Adventure Magazine Cover, August 18, 1921 — page 182: what you’re looking at

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

176 Kroner’s shoulder with a sort of fraternal grip, again spoke to the company. “Boys, if I’m doing the wrong thing you'll at least never live to hold it against me. But I’m doing it because it’s our one chance, and a little, by ——! because I know you’re with me. Sound the charge if there’s a bugle and a bugler left!” Clear and snappy, the brisk notes lifted as the sun burst out over the pinnacles to the east. To a roaring cheer the men and a few whole horses rose and plunged over the rampart of dead flesh, Gaillard leading with a revolver in his left hand and a cavalry saber swung aloft in his right. “Give ’em —— !” he yelled. “Give ’em ——2!’’ came the hoarse echo. Then again the air was split with a fierce spattering of rifle and pistol shots. — Vill S| THE Apaches, momentarily stag- ee gered at the unexpected daring of ff#J this charge into the teeth of annihi- lation, fired one scattered volley and re- treated, Yellow Dog in the lead, the chief yelling in the Apache tongue and waving his feathered spear toward the cliffs above and beyond the cafion. Either he shrewdly surmised the game or else feared to be cut off or shot down before he, at least, gained the shelter of the arch and the cajion en- closure. His words and signals were apparently understood. Instantly the savages left to guard the arch and the cafion walls aban- doned their posts and came out into the open with a scalp-chilling yell. Like a flurry of bees they settled on the momen- tarily retreating ranks of Yellow Dog, who then—and not until then—turned with re- newed confidence and prepared to wipe out the handful of desperate palefaces. Again the unequal duel was fougkt, the deployed lines facing each other at not more than two hundred yards apart. “Shoot down the rest of the mounts!” commanded Gaillard, his voice splitting. “Pile ’em up! Cover, boys, and fight! Fight, —— you! Fighi!” But it availed little. There were but twenty men left all told, and not enough cover for even twelve. A despair of impo- tence took hold of the gallant but head- strong Gaillard. Had he been alone he Adventure would have leaped headlong into the faces of the savages; cut, hewn and shot down as many as came within reach or range, and himself gone down gloriously, insanely fighting. But he could not bring himself actually to command his men to that mad course. Ii they threw discipline to the winds and so acted of common impulse, he would be with them—lead them. But There came a sudden, strange lull on both sides. A few desultory shots sounded as if too late to catch the unexpected command to cease firing. An astonished and deafen- ing silence then fell, into which crept a queer crescendo moan, like the gathering uplift of some great triple siren. Gaillard and his men heard the sound, but at first did not see the source of it. The Indians, however, lifted their heads above the covering brush and their painted faces, stamped with utter dismay, seemed all turned in one direction—to the left and rear of the palefaces’ last stand. Swiftly the scout, Ringer, turned his head. “By the — great — horn — spoon!’ he gasped. ‘Look at that!” Advancing, head erect, his long hair widly blowing as he marched and blood flowing from a red streak over his left temple, appeared Fergus the Gila, emerging as by magic from a clump of cactus. Under his left arm was clutched a swollen leathern bag from which angularly spread three great pipes gay with fluttering, faded, tattered, tartan ribbons. His sinewy brown fingers rippled over an ebony black pipe heeled with tarnished silver. The mouth- piece was set between straining, puckered lips, and from Boreaslike cheeks he was blowing “‘Cock o’ the North.” On he came, not toward the desperate whites, but past them and straight into the faces of the savages, the drones of his strange instrument roaring a weird, mixed monotone, the chanter thrilling out one of those slogans that from time immemorial have made men thirst for blood and ap- palled those who opposed them. There were those among Gaillard’s men who like Ringer, could see no music in the pipes, but not a man among them who had not thrilled to the tradition of the pibroch. Their scalps crept at the drama of it. Something lumped in their throats. Then as by one impetus their blood rose to the boiling-point. From the throats of C© MICLOOKS CO