Adventure Magazine Cover, June 18, 1921 — page 25: what you’re looking at

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

When Good Fellows Get Together a man and makin’ him pull up stakes and git the off the border. Without men- tionin’ no names, there’s been more’n one Army man that got too curious and then found himself explainin’ so many things that he got transferred out. Old Sergeant Madden, o’ the Cavalry, is still around, but he’s been shot at more’n once, and I’m glad he’s gettin’ retired, for his own sake.” MacDowell’s eyes were beginning to sparkle with the joy of coming conflict as the ranger was talking. ‘But why should he be out for my scalp?” he inquired. “Outside of that one little soirée we had, I don’t recall any previous dealings with the gent.”’ “T’d be plumb tickled to find out, myself, but one of our gang—Biddle, that works up around Marfa in the Big Bend—was in El Paso and heard some fellers kiddin’ Fitz- patrick about you forcin’ him to hike a few, and what Fitzpatrick says was that a guy by the name o’ MacDowell better watch his step. If he hadn’t been drinkin’ he wouldn’t a’ said that much, but that much from him is a heap.” Ransom, listening eagerly, turned to look at MacDowell. The pilot’s eyes were rest- ing on the mechanics who were filling the McMullen De Haviland out on the line, but it was apparent that he was not thinking of them. He appeared to be groping for some memory that eluded him. “Seems to me,” he drawled—still gazing at the busy mechanics—“‘that I heard dad say somethin’ once about some trouble he had with Fitzpatrick. I wonder ‘“Jehos’aphat! Is your pappy MacDowell that used to have the Circle Eight ranch?” “That’s him!” “Well, Pll be cow-kicked! Funny I never thought o’ that—I knowed they called you Tex, too. So you’re Roarin’ Bill Mac- Dowell’s boy, are you?” The ranger chewed rapidly in an effort to digest the news.. ‘Boy, I seen your daddy rake ina eight- thousand-dollar pot up to the Adolphus Hotel in Dallas only two years ago, at the Stockmen’s Convention, on a busted flush! And it’s money to dead mules that Dave Fitzpatrick is after old Roarin’ Bill more’n ' he is you.” “T shouldn’t be surrounded,” grinned Tex. “But dad’ll take a lot of getting.” “T disremember just what it was—it must ’a’ been twenty-five years ago, but I know it 15 was something about your daddy catchin’ Fitzpatrick cheatin’ in a big stud game up to Palestine. Them in the game was all big stockmen, like your daddy, and there was near a killin’. I think they give Fitz- patrick a time-limit to leave them parts—he was ranchin’ then himself—and he sold out and came down to Tia Nita. I clean forgot it was old Bill MacDowell that chucked his cards in Fitzpatrick’s face. I never really knew your daddy, but everybody knew of him in them days.” ‘I guess dad was some boy in his prime,” admitted the scion of Roaring Bill. ‘And he’s still got a kick in either hand.” “Don’t doubt,” replied Ayres, his stubble- covered face a mass of wrinkles as it split from ear to ear in a reminiscent grin. ‘‘Well, to return to the business in hand, here’s my idea o’ just about what that old skunk Fitz- patrick is figurin’ on. He’s been keepin’ that grudge o’ his against your daddy all these years, which ain’t very surprizin’, neither. When he found out that the man who scared him off the road was the son of Bill MacDowell, it freshened up his mind on what happened in that stud session. Your daddy bein’ somewhat well known and powerful up around north Texas, ain’t so easy to get at, so it’s a ten to one shot with no takers that old Dave is plannin’ to pay off your daddy by knockin’ you loose.” “How do you figure he’ll go at it?” MacDowell’s drawl, ordinarily so slight that it was merely a pleasant, softly slurred deliberation in speech, was very slow as he asked this question. But strangely enough, as he glanced at the absorbed Ransom and then met the eyes of the weather-beaten old ranger, he seemed to be aglow inside. Those of us who knew Tex grew very familiar with those symptoms. He met the prospect of danger, a contest of any kind, with a reck- less joy that found its only physical outlet in the leaping, dancing fire that turned his gray eyes into pools of flame. Strangely enough, aside from this manifestation of his temperament, a prospect of this sort seemed to make him a little more deliberate. His drawl became pronounced, his attitude al- most lazy. Perhaps Ayres saw a reflection of Roaring Bill MacDowell as he looked at Tex, for he grinned appreciatively. ‘Well, Dave works in different ways,” he answered reflectively. “‘I don’t figure ] there’ll be anything like shootin! I’ve cCoOmicloolkks.Gonmn