Adventure Magazine Cover — page 42: what you’re looking at

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

40 “T know that sentence by heart, Sleepy. And you ought to know my reply. But that don’t alter the fact that she’s one pretty girl.” “There yuh go!” gloomily. Johnny Grant had spotted them and was coming their way, slightly unsteady on his legs, but grinning widely. “C’mon and have a drink,” he urged. “I jist runs four-bits into a ten-spot in the black-jack game. If yuh don’t drink yuh can have a see-gar. But I warns yuh, their see-gars are a lot older than the liquor they sell. C’mon up to the bar and meet some of the folks.” Neither of them wanted a drink, but they did want to be friendly with Johnny Grant and his crowd; so they elbowed their way to the bar. Ed Gast and Bill Bailey, of the X Bar 6, were at the bar, and Johnny intro- duced them, after which he deposited his money on the bar, and demanded action. ‘Beatin’ that game is as easy as holdin’ up a train,” he declared, chuckling. ‘Runs four-bits up to ten dollars, and sticks my thumb at m’ nose at the dealer.” Hashknife noticed that the sheriff was at the bar, and that Johnny’s remark inter- ested him. “Except that yuh can’t very well lose at holdin’ up a train,” added Eskimo Swenson, who had caught the sheriff’s reflection in the mirror. “If yuh ever get the money in yore hands, yo’re as safe as a church. Politi- cal affluence shore as —— don’t make a sheriff a man-catcher.”’ Realizing that this conversation was for his benefit, the sheriff moved away from the bar, while the AK boys chuckled over their drinks. Even Sleepy Stevens shed his pessimistic attitude and grinned. ‘““These are home folks,” he said to Hash- knife. “It appears that the sheriff ain’t standin’ very well with the AK.” “Aw, he’s all night,” said Oyster. ‘“‘Scotty’s as good as the average sheriff, ex- cept that he’s too serious. He’d give his right eye for a chance to prove first degree murder agin’ the whole AK outfit, because we devil him. He’s—” The men at the bar jerked around when from out in the street came the unmistak- able sound of a revolver shot. ‘Somebody celebratin’,” decided Johnny Grant, as the sheriff and several men moved to the doorway and went outside. They gulped their drinks, and went out W. C. TUTTLE into the street, where the only lights were those from the saloon and store windows. “Somebody tryin’ to be funny,” grumbled the sheriff. He went back into the Oasis. Some men had come from Moon’s store across the street, evidently wondering who had fired the shot. Two men with a lantern were fussing around a wagon in front of the black- smith shop. One of the men came across from the store and went into the Oasis. It was Chet Le Moyne. “Well, I reckon it was some puncher wish- ful of makin’ a noise,” decided Johnny Grant. They turned and were going back into the | saloon, when some one called from the hotel, which was across the street, and about a block north of the Oasis. ““C’mere!”’ yelled the man. He was evi- dently calling to some one in the hotel. “Come out and help me with this feller!” *“*That sounds like somethin’ wrong,” said Hashknife. “Let’s go and see what it is.” They hurried up the street and crossed to the hotel, where several men had gath- ered around a man who was lying flat on the ground. ‘“‘He’s been shot,” they heard one of them say. “Better pack him into the hotel and send for a doctor.” A man scratched a match, but it flickered out. Hashknife shoved him aside, dropped on his knees beside the man, and ignited a match, with a snap of his thumb-nail. The illumination showed a gory face, gray as ashes, where the blood had not stained. “My ——!” blurted Johnny. Jimmy Legg!” He dropped on his knees beside Hash- knife, grasping Jimmy’s shoulders. “Hey! Jimmy!” he exclaimed. “Don’t shake him!’ roared Eskimo. “You big idiot!” ‘Somebody go and find a doctor,’’ or- dered Hashknife. ‘‘We’ll take him in the hotel.” They carried him into the little hotel office, where there was light enough for them to discover that Jimmy Legg had missed death by a very scant margin. The bullet had struck him just above his left ear, slanted along his skull, and had furrowed deeply for about three inches. Some one had gone after a doctor, and in the meantime Hashknife secured a basin of water and a towel, with which he mopped some of the blood away. “Tt’s DOOLK C@