Adventure Magazine Cover, August 18, 1921 — page 181: what you’re looking at

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

Ghost-Pipes VII GAILLARD looked anxiouslv to- ward the rock “islands” and the =~ cliffs of Blind Cafion. How far had Kroner progressed when the firing began? Ii he was more than half-way to his position he would probably hurry the faster, fearing himself late to play his part. If, however, he had surmized something amiss— “Thank God!” burst from the lieuten- ant’s dry lips. Out from the rock “‘islands” to the north cl west, coming at full gallop back over the mesa, was Kroner with his ten troopers,. Leacock, and a dozen or more of the armed impresses. In a wide circle to the south, the horses straining, leaping and plunging through or over brush and rock, the needed enforcement swept, then swung into the rear of the Indian circle to the south. On they came, yelling as only white men yell— from the lungs and not the throat—and firing low at the painted bodies in the fore- ground. The Apaches, having expected their red brothers on the cajion walls to deal with this detachment, and shaken at the first menace to their daring plan of ‘‘open”’ ambuscade, broke on the outer circle. Running widely around the sides of Gaillard’s stand, they joined with the ambushers in a deployed line between the whites and the redskin retreat—the mouth of the cul de sac. Kroner and his men rode into Gaillard’s corral. ‘Shall we charge?”’ he yelled. “No. Dismount. Half our mounts are dead. Down your own. Pile the carcasses in a rampart. We'll fight this to a fin- ish.” Then began a contest of marksmanship, the redskins in the brush pouring a fire into the faces of barely thirty surviving whites, who in turn pumped hot lead across a ram- part of dead and living horses. But there was seldom ever an Indian fight in which savages in the open were content to stand the brunt of direct fire and, keeping their ground, return it, no matter what the odds in their favor. They could have rushed the defenders of that horseflesh rampart; yet they were still so confident of complete and easy victory that they did not elect to suffer decimation at least.. The natural Indian craving for cover asserted itself. The warriors suddenly rose 175 as one man and retreated at great speed, running in a crouched animal posture. Then down again they dropped at a dis- tance of two hundred yards nearer the cafion’s mouth and reopened fire. Thrice they did this, until the range was so widened that the fire on both sides was becoming ineffectual. Gaillard gritted his teeth. What was the game? A ruse to draw the white company out from the rampart of horseflesh? Were they pretending retreat so as to lure the enemy toward the cafon mouth, which, Gaillard surmised, was alive with armed and waiting redskins? For there were not more than two hundred braves in Yellow Dog’s company in the open. Or were they actually planning, despite their advantage of numbers, to retreat to the cafon and escape by scaling the rear walls, beyond which lay a labyrinth of rocky defiles leading to the mountains? For a moment the lieutenant hung in in- decision. To retreat was still out of the question. left to carry the survivors, even mounted double. Short of miraculous rescue by some other scouting detachment of Crooke’s cavalry, they were doomed. Gaillard knew the temper of his men, and in that moment he knew his own. Better the long chance with a faint hope of turning the tables—somehow—than to be slowly wiped out or captured alive. Better—at least so it bitterly came to him in that mo- ment—that the world should never know what happened than for a single survivor to return with the heroic but none too glorious details. Rapidly he translated his thought to Kroner, the men listening; for he made no effort to exclude them. “Are you with me?” he finally said, addressing them all. They were. “Then give ’em ——! We may corral them and bid for time while a messenger rides to Crooke. Where’s that scout—the Scot who brought us into this mess?” But although they sang out and called ‘his name time and again there was no re- sponse. Fora moment a curious expression flitted across the lieutenant’s face, but it vanished when the voice of Ringer drawled calmly— “‘Reck’n they’ve got the Gila.” The leutenant turned and, his hand on C© There were not horses enough | MICLOOKS 5}