Adventure Magazine Cover, April 3, 1918 — page 137: what you’re looking at

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

Hidden Trails But that didn’t bother Jake Rule. ‘The Emigrant Hills, boys,’ says Jake. ‘We'll catch ’em there.’ We stopped at the Anvil ranch for fresh horses—but no news. No- body stopped there in two weeks, an’ they hadn’t missed a single cayuse.”’ “The B-bar-B’s west o’ the Anvil an’ Hall’s is east,’’ suggested Johnny. “Shore, but we didn’t have time to go there. We went on an’ we hit the Emi- grants an’ never seen a measly hoofmark anywhere. We met Burns, the Wagon Wheel stray man, an’ he hadn’t seen no- body. I knowed they was behind us some’ers—they had to be. But Jake’s stubborn like he always is, an’ he combs the Emigrants industrious. Where we was in the Emigrants wasn’t more’n ninety or a hundred miles to the Bend, so I decided to come right along on an’ let Jake an’ the others scatter ’round all they wanted.” But what did yuh conf bawlin’ out in the Broken Dollar for about me not waitin’ for yuh, huh?” 42, per feller. This mornin’ at Rocket —I spent the last half o’ the night at Sinclair’s, an’ he’s there too—he saddles up when I do an’ allows if I’m goin’ north he'll trail along. Says he gets lonesome, an’ likes to talk. Now he ain’t exactly curious, this Bale ain’t, but he shore does like to talk an’ is one easy sport to make friends with. He don’t make it hard for yuh to up-end yore whole life’s history into his ears if yuh want to. No sir, yuh could do it without a struggle. An’ I can’t get rid o’ him. “We stopped at a ranch along about noon, an’ he wants to rest his hoss, sol says I’ll be pushin’ along. He says maybe his hoss ain’t so tired after all an’ he strings his chips with mine all the way to the Bend. So I figured when he come into the saloon after me the only thing I could do was to bluff him by partly tellin’ the truth. I dunno nothin’ about that jigger outside o’ what I’m tellin’ yuh, but I’m bettin’ he’s abad actor. He’s got a bad eye more ways ’n one.” ‘An’ yuh say he didn’t ask any ques- tions?”’ ‘None to take offense at.” “No, he wouldn’t, but did he say any- thin’ a-tall about any places?”’ “Places?” “ON ACCOUNT o’ that Bale Har- 135 “Shore, places—towns, hills, creeks, the like o’ that.” Racey thought hard. ‘Seems to me now he did say somethin’ about the Dogville trail.’ Now Dogville is an infinitesimal hamlet dotting the bluff at the junction of the Dogsoldier and the Lazy rivers. Yet an occasional freighter goes to Dogville, and there is a trail connecting the village with the Bend trail north of Cutter. This trail runs within a mile of the Anvil ranch-house. | “What did he say about the Dogville trail?’ questioned Johnny. “Said, ‘Wasn’t she a —— ova trail?’ ’or somethin’.” ‘What did you say?” “T says I didn’t know—never followed the trail in my life.” “Vuh didn’t!’ Painful amazement rode Johnny’s tone. “Shore, why not?” “Tell yuh later. Was the Dogville trail all he asked about?” “Cutter—yeah, Cutter. Had Tommy Mull changed the whisky at his hotel yet, an’ I says no, same old whisky she always was. Playin’ foxy myself, see—lettin’ him think I come through Cutter.” “Oh, yo’re a ringtail whizzer, Racey! Honest, if yuh had any more sense you’d be half-witted!”’ “What'd I do I’d like to know. Didn’t I hafta say somethin’ to yuh in the saloon? Didn’t I hafta, huh? I’m askin’ yuh, didn’ [?” “You was all right in the saloon. It was before yuh got there yuh was all wrong.” “T’d admire to know why,” grumbled the offended Racey. “This is why: yuh was ridin’ an Anvil hoss, wasn’t yuh? An’ yuh said yuh never rode the Dogville trail in yore life. Har- per met yuh on the Bend trail. All right, yuh never seen the Dogville trail, so he tries yuh again with Tommy Mull’s whisky at Cutter. You told him she was the same old whisky, didn’ yuh?” “Shore.” “Right there he got yuh. Ten days ago Tommy Mull got religion an’ run every drop 0’ whisky he owned out on the grass. Since this yuh couldn’t get a drink in Tommy’s place if yuh was dyin’. An’ you played foxy by blattin’ out — ‘She’s the “ same ol’ whisky’! Racey was dumb for a space. cComiclooOoks. Com