“Didja ever read ‘Robinson Crusoe’?” asked Sad Sontag, leaning back in a
dilapidated chair at the Bar S ranch and looking through a big book,
balanced on his knees.
Swede Harrigan squinted through his revolver barrel at the window,
decided that it was clean enough, and reached for the oil can.
“Know it by heart,” he declared wisely. “It was written on Friday by a
man who found tracks in the sand. Where’d yuh get that book, Sad?”
“Found it upstairs. It’s probably a book that old man Steeb gave to the
kid on Christmas. I ain’t read that story for years, and it kinda brings
back memories of my childhood.”
“Yeah, it must,” agreed Swede. “You was eighteen years old before yuh
learned to spell yore name.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. Well, it brings back memories of my callow
youth. How does that suit yuh?”
“Suits me,” Swede shoved the gun into his holster and wiped his hands on
his knees. “That danged deputy sheriff shore was careless to let our
guns fall in the dust thataway. Say, I wonder what they’ll say when we
show up at the sale? I dunno whether it’ll be just the right thing to
do, or not, Sad.
“We don’t know how the sheriff feels about it. My gosh, he may be out
gunnin’ for us right now. He—say, why don’tcha listen to me? You don’t
seem to care a dang, Sad.”
“I was just wonderin’,” said Sad thoughtfully. “By golly, it’ll be a
good way to find out for sure.”
“Find out what?”
“What didja say, Swede?”
“Well, now that’s sure intelligible,” declared Swede. “I suppose yuh
found somethin’ in that book that’ll help yuh out, didn’t yuh?”
“Uh-huh—mebbe. When yuh don’t know the answer to anythin’—look in the
book and see,” grinned Sad. “In a couple of hours they’ll come out here
to hold that sale, and I might read ’em somethin’ out of the book.”
“I hope Bill Wyatt and his gang shows up,” mused Swede. “If the Lord
ever did make three danged fools, them are the ones. They’re either
ignorant, or they’ve got a lot of nerve.”
“They think they’re clever,” grinned Sad.
“Then this is an awful ignorant settlement. We better get all set before
they show up.”
And while Sad and Swede got ready to receive them, the delegation rode
from Oreana to attend the sale. Several buyers had come from the lower
ranges, lured by the chance of buying something cheap.
Bunty O’Neil rode with the sheriff and his assistant, Wheezer. He was in
hopes that the sale would bring enough money to pay his notes against
the Bar S; but the sheriff assured him that it would not. The ranch
itself was not worth over five thousand, and thirty or forty head of
cattle would not bring enough more to cover the amount of the notes.
It was doubtful if a buyer could be found for the ranch. The story of
the arrest and escape of Sad and Swede had become known, although the
steer episode had only been touched upon lightly. Bill Wyatt and his two
men rode together, and it seemed that they were unusually quiet of
demeanor.
Speck rode with the sheriff, and was still willing to bet his dog that
Sad and Swede would attend the sale. Speck had begun to realize that the
Bar S was to be sold for debts, and that it no longer would be home to
him. Buck Rainey had explained it to him in detail, and a great wrath
welled up within Speck against Bunty O’Neil, the man who was indirectly
responsible for this loss.
“That shore is dirty work,” Speck declared hotly. “Don’t I have the
worst luck? Lose m’ ranch, and then somebody shoots the old man who was
goin’ to help me out. I hope to gosh that somebody gets paid for all
this.”
They rode in at the Bar S and dismounted at the big corral near the
stable. The sheriff sent Slim Wray and Art Alberts to round up the
cattle in the pasture, while the buyers walked around, inspecting the
buildings. The sheriff was a busy man, trying to get an opinion on the
value of the ranch itself, but none of the cattlemen seemed inclined to
make a bid. Bunty sat on the corral fence, gloomy of face, surly of
speech. He wanted his money, and he did not care who knew it.
“Close to ten thousand,” he wailed, when someone asked him how much the
place owed him. “Got the notes right with me. That’s the last time
anybody will ever hook me for that much.”
[Illustration]
“Well, where are all the Bar S cattle?” asked Gilroy, a rancher, who
owned an outfit on Bitter River. He arrived too late to find out that
the cattle had disappeared.
“Stolen,” said Wheezer.
“Stolen? How long since they disappeared?”
