Adventure Magazine Cover — page 78: what you’re looking at

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

64 “Well, you know how it is when a man’s repitation is bad. It’s awful easy to hang any sort o’ crime on his head, and a man has to pull a crooked deal sometimes to git his due. To come to the kyernel o’ the mat- ter, Fiddlin’, I was ’cused o’ shootin’ and robbin’ a cattle-buyer who’d started out wi’ a fat pocketbook, only yeste’day. The’sa pow’ful heap o’ evidence that I done it; in fact, the’s a plenty to send me up. Sheriff Bill Freer and three o’ his depities rid out after me this mornin’, but IJ got away. They’re still a-chasin’ me, Fiddlin’, and I shore don’t know what I’m a-goin’ to do!” “And—and Dana?” Jim Braden mut- tered. “Dana!” cried Bad Lot Hupple. worryin’ her to death!”’ Fiddlin’ Jim rubbed his chin thought- fully, bent his head, folded his arms and began to pace the floor. “It’s a-worryin’ her to death!” still rang in his ears. It must be true, he reasoned. A woman like Dana wouldn’t live with a man for so long if she didn’t love him. After some two minutes of thinking, Braden drew up before Hupple, who now sat with his face buried in his hands. “Ve did rob the cattle-buyer, Bad,” said he, ‘“‘and ye brung the money here and hid it in the hearth.” _ Rupple gave no sign that he had heard, but he had. Inwardly he winced. “Ve did rob the cattle-buyer, Bad,” re- peated Jim Braden. Bad Lot straightened on the soap-box. “T ain’t said I didn’t, did I? Ain’t a man got to have his due for a bein’ blamed wi’ everything?” “We'll not argify the p’int,”’ said Fiddlin’ Jim. ‘Listen here, Bad. Are ye plum’ shore it’s a-worryin’ Dana thataway? Are ye shore she loves ye, Bad? We’ve allus ‘been friends, Bad, and ye cain’t tell me nothin’ but the truth; rickollect that.” Hupple looked the fiddler squarely in the eye. It was one of his own particular long suits, looking people squarely in the eye. “You know Dana,” said he. “Do ye think she’d live wi’ me fo’ ten years ef she didn’t love me? Answer me that, Fiddlin’?”’ It was along the line of Braden’s own rea- soning. Braden nodded. He was satis- fied. He leaned slightly forward and put a hand on Hupple’s shoulder. “Would ye be willin’ to lead a straight seal NR Adventure life from now on, old friend,” he asked, “‘ef ye was only out o’ this scrape?” “But who could git me out o’ this scrape, Fiddlin’?”’ “Me, Bad Lot, mebbe.” “But how could ye do it?” “T don’t know, jest yit. Howsomever, the’s a way, Bad; the’s got to be a way. It’s fo’ the sake o’ Dana and the boy as well as fo’ you, and it’s got to be done. Promise me faithful to square up, old friend; that’s all ye’ve got to do, that and ye must stay hid fo’ a week or so, ontel I can shift the blame. Are ye a-promisin’ me faithful, Bad?” “Am [?” Hupple went to his feet. He seized Fiddlin’ Jim’s hand and wrung it and gave his word with a rather fearful oath. ) from the darkness outside; it was the breaking of a wet bit of rotting wood. Jim Braden snatched up the boy’s sodden clothing and flung it over the bed of coals in the fireplace, plunging the interior of the cabin into total darkness. Another second and the door creaked on its wooden hinges, and the blinding white rays of an electric flashlight fell full on Fiddlin’ Jim’s startled countenance. “Up with ’em—quick!”’ boomed the voice of Sheriff Bill Freer. ‘Grab the roof, Lot, grab ’er!”’ Braden put up his hands. A deputy slipped from the darkness and snapped manacles over Braden’s wrists. “Search him!”’ ordered Freer. The deputy obeyed with alacrity. He found the cattle-buyer’s wallet in Fiddlin’ Jim’s pocket and tossed it to the sheriff’s feet. Fiddlin’ Jim looked to his right and to his left. Bad Lot was not in the cabin. Then Braden’s gaze fell upon the one win- JUST then there came a tiny noise dow, and he knew. Hupple had escaped. “He ain’t got any gun,” said the deputy, “and it ain’t Lot Hupple!”’ “T see it ain’t,” Freer replied. ‘Pick up that wallet and see if McAutry’s name is on it.” The deputy held the wallet to the light. “Yes,” he nodded. “John B. McAutry. It’s fall o’ bank-notes.”’ Freer stared hard at Jim Braden, whom he had never seen before. “How come you wi’ this, pardner?” he asked gruffly. Gomichbooks:. co ml