Adventure Magazine Cover — page 79: what you’re looking at

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

Jest Jim, Fiddlin’ Jim Fiddlin’ Jim forced himself to smile. For the sake of his friend, Dana and the boy, he set his feet in the path of sacrifice. “T reckon the game’s up fo’ me,” he said slowly. “I reckon I might as well confess and be done with it. I held up and robbed John B. McAutry, but I didn’t mean to shoot him, honest. The gun went off acci- dent’ly, Mr. Sheriff.” “What’s yore name, pardner?” “Jim.” ‘Jim what?” “Jest Jim. Fiddlin’ Jim,” said Braden. ‘“‘Thesrest don’t matter.” Freer holstered his revolver, took the John B. McAutry wallet from the hands of his assistant, glanced into it and thrust it into his pocket. ‘Then he stepped heavily toward his prisoner. The soap-box chair was in his way; he kicked it aside. “Look out!’ Braden bellowed. fiddle—don’t ye step on that fiddle!”’ Immediately there was the crashing and splintering of dry wood; the officer’s foot had inadvertently demolished the battered but much-loved old instrument. It put Fid- dlin’ Jim clean beside himself; he sprang at Freer like an enraged panther, his manacled wrists notwithstanding, and drove a knee hard to Freer’sstomach. There came a roar from the revolver of the deputy, who didn’t quite understand, and Jim Braden crumpled to the floor across the poor remains of his fiddle and lay there very still. “My Ai FIDDLIN’ JIM sat up and looked RY about him. It was daylight; it was, in fact, around the middle of the afternoon. He was in a perfectly spot- less white bed. On the log walls of the room hung pictures in homemade black- walnut frames that seemed somehow fa- miliar. At his right was a homemade table, and on it were a broken vase filled with mountain flowers and a very beautiful, orange-colored violin. On the floor beside the table sat a boy; he had a barlow knife in his hand and he was busily making a water flutter-wheel of old cornstalks. It was little Jim Braden. A door opened and a woman, half buxom and pretty, but somewhat worn and anxious looking, entered the room. It all seemed queer. The woman saw that he was sitting up, and she hurried to him. “Jim,” she said eagerly, ‘‘how do ye feel now?” 5 65 He recognized her when she spoke. was Dana. She sat down on the side of his bed and with a wonderfully gentle hand touched the white bandage that was about his temples. Yes, it was Dana, Lot Hup- ple’s wife; he was a little dazed yet but he knew that much. ‘“‘Where’s the sheriff?” he muttered. ‘“‘And what ’come o’ the irons that was on my wrists?” “Bill Freer’s gone back to the lowland,” answered Dana and she smiled upon him. “The’s nothin’ ag’in ye now, Jim. Bill Freer said he was awful sorry he busted up ye fiddle and he brung yea new one. See it there on the table?” | Braden nodded. ‘““Where’s Lot?” “Dead.” “Dead?” “Dead—and buried.” sign of grief. “How come that?” asked Braden. Dana showed no It - “Bill Freer had to shoot him in self-de-- ~ fense. Freer didn’t believe it, when you said it was you robbed John McAutry. He went straight on after Lot, and he got him afore dinner-time o’ the next day.”’ Fiddlin’ Jim bent his bandaged head and tried hard to remember more clearly. “How long have I been here, Dana?” “More’n four days. The doctor said the bullet broke the bone above ye left temple; - he said ye had brain fever or somethin’. And he said ef ye come to, ye’d be might’ nigh shore to make it; and ye have, Jim, _ thank God!” : She choked. ‘There was a little period of silence. The boy dropped his barlow knife and climbed to his knees at the bedside; he \ watched his mother and big Jim Braden: wonderingly. Then Braden spoke again: “So Lot’s cashed up. Pore old Lot! Did ye love him, Dana?” “No,” said Dana. “TI told him I didn’t and never would, when I married him. I married him ’cause he was yore friend—that is, I thought he was—and ’cause I couldn’t make it a-workin’ by myself, and ’cause Lot told me you had died in the penitenchy! I’m sorry to haf to disapp’int ye in Lot plies but I’ve got to do it. “Jim, Lot owned up to everything afore | he went; he seed he’d haf to’die. It was Lot that done the killin’ that sent you to the penitenchy, Jim. Him and Ben Rouse had Gomicbooks (e(@)