Adventure, December 3, 1920 — page 118: what you’re looking at

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

108 “‘Where’s the horse?”’ : | “Back down below. Split hoof and petered out.’ M’lord darkened again. “By the gods,” he said, ‘‘you’d make a horse!” “Sure,” the Big One acquiesced. ‘‘What’ll you pay me to lug your stuff up?” He laughed lightly. = _ “Up?” snarled Jones. “I ain’t going up. Listen here, you! “You know me. Nobody ever got ahead of me, man er brute, male er female.” “Shucks!” expostulated Barley. eatin’ on ye?” ; “Listen. I had a mule. It would ’a’ packed this gold to the river. You shot him. Now you'll pack this stuff to the Rio Grande. You'll be my mule. And you won’t be paid.” Barley lifted off his hat and scratched his head, his jaw hanging lax. “T wasn’t aimin’ to go north,” he said at last. “I come up here till it blows over down in the camps, a-aimin’ to prospect around a little.” “Load up this stuff!’’ Jones barked. “Shucks, Jonesy. Let’s go up the ravine and hunt for the mother lode.” Barley pointed to the basin a few feet away where obviously the stuff had been taken out. “I'll lug the stuff up.” M’lord stooped and took up the whip by its shiny hickory handle and carried it back over the right shoulder. “Take that stuff,” he ordered, “er Vl cut you toribbons. And I’ll shoot you if you push me.” Jones saw Barley’s face flush stubbornly, and he flung the hissing blacksnake whip with- - out further warning or waiting. A white spot, then a rush of blood, appeared on Barley’s left cheek. Barley’s eyes popped open, scared. His tongue went to the cheek inside and slipped through. “Jonesy,” he said in awe, “‘you’ve snapped a hole through my cheek.” “T’ll burn you to a cinder if you don’t pick that stuff up and hit out,’ M’lord retorted, brittle as glass. Barley stepped forward, paused a moment, glaring, then sprang at Jones with a bull’s bellow. At the same instant, his face as grim as rock, Jones sprang back yelling: “Stay back! Stay back! Tl shoot!” There was still room, and he threw the lash into Barley’s face. Barley grunted and put up his hands to save his eyes from the hissing serpent that now flew back and forth like light. “Surrender! Surrender!” shouted M’lord. Barley ran backward, and as the lash pur- sued him he tried to seize it in his bare hands. In an instant a long, red spurting gash—a rib- bon of red—appeared across Barley’s forehead. po “What’s Adventure e “Now you'll stop! ” Jones flung out. But Barley kept coming, the blood not yet blinding him. He half-shielded his face with his bare forearms. Jones began to slash at them, and blood began to run. ing about they kicked up stones with their hob-nailed boots. They raised a choking fog of dust. When M’lord felt he could no longer breathe in it, Barley tripped over the sack of gold and went down sprawling. Jones laid the whip on him without human mercy. The Big One, blinded, writhed and screamed like a man who has sawed into a bee-tree and is unable to escape from the thousands of bees. A half-hour later, under the threats of Jones, Barley set out northward like a pack-horse. M’létd kept well back from him to be safe from any sudden lunge on the giant’s part. The Big One carried the bag of nuggets, the corn- meal and steaks, the two canteens and the tin pan for the corn pones. Barley staggered and cringed and dripped blood and spat blood and whimpered. Jones cracked his whip like a circus-ring- master. They took their way along the rim of the shelf, and the mesa lay below them, miles without end. Off toward the horizon in the northwest Jones made out a pillar of sun-dust, and far, far to the north two more. “Know what them toadstools is, Big One?” he demanded. ‘Lemme go,” whimpered Barley. ‘Lemme go. I’mruined. I want some salve.” ‘Them, Big One, is Mex soldiers travelin’ to some rondyvoo, er bandits on the rampage and layin’ for gringos like us. But—” and M’lord’s face went grim and relentless—‘‘they ain’t going to get this gold. No they ain’t.” Barley probably didn’t hear the meaning, only the harsh tone, for he shrank like a horse when it sees the whip raised. He was broken; broken as a bronco in a corral is broken by a bunch of men; as a wild and stubborn man in prison is broken by guards with clubs. Toward noon he spoke briefly, and because of his swollen and punctured cheek that bubbled bloody bubbles when he spoke, he slid the words from one side of his twisting mouth: “Noon. Rest.” “Rest!”? M’lord sneered. ‘‘You don’t rest till night. You killed my mule and you'll travel like he would.” “Wait till you get asleep, Jones,” Barley threatened in a sudden flare. “Don’t think you can run this very long.” For answer M7’lord cracked the-lash just barely against the tender skin of Barley’s back, through the shirt, but with such stinging pain that the big fellow groaned and tried to twist away from the invisible hurt. ’ ‘When there’s any sleeping, Big One, you'll COMME DOO KS In their jump- © (CE) * pire a