Yore shirt,” Johnny announced dis- ‘Yuh dropped it—in the street.” The pause between the two halves of the explanatory sentence was obvious. The marshal knew that he was being maliciously badgered, and he knew that Johnny knew that he knew. But again this was one of those times. Besides, Cal Mason, ex- pectantly solemn, was watching from the doorway. The marshal mumbled his thanks, tucked in the dangling shirt-tail, and stuck the package under his arm. Johnny went out into the street. There the delighted Cal Mason fell into step at his side. “Yore style suits me,” averred Cal. “Let’s licker.” So they crossed the street to the Three Card and said ‘‘How” twice. After which ceremony Johnny drifted down to the Broken Dollar and Cal went home to tell his wife how Scotty Mackenzie’s stray man had run a blazer on Dan Smith. At the Broken Dollar Johnny found Laguerre playing poker with the express- agent, hard-faced Tom Keen, and one of Slay’s dealers. Johnny smiled inwardly. For the half-breed was skilful at cards, and his skill was costing the others much money. All the blue chips on the table were in front of Laguerre, and a blue chip in the Broken Dollar was standard at ten dollars. Johnny, on his way to the bar, passed Mrs. Wallace was be- hind the wheel, and business was very brisk. Leaning against the wall at her back stood her brother. His hands were in his trousers pockets and a long black cigar was clamped between his jaws. He glanced at Johnny with twinkling, merry eyes and nodded. Mrs. Wallace did not see the puncher. She was busy raking in several bets. While Johnny was still eyeing his first drink, in marched, to his intense disgust, COnnicloookxs (C@