Adventure Magazine Cover, February 3, 1921 — page 96: what you’re looking at

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

90 nearest clump of cottonwoods and collected an armful of dead branches. Oakes was much pleased with the fel- low’s ready obedience and cut extra slices of bacon, thinking to reward him and hu- mor him, thereby inducing him to take his place in the gaming-shack that night. The Indian was slow in returning, however, and the gambler’s patience was exhausted when at last he scaled the wall, his arms heaped with wood, and stared stupidly at the white man. “You dog,” growled Oakes, “make this fire new. Tonight you go with me to the white man’s village.” “White men make me afraid,” the In- dian said with a shiver, advancing only a step or two and then coming to a halt. “You'll go with me or I’ll send your spirit after the sun.” The Indian came on another step and muttered: “It is bad to go out there alone. Spirits whisper to me how my people wait for me and keep asking why I stayed behind them.” Oakes eyed him narrowly. ‘Then your people are dead?” he‘asked. “The white man should know. He and his friends killed them—killed them all.” ‘“Your~head has been sick. How long have you known about your people being dead?” quietly asked Oakes, his hand drop- ping to his revolver. He feared that he could never use the red man as his luck again. “When I woke up some sleeps ago. When f put my hand to my head and found it was hurt.” “Then yeu remembered?” “There were my people all on the ground, dead. There were white men with the little bags of yellow rock-dust we had brought down from the mountains.” “You saw me there?” “You were there. You had a bang-stick in your hand. You fired it in my face.” “Bring that wood here and then go and stand on the wall.” The Indian meekly advanced, but some of the branches fell from his arms. He stooped to gather them up, and Oakes, never suspecting the trick, was astounded to behold the bow and new arrow ,among the dead sticks on the ground. In a flash he realized the man’s cunning in utilizing his errand for firewood as a means of closing in with his bow and arrow. of the dying man’s mocking gaze. Adventure ‘““___ you!”” yelled Oakes. “That game won’t work.” As he spoke he yanked out his revolver and fired just as the Indian was setting the arrow on the cord. The Indian crumpled up, falling on his knees; but already the arrow: was in place. He was dying, yet his strength was sufficient for him to pull the cord a trifle and release the shaft. Oakes grinned wolfishly as he watched this last desperate attempt at revenge. The arrow rose a dozen feet into the air and curved lazily downward. There was no force behind it. It moved so gently that the gambler could have caught it in his hand. It would have struck the greund near his foot had he not derisively threwn out his hand to knock it aside. The needle point of the quartz scratched his wrist and brought blood. Snarling an oath at the smart of the slight wound, the gambler sprang toward his victim, the devil un- loosed within him. “You red hound! I helped to pot your whole family! I’ve used you for my luck and you’ve won more than one pot for me. Now I’m through with you, you red ver- min.” He lifted his revolver and fired twice into the helpless form. He would have emptied his gun had it not been for the peculiar facial expression of the red man. The man was dying fast, and yet he was actually smiling. Not the sardenical smile resulting from convulsed muscles, but the smile of deep content. The eyes, too, registered a mighty satisfaction. Oakes’ rage faltered before the impact He thrust his revolver back into his belt. The next moment he was snatching it out, for a calm voice.was asking— “Been doing a little murder to keep your spirits up?” Facing Kitts, he curtly explained: ~ “That red devil tried to wipe me out. See my wrist? Tried to sneak close with his bow and arrow. Had them in an armful of cottonwood branches. Nearly got me at that. He never fired that arrow after I plugged him. It was. self-defense. I don’t like your calling it murder.”’ He had his hand resting on his revolver as he spoke, and despite the moderation of his speech his eyes flamed baleful warnings. Kitts nodded and apologized: comiuichbook (C@)