Wheezer started to explain, but the boys were bringing the herd; so
those at the corral separated and helped swing them in through the wide
gate.
“Hey!” called Slim. “There’s a Box 8 in that bunch.”
“Leave him in,” yelled the sheriff. “We can cut him out later.”
They shut the gate behind the last animal and prepared for the sale. The
assemblage sat down on the top-pole of the corral fence and watched the
cattle milling around, seeking an exit. The dust clouded up the scene to
some extent, but the men were all old dust-eaters and did not mind.
“There’s thirty-nine head,” declared the sheriff. “It’s a mixture of
breeds, ages, et cettery. How much am I bid for the bunch?”
“Three hundred and ninety dollars,” offered the Bitter River man. The
price of ten dollars per head brought a laugh from the crowd.
“Three hundred and ninety-one,” bid another.
“Three ninety-one and two-bits.”
“Three ninety-two.”
“Wait a minute,” begged the sheriff. “My gosh, that ain’t no way to bid.
Them animals would be dirt cheap at thirty per head.”
“I’ll give twenty dollars per head.”
The sheriff turned quickly at the sound of a familiar voice. Sad Sontag
was just outside the corral and behind the men on the fence. Bunty
O’Neil tried to turn quickly and almost fell off the fence. Swede
Harrigan was standing near Sad, hanging on to the neck of a half filled
gunny-sack, a grin on his face.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” The sheriff seemed justified in making his
statement. He climbed over the fence and faced Sad, who merely grinned
and asked the sheriff if his bid was high enough to buy the cattle.
“Hello, Mr. Sontag,” called Young Speck from his perch.
“Hello, Speck. How’s Boze?”
“He’s fine. By golly, I’m glad they didn’t catch yuh.”
Sad laughed and turned to the sheriff. “I hope the old red cow didn’t
hurt yuh, sheriff,” he said.
“Myah!” snorted the sheriff. “You’ve got yore nerve to come here.”
“Not so much. Yuh see, we intended to come to the sale.”
“Don’t let ’em bluff yuh,” said Snipe Lee anxiously.
“Nobody’s goin’ to bluff me,” declared the sheriff.
“Nobody’s tryin’ to,” smiled Sad. “Let’s go ahead with the sale.”
“Yeah, let’s go on with it,” agreed Bunty.
For the first time the sheriff noticed that Sad had a big book under his
left arm. He squinted closely.
“What’s the idea of the book, Sontag?”
“The book of wisdom,” grinned Sad. “It might answer a question that’s
been botherin’ me quite a lot. Yuh see, I’ve been wonderin’ who stole
them Bar S cattle.”
“Are yuh lookin’ for the answer in a book?” asked Bill Wyatt
sarcastically.
“Mebbe.” Sad considered Bill thoughtfully. “Say, we was up to yore place
yesterday, after the red steer busted up yore party. You’ve got quite a
place, Wyatt. From the number of Box 8 cattle in the hills, you must be
doin’ quite well.”
Bill Wyatt did not reply, but shot a glance at Snipe and Abe, who were
wishing that they were somewhere else.
“Yessir, you seem to be doin’ quite well,” continued Sad. “You don’t
brand very deep, do yuh?”
“What do yuh mean?” demanded Bill.
“Just what I said. Beauty may only be skin-deep, but a brand shore ought
to go into the epidermis.”
“I don’t git yore drift.” Bill spoke evenly and straightened up slowly.
“If this is a sale—let’s sell somethin’ and have it over.”
He climbed down off the fence and leaned against the nearest post.
Several more got down, as though tired of their position, and Bunty
O’Neil was one of them.
“I made my bid,” said Sad. “Is somebody goin’ to raise it?”
“Those cattle are worth more than that,” declared Bunty.
“Go ahead and bid more,” growled Wheezer. “Nobody stoppin’ yuh, Bunty.”
“I ain’t goin’ to bid on what already belongs to me.”
“Does it belong to yuh?” asked Sad.
“You’re damned right it does. I’ve got the notes to show for it right
here.” Bunty slapped his pocket. “I’ve got enough to more than cover the
ranch and everythin’ on it.”
“Lemme see one?” demanded Sad.
“Let yuh see nothin’!”
“I don’t believe you’ve got a note,” persisted Sontag.
