Adventure Magazine Cover — page 53: what you’re looking at

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

THE BUCKAROO OF BLUE WELLS “Shot at me,” finished Jimmy nervously. “That bullet went past my ear—I felt it.” “But—but—”’ faltered Marion. “Stay where yuh are,” cautioned Hash- knife. He ran into the bunk-house, and came out in a minute, stuffing cartridges into the loading-gate of one of the ranch rifles. “Oh, be careful about showing yourself,” cautioned Marion. “Thanks,” grinned Hashknife. He moved along the patio wall, slipped out through the gate, while Sleepy took a rifle from the bunk-house, swearing dis- gustedly over the fact that Hashknife had taken all the cartridges. “Tt came from the hill back of us,” said Marion. “Poor old Apollo!” “Veah, he’s a goner,’”’ said Sleepy softly. “Well, that’s about all yuh ever could do to make him die. If old age was ever goin’ to kill him, he’d ’a’ died forty years ago.” There were tears in Marion’s eyes as she looked at the sprawling figure of the ancient burro. Worse than useless, he had always been a part of the Double Bar 8. It was the razing of a landmark. Suddenly the ancient one shuddered, lifted its misshapen head and goggled fool- ishly. Then it got slowly to unsteady legs, staggered a few feet, thrust out its head, opened a cavernous mouth, which showed a few crooked teeth, and brayed defiance to all rifle-shooting bushwhackers. “My !’? snorted Sleepy. “A rifle can’t even kill it!” Marion was laughing and crying alter- nately, and Sleepy grasped her by the arm to prevent her from going out to the burro. “Tt just creased him,” explained Sleepy. “See where that blood streak runs down his neck? That bullet went through his neck just over the vertebre, knocked him plumb out for a while, but he’s as good as ever now.” Apollo looked reproachfully at Sleepy, stretched his neck tentatively and moved over to the shade of the wall, evidently none the worse for his experience. When Hashknife left the patio gate he hugged the wall, circling to the rear of the bunk-house, from where he ran to the stable. He decided that the shot had been fired from a point on the hill, near the upper end of a small cafion. It was about the only spot on that side where a man could get 51 elevation enough to enable him to see the center of the patio. There was plenty of brush on the slope behind the stable; brush tall enough to conceal him from any one on the slope; so Hashknife did not hesitate to head directly for the spot he had in mind. There was no more shooting, but Hashknife could not be sure that the bushwhacker had not seen him start from the patio; so when he was half-way up to the break of the cafion, he went carefully, taking advantage of the heaviest cover in sight. Hashknife realized his own danger. It was almost impossible for him to move without making a noise in the dry brush. And he did not know what moment a bul- let might search him out. Working to the right, he came to the cafion-rim, where he sprawled under a bush, listening closely. Near him a flock of quail scurried about in the brush, their peculiar call, ventrilo- quistic, “Sit right there!’ echoing back from the cafion-walls. One of them passed within inches of his rifle muzzle, a nervously jerking handful of blue and bronze, evi- dently puzzled at this sprawled figure of a human, which did not move. The quail were working up the slope. Peering beneath the brush, Hashknife could see the little blue fellows running from cover to cover, while their calling became more faint. Hashknife slid farther out on the rim, and was about to get to his feet, when he saw the flock of quail whir up from the brush, and come hurtling down the cajion, swinging in below him, scattering badly, and beginning their warn- ing cries again. Something or somebody had disturbed them. Then he heard the sound of some- thing coming down through the brush toward him. He got to his haunches, swinging his rifle into position as a horse and rider broke through the brush, almost against him. The black horse snorted wildly, as Hash- knife arose, covering the rider with the rifle. The man jerked back and his hands went above his head, while the horse surged back. The rider was of medium height, slightly gray, his bronzed face heavily lined, one cheek bulged with a chew of tobacco. He quieted the horse, spat explosively and shut one eye as he looked down at Hash- knife. “Well?” he said rather defiantly. COmiclbool (C@