Adventure Magazine Cover — page 153: what you’re looking at

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

The Grub-Line yuh a fit send-off when yuh lays ’em down, Taddie. ! Look yonder!” A quarter of a mile away, traveling at right angles to the direction in which the two cow-punchers were going, four riders were hazing a bunch of cattle into a long coulée. ‘““Give you one guess what them boys is doin’, Tad.” “One’s a plenty. Rustlin’ cattle. Well, ’tain’t our place to stop ’em. Swing into that draw afore they spot us, Shorty.” Tad spoke too late. One of the riders had already seen them and was leaving the cattle to head their way. Another of the riders joined him and the two men rode at a lope. Tad and Shorty exchanged a quick look and both grinned. But their right hands were within a few inches of their guns when the two riders drew rein. Both the men were well mounted, had good outfits and carried saddle guns. Their clothes showed signs of service and both needed a shave. The man on the roan horse, a burly, coarse-featured individual with bloodshot, pale-blue eyes, seemed to be leader. The other man looked like a half-breed and wore his six-shooter in a home-made shoulder holster. The burly man’s pig-like eyes seemed to grasp every detail of the two cow-punchers’ outfits. The double-rigged saddles, the tie loops in the ends of their catch-ropes, the gaunt condition of their horses, the pack horse, all told their tales. It needed only Tad’s soft Texan drawl to clinch the fact that the two travelers were from the southern ranges. ‘Ridin’ the grub-line, boys?’’ he asked with a hint of a snger in his tone. A quick flash colored Shorty’s tanned cheeks. There are times when the best of cow-hands “‘ride the grub-line,”’ drifting from one outfit to the next in search of a job. There is no disgrace attached to the procedure and it is no insult to be asked if one is riding the grub-line. It was the burly man’s tone, rather than the question, that nettled the hot-tempered Shorty. Tad, reading the danger signal in his partner’s expression, cut in quickly. ‘“‘We’re headin’ fer the Circle C, mister,” he volunteered, a slow grin on his lips. “Yeah? Kinda off the trail some, ain’t uhP”’ ‘“‘Wouldn’t be surprized. We’re strangers 151 on this range. Mebbeso we’re a mite off the trail.” The burly man laughed shortly. ‘“‘A mite and then some, stranger. See them blue peaks to the west? The Circle C lays at the foot uh them mountains. Yo’re only about a hundred miles off the trail and headin’ in the wrong direction, that’s all. Huntin’ work?” Into the minds of both Ted and Shorty flashed the picture of that bunch of cattle being hazed into the coulée. Broke, hungry, out of tobacco and a hundred miles off the trail on a strange range, the offer of a job sounded like music in their sun- burned ears. But to take a job with an outfit whose business was rustling other men’s cattle? They looked at each other inquiringly. “The Slash R pays top wages, gents,” the big man put in. “Best in the State. And we carry a keg uh licker in the mess- wagon.” “T could use a slug uh good liker,’”’ mused Tad aloud. ‘‘What say, pardner?”’ ‘“‘We gotta eat soon, Tad, no foolin’ about that. JI reckon yuh done hired two hands, Mister.” a “Good. Wagon’s camped at the head uh that long draw. The cook’ll take care uh yuh. Me’n’ ‘Frenchy’ has to ketch up with them dogies we’re shovin’ across the crick. We jest finished workin’ the herd and those was nester cattle that those scissor-bills throwed in on our range. This ain’t the cow country she used to be, boys. Sheep and nesters has dang nigh crowded us out. Well, you fellers go on to camp and take it easy. Yore pay starts from this mornin’ but you don’t start work till tomorrow mornin’. Tell that orn’ary ole grub sp’iler to feed yuh plenty and show yuh where the keg is. So-long. C’mon, Frenchy.” The big man whirled his horse and the breed followed him out of sight over the ridge. “Vuh got that, Shorty? The Slash R?” grinned Tad as the two punchers got under way. “T ain’t deef. The big ’un must be ‘Ribs’ Austin. Reckon he read our brands, Tade”’ ‘“*Tain’t noways likely. He quit the Gila Bend country afore we come there. H’d never heered tell uh Tad Ladd ner Shorty Carroway. Barrin’ accidents, we’d orter DOOK (C@ inn