“Thasso?” Bunty spat dryly. “Well, I have. The sheriff has seen ’em, and
so has a lot of other folks.”
“Say!” snorted Wyatt. “This is a joke. These men tried to steal a steer
from me yesterday, and the sheriff arrested ’em, but they got away. Why
don’t he arrest ’em again?”
“That’s my business!” snapped Buck Rainey uneasily.
“What’s the idea, Buck?” asked Gilroy.
“I dunno,” Buck shook his head.
“Scared of ’em,” fleered Bill Wyatt.
“It was your steer,” reminded Wheezer. “Why don’t you do somethin’,
Bill? Are yuh handcuffed?”
“I still think that yuh ought to show them notes, Bunty,” said Sad,
paying no attention to Bill Wyatt.
“Why?” demanded Bunty.
“I don’t believe they’re any good, Bunty.”
“Yuh don’t, eh?” Bunty took an assortment of papers from his inside coat
pocket. “Yuh don’t think they are, eh? Then take a look at one.”
Sad accepted the folded sheet of paper and looked it over. It was a
properly constructed ninety day note for twenty-six hundred dollars, and
signed by Jim Steeb. Sad opened the book and looked at something on the
fly-leaf.
“Was Jim Steeb sober when he signed this note?” he asked.
“As sober as a judge,” declared Bunty. “I didn’t want any slip in my
dealings with him, Sontag. I never let him sign a note when he was
drunk. Are yuh satisfied?”
“Nope.” Sad looked up from the book and motioned to Speck.
“C’mere, Speck, I want to ask yuh a question.”
Speck came willingly enough and Sad held out the book to him.
“Do yuh remember that book, Speck?”
“Sure I do. My dad gave it to me last Christmas.”
“Yuh see, gents, he recognizes the book,” said Sad. The men nodded. Sad
opened it at the fly-leaf. “Was yore dad sober when he wrote that,
Speck?”
The boy nodded quickly. “He never was drunk at home, Mr. Sontag.”
Sad closed the book, placed it on the ground and held the note out to
the sheriff.
“Take a look at that, will yuh sheriff. I’m goin’ to ask Bunty to show
us the rest of ’em.”
“The rest of ’em?” parroted Bunty. “Whatcha mean?”
“The rest of the notes, Bunty,” said Sad evenly.
“What for?”
“Because those notes are all signed ‘Jim Steeb.’”
“Signed—Why, you damned fool, that was his name!” Bunty hunched forward,
reaching inside his coat, as though to comply with Sad’s request.
“Yeah, his name was Steeb,” said Sad, narrowly watching Bunty. “Anyway,
that’s the way it’s pronounced, Bunty. Yore notes are signed S-t-e-e-b,
but on the fly-leaf of that book, it says ‘To my little son on Christmas
Eve, from his father, and—” Sad hesitated for a moment—“and it’s signed
James S-t-e-i-b! You dirty coyote, you tried to steal the Bar S, and you
probably killed James S-t-e-i-b!”
[Illustration]
Bunty’s hand flipped from beneath his coat, holding a heavy revolver
instead of the package of notes, but Sad suspected that Bunty was
wearing a shoulder-holster, and his draw was just enough faster to spoil
things entirely for Bunty O’Neil.
Sad’s gun spouted lead from his hip, and the bullet yanked Bunty
sideways, throwing him to a kneeling position against the corral fence,
while the six-shooter flipped away in the dust. His shoulder was broken,
but his spirit, after the shock, remained unbroken. He cursed wickedly,
but no one cared what he thought. He had admitted his guilt when he drew
his gun. Bill Wyatt’s eyes grew hard, and he shot a meaning glance at
Snipe and Abe.
The sheriff went to Bunty, reached inside his coat and took out the rest
of the papers. Bunty cursed him fluently, but the sheriff paid no
attention to his profanity. The others crowded around and watched the
sheriff compare the signatures on the notes with that in the book. He
turned to Speck, a grin on his face.
“Speck, I reckon you get your ranch back. Your dad didn’t know how much
of a Christmas present he was givin’ yuh when he wrote in that book.”
“Well, he don’t get much, at that,” said Bill Wyatt.
“Don’t he?” Sad grinned at Bill. “Don’t he? C’mere, Swede.”
