Adventure Magazine Cover, October 30, 1924 — page 163: what you’re looking at

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

The Death Watch don’t often git a conviction,” he observed. ‘And hit’s likely that them split-toed shoes have been burned ’r buried afore now.”’ “Yes,’’ admitted the sheriff, ‘“there’s a chance of it. But that ain’t the only trail I’m following. I’m after more than just circumstantial evidence. “Now, Dave,” he ordered, “‘you get on your horse and strike for Rothwell. Begin there, keep on down the narrow gage to Chambers Station, then turn north and bear to the east until you reach the Slate Fork of Licking River. Stop by every house along the way and ask cautious if the folks there have seen Uncle Johnny Bradshaw of late. You'll get done a hour before sun- down, when I want you to meet me at the cabin. By that time I’ll have covered my territory and we'll be ready for the clos- ing in.” Deputy Arnett accepted the commission with a brief nod and a hitch at his pistol belt, and left the room. Clint Hawkins made sure that his own .38 special was securely holstered on his right hip and that he had a supply of extra car- tridges. He then went to the county judge’s office, had him assume the duty of com- municating with the Hinkston authorities about the colporter’s body, and swore out a sheaf of John Doe search warrants which he put carefully in his pocket. Half an hour later he again was in the saddle, going northeast from town along the Beaver Creek Road. “This is the only real robbery that’s hap- pened in the county since I’ve been sheriff,” Clint muttered to himself as he gave the horse a loose rein. “Of course a mountain man will steal a stray barrel, if he’s a ’shiner, or a fat chicken when he’s hungry, or a juicy ripe watermelon that’s Jaying convenient to his path. But it’s always been a fact up here in these hills that, while most everybody is dog poor, nobody is low and mean enough to rob for money.”’ The burly sheriff might wink at moon- shining and bloodless shooting affrays, but he felt the present crime a challenge to his official pride and native honor. ast JOHN BRADSHAW, whose pen- te 5% sion aS a superannuated minister —_—- was too meager to support him, had spent the Summers since his retirement sell- mings Bibles, hymn books and other religious literature through the hill counties nearest 153 his Blue Grass town. A kindly, curious old man, he sang psalms as he tramped the winding trails, his back bent under his pack, a staff aiding his tireless feet. Folk soon began to call him “Uncle,” a complimentary title like that of ‘‘Colonel”’ in the Kentucky lowlands, indicating affec- tion and respect. He always paid for his lodging at a mountain home by leaving one of his books, although the gift was never requested and often protested because of its value to him. Sheriff Hawkins had no difficulty in trac- ing the colporter’s late journey through the northeastern section of the county. <A “‘furriner’”’ was recognized and remembered everywhere, especially one with whom the people were familiar. “Have you all seen anything of Uncle Johnny Bradshaw these last several days?”’ Clint would ask, stopping at a house. “I’ve got a letter that came for him in my care, and happening this way where I knew he’d headed, I ‘lowed I might catch up with him.” At intervals he found a home where the colporter had eaten a meal or spent the night, and frequently was shown a Bible which had been purchased from him. Yes, Uncle Johnny had come by just a few days agone. He seemed weary, and the man had set him a chair while the wife fetched him a gourd of cool spring water and a piece of dried-apple pie. Joe Wells picked him up in his wagon then and took him to the next house. There a little girl was sick, and the old man had prayed over her and advised the mother to throw away certain bottles of patent medicine she was giving. No, he had thanked them, but he wouldn’t stay for supper. Maybe he could tarry when he came by again. He was push- ing on to a neighbor’s before dark; then, the following morning, he’d turn west and ped- dle among the folks who lived on Salt Lick Creek. That was three days ago. Clint himself turned westward, narrowing the distance between his and Dave Arnett’s field of investigation. The sun beat hotly on the rutted roads, no breeze stirred even on the highest ridges and the. cloudless sky was the color of polished copper. But Sheriff Hawkins could not spare his lathered horse. There were yet many miles to be covered. By midafternoon he reached the hillside micloool C© in