Adventure Magazine Cover — page 172: what you’re looking at

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

170 The breed growled some inarticulate reply and lighted another cigaret. “‘Where’d yuh git that lump on yore jaw and what become uh the two boys I sent with yuh this mornin’? Don’t try any monkey business with me, yuh half- breed er I’ll hang yore hide on the fence.” Ribs Austin’s tone was blatantly insulting as he leered down at Frenchy who made no reply. “I been watchin’ yuh closter than yuh think, Injun,” Ribs went on. “I kept my eye on yuh lately. You’ve hed a of a lot uh business over at the Bar B lately, ain’t yuh? But yuh won’t have from now on. Keep away from there, savvy? Keep yore dirty Injun paws offen that gal er ll gut shoot yuh and leave yuh to die a- sweatin’.” The men in the tent grew tense as they saw Ribs Austin’s gun slide into view. The candle on the table guttered and flared up, revealing the foreman’s bloated face, mot- tled with excitement. Frenchy blew a cloud of smoke upward. “Yo’re dronk, Reebs,” he said softly, his white teeth showing in a mirthless smile. “Frenchy don’t fight weeth dronk man.” “‘Ner sober ones, yuh yaller dog,” growled Ribs. ‘I never seen a breed yet that wouldn’t lay ’em down in a fight!” Frenchy, tense as a coiled rattler, bared his lips in a snarl. Then his beady eyes shifted to the doorway and widened as if hypnotized. Ribs, seeing the sudden change of the breed’s expression, turned slowly. In the doorway of the dimly lighted tent stood Tad Ladd. Gaunt, haggard, ter- rible, the big puncher loomed up like a huge timber wolf. Tad’s gun seemed to cover every man in the tent. “Drop that gun, Austin!’ The big cow- puncher’s words cracked like a whip lash. Ribs Austin’s pudgy fingers relaxed and his .45 dropped to the ground. “Get on yore laigs, Frenchy!’ was Tad’s next order. ‘And keep yore paws in th air! Pronto!’ : Frenchy gathered himself slowly. His right hand crept cautiously toward his left armpit. “Paws up, yuh!” snapped Tad. “T’m rearin’ tuh kill yuh, Mister. Another move like that and yo’re done fer.”’ Frenchy’s hands went up and he got to his feet. ‘‘Now every man here line up facin’ the Adventure tent waJl. Keep yore hands high. That’s the idee. Cook, gather the guns and th’ow ’em outside. Make it quick!” The old cook, mumbling and begging Tad not to shoot him, obeyed hastily. One after another, the guns were pitched outside. ‘“‘Austin,” said Tad in a voice that carried the chill of a Winter night. ‘‘I come here to kill you and that murderin’ breed. I’m killin’ you fer the murder of Uncle Billy Jacobs down in the Gila Bend country. The jury cleared yuh, Austin, but you was guilty jest the same. It’s fifteen years since you done that murder and stole them P Cross cattle. But you gettin’ paid in full tonight.” Ribs Austin cowered as if struck, He dried to speak, but the cold look in Tad’s eyes silenced him. “T’m goin’ to kill yuh with my two hands, Austin. Then, when I’ve finished you, I’m goin’ to kill that murderin’ breed.” Tad turned to Frenchy, his eyes hot with hate. “You killed my pardner today, yuh mur- derin’ skunk. And you'll pay the same as Ribs Austin pays.” “And a danged good riddance it’l] be,” croaked the old cook. ‘Do a clean job of it, big feller. That low down breed has dealt me orn’ariness a plenty. I’d ’a’ quit this bull-dozin’, cow-thievin’ spread long ago if that pot-bellied Austin hadn’t kept me drunk and took my wages off me with his poker playin’. Have at ’em, big boy! I’m a-backin’ yore play.” He jerked a long barreled old .44 from the mess box and poked Frenchy none too gently in the ribs. ‘Better drop the shootin’ iron, old timer,” warned Tad. ‘I’m noways shore you ain’t a playin’ a smooth game tuh git a shot at me.”’ ‘Yuh ain’t?”’ croaked the old cook slyly. “Yuh think I ain’t tellin’ it straight, eh? Lemme tell yuh somethin’, Mister. I seen you and yore pardner a-swipin’ that grub outa the mess wagon a week er two ago. I put a sack full uh grub where yuh’d find it easy when yuh come again. It’s a-layin’ there on top uh the canned stuff right now. And lemme tell yuh somethin’ more. Bully Jacobs uh the P Cross ‘s uncle to the Shorty boy. I worked fer the P Cross fer five years and I know. But I never told Austin. No ma’am. I laid low a waitin’ fer you boys to Jump out Ribs Austin. I’m poolin’ my bets with you, win er lose. Play yore cards, Ladd.” MICLOOOK (© inn