Swede came forward, carrying the gunnysack, which he upended and dumped
out a fresh skin. It was the hide of the belligerent red steer. Swede
spread it out on the ground for all of them to look upon.
“Remember that critter, sheriff?” asked Sad.
“By God, that’s one of my steers!” exclaimed Bill angrily.
“Yeah, it shore is,” agreed Wheezer. “That’s the one we filled with lead
yesterday. I’d remember that red steer anywhere.”
“What’s the big idea?” demanded the sheriff.
“We went back and skinned it,” said Sad casually. “You jiggers were so
mad that yuh wouldn’t even collect the meat. We all had some nice steaks
for supper off that animal.”
“You got a lot of nerve!” snorted Bill. “Tried to steal——”
“Don’t talk out of turn,” advised Sad. “Sheriff, I ask yuh to examine
that brand, but before yuh do, I’d like to say that we know where the
body of old Eph Wyatt is. He lived long enough to help us figure out who
shot him.
“Yuh see, he had only one livin’ relative. That livin’ relative would
naturally inherit the Diamond W when the old man died. But when the old
man declared his intentions of adoptin’ Speck, it was a cinch that Speck
would get the Diamond W; so this lone livin’ relative—Don’t move, Wyatt!
Keep yore hands where they are.
“You shot old Eph Wyatt from ambush. You and Bunty O’Neil had a fallin’
out; so you stole all the Bar S cattle you and yore gang could handle,
and changed the Bar S to the Box 8. You branded some with an iron, but a
lot of ’em were hair-branded in yore brandin’ chute. You fool, the floor
of that chute looks like the floor of a barber-shop after Saturday’s
work.
“Look at the brand on that hide! Keep yore hands——”
But Bill Wyatt had no idea of putting up a fight. He whirled around and
darted for the corner of the corral, but stopped with a lurch.
Standing between him and the corner and regarding him calmly was old Eph
Wyatt. For Bill it was like looking at a ghost; the ghost of the man he
had tried to kill. Bill stared at him, turned back and walked unsteadily
to the sheriff. It seemed as though Bill Wyatt were finished; as though
he were surrendering. But he was not.
Suddenly he grasped the sheriff, whirled him around, grasped him by the
back of the shirt and shoved his gun into the sheriff’s back.
“Keep back!” he snarled at the crowd, who were all in front of him.
“Make one fool move and I’ll drill Buck Rainey. Now, Buck, yuh can back
up. I’m no quitter.”
There was nothing for Buck to do, except follow orders. Bill reached
down quickly and secured the sheriff’s gun. The two began backing away
slowly, while the crowd, afraid to make a move for fear that Bill would
make good his threat to kill Buck Rainey, stood and watched them widen
the distance. Wheezer and Slim had moved in behind Snipe and Abe and
quietly taken their guns before either of the Box 8 boys realized what
had been done.
“Look at Bunty O’Neil!” gasped Sad. The wounded gambler had managed to
get to his feet and had secured his revolver. No one had bothered to
pick it out of the dust, because everyone thought that Bunty was too
badly hurt to ever attempt to recover it.
Bunty was humped badly, with his right arm swinging loosely, his face
the color of wood-ashes, but he was making unsteadily for the sheriff
and Bill Wyatt.
“Go back, you damn fool!” commanded Bill.
Bunty shook his head painfully, gripping the heavy gun in his left hand.
“Damn the sheriff!” grunted Bunty. “His life don’t mean nothin’ to me;
I’m after you, Wyatt. You double-crossed me, you coyote!”
Bill swung the sheriff around toward Bunty. He was afraid to swing
further, because it would give the crowd a chance to shoot him in the
back.
“Go back, Bunty,” warned Bill. “I’ll kill yuh if yuh don’t stop.”
Bunty laughed hollowly, but did not stop. He seemed awkward in his
handling of the six-shooter in his left hand, and the swinging muzzle
was as much of a menace to Buck Rainey as it was to Bill Wyatt.
Suddenly Bill fired at Bunty, but missed him. The bullet tore a splinter
from the corral fence, and a steer bawled painfully.
“Your luck is gone, Bill,” said Bunty unsteadily.
“Like hell it has! I’ll show yuh who’s got the luck.”
Wyatt and the sheriff were backing faster now. It was evident that Wyatt
was trying to draw far enough away to make a break for the brush. The
crowd was powerless to stop him, unless they were willing to take a
chance on Wyatt killing Buck Rainey.
