Adventure Magazine Cover — page 180: what you’re looking at

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

174 JOHN was a small crowd before the door, and the crowd was growing as other men came from all directions. Feeling ran hot against Dave Ellers and many men had been mere- ly waiting for some one to take the lead. Now here they were, figures shifting in the lantern light, waiting for Augie Underholtz to open the jail door and let them take the murderer of good old Tom Campbell. “Come on, Augie!’ A _ revolver butt thudded on the door. ‘Open up!”’ Augie looked at Tim. The little editor was standing dejectedly in the center of the room, an uncertain look in his eye, and Augie told himself he couldn’t expect much help from his temporary deputy. Tim didn’t lay claim to being a fighting man; in the fifteen years he had been in Sunbake, no one had ever known him to talk fight; just the opposite, in fact. “Go talk to ’em, Augie,” advised Tim. “Talk law an’ order, Augie. They ain’t— ain’t—” “Th they ain’t!” growled the sheriff. But he moved to the door and placed his hand on the bolt. He didn’t want to shoot any one if he could help it. There was a faint chance that he could talk reason into them. And anyway, if he didn’t open the door they would break it down. “Stand away from that door!’’ he shouted. “I’m comin’ out, an’ I want yuh all to stand back!” “Come on, Augie,” answered a voice. “‘Le’s have a look at yuh.” He heard them move away and opened the door. Then he stepped out, Tim close at his side. The crowd of men were in the street, looking up at him. In the front rank were Mike Sloan and Frank Jessup, their thumbs hooked in their broad leather belts. Close by were Jud Mace and young Jake Sarney, the latter with his hand on the butt of his pearl-handled six-gun. “Hand over that polecat, Augie!” de- manded Frank Jessup. ‘‘Yuh can’t stop us an’ if yuh try yuh’ll on’y get somebody hurt. Hand him over.” Augie shook his head. “Can’t do that, Frank. Yuh oughta know I can’t. Yuh better clear out o’ here ’n’ let th’ law handle Dave. Yuh fellers ain’t got no right comin’ ’round here ’n’ keepin’ me awake all night—-”’ Augie broke off and reached for his gun. And then something dropped over his head; his arms were drawn tight to his side and WEBB he was yanked sidewise into the arms of the men waiting for him. A man had climbed to the roof of the jail from behind and had dropped the noose of a lariat over Augie’s head as he stood before the door. The crowd surged forward. “Back!” And they stopped. There was mettle in that tone. They stared up at the little man in the doorway. Tim had his arms folded across his chest. His glasses were off now, and cold eyes glittered watchfully. He seemed to have suddenly grown taller, and grim and cold. There was about him a reckless something that had to be reckoned with. “Get back!” he snapped. “See this?” With his thumb he tapped the shining star on his coat lapel. ‘“That’s the law, you half-witted sidewinders! It’s bigger than you an’ me an’ all Sunbake, you cow- nursin’, lump-headed—”’ “Don’t do it!” barked Frank Jessup. In his hand he held his big .45, its muzzle pointed straight at Tim Wiley’s stomach. “Make a quick move ’n’ I’ll bore yuh! We’ve had about enough of you, with yuh’re fool talk. Hand over that gun under yuhr arm!’’ Tim stood motionless with his arms still folded across his chest. Mike Sloan stepped forward a pace and spoke gruffly, anxiously. “Don’t go gettin’ yuhrself in trouble, Tim. I give yuh a warnin’ a while ago.” The others looked puzzled as Mike and Tim exchanged glances. ‘“‘Keep yuhr hand off that gun, Tim. Lemme take it out from under yuhr arm.” But Tim already had the gun out of its holster. Gripping it by the barrel, pointing toward himself, he held it out to Frank Jessup. Mike tensed. He bit down on his mus- tache. He wished he knew what Tim was going to do. All Tim had to do was let Frank take that gun, and everything would be all right. Mike wavered, not knowing what to do. Frank Jessup had his hand out for the gun. He half lowered his own gun as his fingers brushed Tim’s. But his fingers did no more than brushit. For like a snake the long black .44 curled around his hand and the heavy butt landed with a little slap in Tim’s palm. “Drop it, Frank!”’ Frank Jessup let his gun fall to the COnmiclboookks.c© 5}