Adventure Magazine Cover — page 161: what you’re looking at

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

The Grub-Line Shorty rode at a walk, swinging the end of his catch-rope, letting it drag on the ground behind the shying pinto’ to accus- tom the bronc to it.. ‘Two ag’in’ two,” muttered Tad. ‘‘Fair enough. But why don’t that danged runt put up that rope so’s he kin git his gun oute”’ Shorty was still twenty feet away when Tad reached Ribs and Frenchy. ‘The breed’s lips bared in a grin, but his black eyes were bright with suppressed excite- ment, hard and unsmiling. Ribs, his bloated face dark with rage, scowled at the big cow-puncher who drew rein and nodded carelessly. “T done kept my eyes peeled fer Bar B stuff, Austin,” he announced. The Slash R boss eyed him fora moment without replying. There was murder in his bloodshot eyes and his right hand was shoved inside his shirt. “Got the other un covered, Frenchy?” he growled without taking his gaze from Tad’s face. “Ous,’”? came the answer, and the sun- light glittered on the blue barrel of the .45 that suddenly appeared in the breed’s right hand. “Allright. Now we’ll talk, Mister Long- horn. Keep yore hand clear from yore gun and listen clost, savvy?” “Speak yore piece, Austin,” said Tad quietly as he met Shorty’s glance for the fraction of a second. Shorty, still toying with his rope, calmly sat the prancing pinto. Perhaps it was a grain of dust that closed the little puncher’s left eye for an instant, but it looked very much as if Shorty winked. Otherwise he gave no sign that anything unusual was happening. ‘*Yo’re drawin’ Slash R wages, big feller,” Ribs went on. ‘Big wages. Yo’re workin’ fer me, not fer ary scissor-bill, savvy? It looks to me like you knowed too much fer a common cow-hand. Too danged much. There ain’t room here on this range fer gents like you and yore pardner. You act like yo’re huntin’ trouble and you shore come to the right place to get it!”’ There was a slight movement of the hand hidden beneath the shirt, accompanied by the click-click of a .45 coming to full cock. Shorty’s wrist suddenly twisted. The rope flipped up under the tail of Austin’s horse. With a snort, the horse jumped for- . yearlin’, 159 ward, dropped his head, and landed stiff- legged. Ribs Austin’s gun roared, tearing a burn- ing hole in his flannel shirt as the bullet went wild. The horse, now frightened thor- oughly, was doing a good job of pitching. Another jump and Ribs would be thrown. As Tad’s gun flipped out to cover Frenchy, the breed’s six-shooter belched flame. Ribs Austin toppled from his sad- dle, blood spurting from an ugly gash in his cheek. “De gun, she’s pull to de lef’,” grunted Frenchy as he tossed the weapon to the ground and held up his hands. Ribs, stunned by the fall, lay still. The crimson blood was rapidly staining his cheek and neck. The hole in his shirt smoldered where the flame of the gun had ignited it. Tad and Shorty looked at each other ina bewildered manner for a second. Frenchy looked from one to the other. “Tt was you that shot Ribs, Frenchy?” asked Tad finally. - “I’m shoot at you, M’sieur Tad. De gun she pull hon de trigger. De-nex’ time I’m have better luck mebbeso.” Frenchy fished something from the deep pocket of his chaps and handed it to Shorty. It was the little cow-puncher’s running-iron. “I’m find heem at de place where you brand de Mebbeso you need heem again, ehe”’ “Well Ill be doggoned!”’ gasped Tad. “You win that pot, Frenchy. But how “T’m theenk you boys better pull out now. ‘Two-three Slash R boys ees ride thees way weeth Reebs’ hoss. Reebs she’s come alive purty queeck too. Get yore hoss from de remuda, pack de bed, han’ hit de trail. You have shoot Reebs han’ tak my gun away. Ees bad. Go queeck!” “Well, I be ! What do you say, Tad- die?”’ “T reckon he’s right, son. Frenchy, yo’re a slick un. I don’t savvy yore game. Don’t want to. Mebbe our trails’ll cross again. Mebbe not. I reckon yo’re doin’ me and Shorty a good turn, Mister. But I’m tellin’ yuh right now that I don’t like gents uh yore breed. Me’n’ Shorty fights fair and we don’t want yore kind to be doin’ us favors ner tryin’ to throw in with us. Savvy?” The half-breed’s eyes narrowed to twin slits of black fire. Then he shrugged, and his white teeth shone in a smile. Co NOOK C@