Bill fired again at Bunty, and this time he did not miss. Bunty almost
went to his knees, but recovered his balance. Bill fired once more, but
missed, and the bullet caused the audience to scatter.
Suddenly little Speck Steib darted from the corner of the stable,
circling behind Bill and the sheriff.
“Don’t yell!” cautioned Sad. “Bill don’t see him.”
Bill Wyatt did not hear Sad’s warning, nor did he realize that the
youngster had sprawled in the dirt not more than six feet directly
behind him. He was too interested in his own getaway, which seemed more
probable every moment. If he could hold them back until he gained the
brush, the odds would be in his favor.
Bunty was laughing drunkenly, as he reeled ahead. The sheriff knew that
death was behind him, and he was almost as afraid of Bunty’s erratic gun
muzzle as he was of Bill Wyatt’s threats. In fact, he was a trifle more
worried about Bunty, because he felt that Bill would not shoot him as
long as he obeyed orders.
They had backed almost into Speck now, as Bunty’s advance forced them to
increase their backward pace. Suddenly Bill Wyatt’s heels struck the
prostrate body, and the boy’s arms wrapped in a tight grip around his
boots.
Wyatt cursed viciously, tried to catch his balance, but he had been
going too fast. The sheriff backed into him, and they both went down in
a heap on top of Speck, while into them, half-falling as he came, fell
Bunty O’Neil.
Sad Sontag was running toward them, as Wyatt’s heels first struck Speck,
and by the time the three men had piled up, Sad was into them, followed
by the rest of the crowd, except Wheezer, who was going to be very sure
that Snipe Lee and Abe Snow would not escape.
But Sad was not quick enough to prevent Bunty O’Neil from his vengeance.
From the midst of the struggle came the muffled thud of a revolver shot,
before the crowd could yank them apart.
The sheriff got to his feet unhurt, when they dragged Bunty O’Neil
aside; and Speck, covered with dust and blood, crawled from beneath Bill
Wyatt, spitting dirt and blinking blindly.
But Bill Wyatt did not get up. The crowd stood around and looked at him
and at Bunty O’Neil, who was too far gone to know what it was all about.
The sheriff grabbed Speck and hugged him, while Speck dug both fists in
his eyes, trying to remove enough dirt to enable him to see what had
happened.
Old Eph Wyatt came among them and looked down at his nephew. No one
questioned the old man. They just seemed to take it for granted that
everything would be explained. Speck blinked at him foolishly, his eyes
filled with dust-tears.
“I—I kinda bull-dogged him, didn’t I?” asked Speck.
“Boy, yuh shore did,” said Buck Rainey. “You done just the right thing
at the right time. If there’s goin’ to be any adoptin’ done, I’d like to
have a chance at it.”
“I reckon I come first,” said old Eph Wyatt quickly.
Speck looked at them, a half-grin on his face.
“I’m much obliged to yuh,” he said. “I’ve got to think about it.”
“Well, he gets the Bar S all back, don’t he?” queried Sad. “It looks to
me like you’d have to pick out all them changed brands and turn ’em back
to the Bar S.”
“Y’betcha,” nodded the sheriff. “Speck gets ’em all.”
“Snipe Lee says he’d kinda like to talk,” stated Wheezer.
“I jist wanted to say,” said Snipe, “that me and Abe didn’t have nothin’
to do with shootin’ at the old man. Bill never told us that he did that,
but he was awful sore to think that old Eph was goin’ to adopt the kid.
Bill had an idea of combinin’ the Diamond W with the Box 8. I reckon
Bill done the shootin’, ’cause he rode away that day with a rifle.”
[Illustration]
“What about the cattle stealin’?” asked Buck Rainey.
“We done it, Buck. When Bill registered that Box 8 brand, he had the
idea of stealin’ Bar S cattle. It was plumb easy to change the brand to
a Box 8. Then Bunty O’Neil came to Oreana. Him and Bill were old
friends.
“Bunty pointed out that he had a better scheme to get the Bar S ranch,
and he said it would be safer; so we quit pickin’ up the Bar S cattle.
Bunty and Bill had trouble and kinda busted up. It kinda looked like
Bunty was goin’ to hog the whole works; so we tried to spoil his game by
stealin’ all the cattle.
