Adventure Magazine, March 1916 — page 117: what you’re looking at

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

Li'l Son-of-a-Gun afteh we git the kid, but don’t make any mistakes.” The Mexican shot an evil look at his cap- tor from his narrow-slitted eyes and shrug- ged his bound shoulders as he answered: “Bueno. Yo sabe.”’ V THE sun was well up when the three cowboys and their unwilling guide neared the western verge of the big tableland. The ground was hard and rocky with but little vegetation, outcrops of weathered stone forming the’ only shade. They found a well of slightly bitter water, deepened in its natural basin by long-for- gotten tribes, and made good travel of it despite the heat. As they came close to the edge of the great cliffs, glimpsing the plain beneath, set with mesas, dotted here and there with ranches, rolling down to the Rio Grande, Padilla counseled caution. He apparently thoroughly appreciated his precarious situ- ation and had no desire to run further risk for himself by being discovered by his fel- low kidnapers in his present company. The brink of the tableland was etched deep with cafions and ravines, with side- gulches leading from them, that forced them to occasional detours. In some of these, scrub-pines grew, and here and there they could see the gleam of streams hastening down to swell the Rio Grande. Padilla surveyed his direction narrowly as they rode. Nodding sullenly toward a cleft that cut into the cliffs in the shape of a long U, he announced that they had ar- rived. “Tn cafion you see cave by trail on either side,” he said. ‘Hammond there.” Sandy looked at him keenly, but the Mexican met his glance defiantly. “All right,” said Sandy. ‘Git down.” He left Mormon and Sam to guard their prisoner in the scant shadow of a pile of granite and crossed on foot to the little cafion, rifle in hand, stepping lightly on the balls of his feet, then, prone on his stomach, wriggling like a snake to the edge. He paused to carefully remove some loose pebbles, and, resting on his elbows, looked down. The pocket cafion fell steeply for nearly a thousand feet. Below him a narrow trail showed, winding around the curve of the U, 115 and descending gradually on the other side to the bottom of the ravine. In places the trail was broken by landslides, making any exit difficult, if not impossible. It was very quiet, the air soundless, save for the shrilling of the cicadas. A shadow drifted over the cafion from a buzzard soar- ing high above him. Sandy noted where, on his side, the trail joined the rim, not far to his left, and inched closer, searching the track across the cafon for the cave the Mexican had spoken of, Pines and chapparal grew on the less abrupt pitches, throwing shadows that made his task difficult. He drew back from the edge, planning to shift his position. A little wailing cry float- ed up to him and he peered down once more. Up the trail across the cafion toddled a tiny white figure, crying as it ran as fast as it could on uncertain, inadequate, if sturdy, little legs. Out from the tangled shadows of some brush close by, a man darted in ursuit. - “Tt’s li’l son-of-a-gun!”’ exclaimed Sandy softly, feeling for his rifle. Before he could give thought to aim, the man roughly grasped the child by the arm, shaking it as he picked it up in his arms, and retraced his steps. The neigh of a horse sounded, faint but shrilly clear, back of Sandy. The man with the child turned, showing a heavily bearded face, and stared intently at the cliff where Sandy, cursing under his breath, crouched. Then he ran swiftly down the path and dis- appeared beneath the shadows into the face of the rock. “It’s that 7 mut = greaser’s hawss, tered Sandy, looking from the undercurve. of a boulder. He lay prone a moment longer, making out the narrow fissure in which the man had vanished, partly curtained by the tangle of vines and scrub. Then he edged back and rejoined his chums. “You find?” asked the Mexican, showing his teeth in a mirthless smile. ‘‘S7? Buenol Now I go.” “Not yet,” replied Sandy shortly. “And -keep your mouth shut.” Padilla looked at him furtively, a glint of amused triumph in his glance. Sandy sat with half-closed eyes smoking — a thoughtful cigarette. “Tt’s Hammond all right,”’ he announced at length to his patiently waiting chums. “I Gomichooks (E()