Adventure Magazine Cover — page 70: what you’re looking at

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

68 Porter would question him. As Porter neared the office, Marion Taylor, Jimmy Legg and Sleepy came riding down the street. Porter came up to Barnhardt, but did not speak, and they watched the riders draw up in front of them. . “Good morning, Mr. Barnhardt,” said Marion, “We looked for you at the depot a while ago. Did you decide to not go away?” Barnhardt nodded dumbly, because he dared not speak. ‘““Where’s the tall feller?”’ asked Porter. “He went away on the train,” said Sleepy, beginning the manufacture of a cigaret. “Went away, eh? Gone to stay?” ‘“‘No-o-0; just to Encinas.” Barnhardt swallowed heavily and tried to smile. “That’s where Al’s girl lives,” he offered. ““He may see her,” replied Sleepy seri- ously. Porter stared at Sleepy, wondering if this innocent-eyed cowboy meant anything by that remark. ‘“‘We came in pretty early,”’ said Marion, “and I wonder if the sheriff will let me in the jail.” “He’s in the office,” growled Porter. “T reckon he will.” They moved on toward the jail, and Por- ter turned angrily to Barnhardt. “That was a —— of a remark to make! You ain’t got no interest in my girl, have yuh?” “Not a particle.”’ “Then never mind about her; sabe? You monkey with my business and you'll get worse than Tex Alden gave yuh.” “Did you come up here to pick a fight?” queried Barnhardt. “Any old time I look for trouble, I won’t pick out a —— wide-mouthed lawyer, that’s a cinch.”’ Porter turned on his heel and went to the stable, where he saddled his horse and rode out of town. Barnhardt waited until the three riders had left the sheriff’s office, and then went down there. The sheriff looked quizzically at him. “YT thought you was goin’ away this mornin’, Lee.” “Changed my mind,” said Barnhardt. “May go tomorrow.” The sheriff nodded and looked at some papers on his desk. W. C. TUTTLE “Hartley went away this mornin’,” of- fered Barnhardt. The sheriff looked up. “Yeah, they said he did; went to En- cinas. ”’ “Yes. I guess he expected me to go on the same train.” “Prob’ly did. I told him yuh was goin’ away this mornin’.”’ Barnhardt went back to his office, his mind still traveling in circles. He knew what would happen if he accused Tex Alden of opening the safe. Tex was hot- headed, and Barnhardt knew he could never best Tex in any kind of a fair fight. If he accused Tex of theft, he’d never get his money and papers back. So Barnhardt decided to wait and see, even if the waiting did gall his soul. No one, except himself and the man who opened the safe, knew that such a thing had been done. He had thought of having Tex arrested, but decided that his evidence against Tex only consisted of Tex’s knowing that the eight thousand was in the safe. Barnhardt had counted the package of money, when he was alone, and it contained that amount of currency. Sleepy, Jimmy and Marion did not ride back to the ranch on the road, but circled through the hills. It was early morning, and they were in no hurry to return. A coyote invited them to a race, and they gave him what he was looking for. Only a barrier of mesquite, into which he sped like a gray shadow, saved him from Sleepy’s loop. Flocks of white-wing doves hurtled past them, heading for the water-holes; quail called from the slopes; a deer broke from a thicket, and after a few short, stiff-legged jumps, headed up a slope, head cocked back, walking jerkily. They were nearing the ranch when they described a flock of buzzards, circling low over a little ravine, like scraps of black paper, caught in the grip of a whirlwind. “Somebody lost a cow,” said Sleepy, “and it’s eatin’ time for Mr. Buzzard.” “T hope it isn’t any of our stock,” said Marion. “We can’t afford to feed any buz- zards this year.” Jimmy evinced a desire to investigate; so he and Sleepy rode down to the ravine, while Marion circled higher on the hill. The air suddenly filled with flapping buz- zards, croaking hoarsely; possibly swearing GOMIGIOO S (C©@