“We branded what we could in the length of time we had, but the bulk of
the cattle are back in a box canyon behind the Box 8, where we were
goin’ to finish the job. Me and Abe plead guilty right here. We never
got a cent for our work, and we didn’t steal because we expected to be
paid—but to help Bill git even with Bunty O’Neil.”
“They’re both even now,” said Sad. “I reckon there ain’t much left for
anybody to do. The sale is all off, unless Speck wants to sell
somethin’.”
“I ain’t sellin’,” grinned Speck. “I reckon I’ll raise cows.”
They packed the two dead men on their horses and prepared to take them
to Oreana. One of the boys opened the corral gate and let the cattle
drift. Speck went back and picked up the scattered notes and the big
book, which had proved Bunty’s duplicity.
“Are you goin’ to town with us, Speck?” asked the sheriff.
Speck shook his head quickly. “No, I reckon I’ll stay home, Mr. Rainey.
I thought mebbe Mr. Sontag and Mr. Harrigan might stay all night with me
and kinda help me git started.”
“Speck, you’ve got the whole town of Oreana to help yuh, if yuh need
help.”
“Mebbe I have now.” Speck was wise beyond his years. “These two men
helped me when Oreana wouldn’t.”
Buck rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That’s right, Speck. They shore
ruined yuh for bein’ an orphan.”
The crowd all shook hands with them, and the cavalcade moved back down
the road. Old Eph Wyatt was the last to go.
“I’m glad it turned out the way it did,” he said. “I lose a son—mebbe.
If we could combine the two ranches, it might be a good thing for both
of us. I’m gittin’ old, and I need a young man around the place.”
“I’ll be over,” said Speck. “Mebbe we might work out a deal.”
The old man laughed and rode away. Speck led the way to the porch of the
ranch-house, still carrying the book and notes. He sat down and the two
cowpunchers sat down on each side of him, while he looked over the
papers.
“I can’t read much,” he confessed sadly. “Yuh see, I never had much
chance to go to school. Dad worried a lot about it. He said that
education was somethin’ I needed pretty bad.” He opened the book at the
fly-leaf and squinted at the penciled writing.
“What does that say?” he asked.
Sad squinted curiously at the boy and shot a quick glance at Swede.
“It says, ‘To my little son on Christmas Eve, from his father, James
Steib.’”
“Uh-huh.” Speck grew thoughtful as he looked at the notes. “Is my
father’s name written on these, too?”
“Sure. They forged his name, Speck.”
“Yuh mean that they wrote it on without him knowin’ it?”
“That’s the idea. Yuh see, Bunty knew he was in bad when I showed him
the name in the book. I had an idea that he was a crook, but it took a
lot of schemin’ to prove it.”
“Uh-huh.” Speck hardly understood. He pointed at the writing on the
fly-leaf. “Who wrote that?”
“Well, I—uh—your father must ’a’—” Sad shifted his feet and looked
appealingly at Swede, whose eyes widened humorously.
“That’s kinda funny,” mused Speck. “Yuh see, my dad never knew how to
write. He was ashamed of it and never let folks know. That’s why he
always wanted me to learn.”
A short lead-pencil in Sad’s pocket seemed to grow warm and he shifted
nervously.
“But—but his name was spelled S-t-e-i-b,” said Sad. “I seen it on an old
letter I found in the house.”
“Mebbe,” nodded Speck. “Ma could read. After she went away, me and Dad
had a hard time. I don’t sabe who wrote that stuff in the book, ’cause
Dad couldn’t.”
“Let’s figure it was fate, Speck,” said Sad softly.
“Who is fate, Mr. Sontag?”
“He’s the guy who tied the tin can on Boze.”
“Aw, that was Bill Wyatt.”
“Yuh can’t see fate, Speck.”
The kid nodded, got to his feet and walked into the house. Sad tore the
flyleaf from the book, wadded up the notes, put them in his pocket and
got to his feet.
He and Swede looked at each other and grinned knowingly.
“Will we head for Sundown, or stay a while and see that the kid gets
started out right?” asked Sad.
“Mebbe,” grinned Swede, “we better leave it to fate.”
So fate nodded and they decided to stay.
[Illustration]
Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the January 10, 1925 issue
of _Short Stories_ magazine.