Adventure Magazine Cover — page 98: what you’re looking at

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

88 by either. I skirted Kingstree without any hindrance. The road to Murray’s Ferry was soon covered, and once across the Santee I felt safe from ‘‘Regulaters” and inquisitive Tories. On my left stretched out the road to Georgetown, and in that direction I kept a sharp lookout. Once I passed Monk’s Corner and had turned my horse toward Strawberry, I threw aside all sense of care and took time to re- view the happenings of the last few days. Of all my pictures that of the girl on tiptoe at my Rirrup stood out the clearest, al- though for sheer dramatic values the recol- lection of how the wounded man teetered back and forth, just before his gaze found and recognized me, stood out supreme. Big Simon’s adoration of my coat was the only comedy element in the experience, and that, in a measure, was pathetic. If not for the war I probably would have grown old and gray with never sight of my Lynch Creek kinsmen; certainly too old for a maid to stand at my stirrup. It was while leaving Strawberry, after a very pleasant mess with some British officers, that I was surprized to behold Old Tan, my uncle’s town butler. My first thought was that he had run away. This was an absurd idea as Old Tan considered himself to rank my uncle in all affairs of the Macson house, and nothing could oust him from his comfortable despotism. He saw me as soon as I sighted him, and with a swing of his head that took in all his surroundings he quickened his pace toward me; only he did not scrape off his hat and stand one side as he should have done. He uncovered, of course, but kept moving as if I were a stranger. I reined in to question him; he bowed low and passed me a scrap of paper and continued on up the road. Much surprized by the rascal’s behavior, I was for riding after him and bringing him to book, but retained sense enough to open the paper. It was only a scrawl, my uncle’s awkward, angular fist beyond any doubt, and at the first reading I could scarcely be- lieve the evidence of my eyes. The message read: Sickly here. Advise you to go to Savannah and wait for clearing weather. It was neither addressed nor signed. The handwriting told me it came from my uncle. I conned it repeatedly, then tore it into small particles and sifted them through my -Adventuse fingers. He had not dared to write to me openly, even when sending it by the faithful hand of Old Tan. “‘Sickly” in Charleston? There was no sickness there. The crisp, cool nights were reducing the chances of yellow fever even in the back districts. And he advised me to avoid Charleston and go direct to Savannah. Obviously there was some danger in Charleston which I was to avoid. I was used to being guided often by my uncle’s riper wisdom, and I was thinking to shift my course at once and make for Georgia’s most important center, when the thought came to me that the danger, whatever it might be, encompassed my uncle. He wished me re- ‘moved from the zone of trouble until some disagreeable situation had been cleared up. I could make nothing else of it, and I round- Ty condemned myself for not holding Old Tan for further information. I wheeled about and galloped back for half a mile, hoping to overtake him, but he had disap- peared. It was plain he had been waiting at Strawberry on the chance of catching me returning from Lynch Creek. Instead of making for Savannah, I con- tinued toward Charleston and so timed my arrival as to pass through the city gate under cover of evening. Of course I en- countered the leering gaze of Levi Smith, the gate-keeper, who halted me and held up his lantern and grinned sardonically on recognizing me. He rested a hand on my horse’s neck and the spirited animal swerved aside. “He smells the dead hand, Levi,” I chaffed, for I had little liking for the fellow. ‘‘Aye? Perhaps he’ll smell the dead near- er home pretty soon,’”’ growled Smith. My jest, though ill-advised and grisly, was easily understood. Nor was it to Smith’s discredit. In fact, he had often boasted of the adventure. He was on the point of being hanged by the patriots in re- prisal for Gabriel Marion’s execution when rescued by General Marion. He had been ironed to another Tory and thrown into a stout cabin. _ The two of them escaped, and as Smith’s companion died in the woods the gate- keeper was confronted with the grim neces- sity of cutting off the dead man’s arm be- fore he could release himself from the corpse and make his way to Charleston. His re- sponse to my jest was less obvious. There was a threat in his words, and a threat in his COmiclbook CO