Adventure Magazine Cover, October 10, 1921 — page 164: what you’re looking at

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

154 hand sent him off to graze while he quickly made comfortable his camp for the night. Licking flames cast fantastic shadows about the mesquite-brush blaze, as the light breeze that had risen with the coming of darkness carried off the savory whiffs of frying bacon and boiling coffee. The man ate in hungry silence. Then - dreamily watching the flickering fire die to a mass of glowing embers the man spoke now and again, to the fire, the darkness, the horse, or to himself, with seeming sat- isfaction. He absently tossed more brush upon the little fire, and arose, whistling for the horse. A responding nicker came from the near-by mesquite, and the man stepped from the light of the fire into the darkness. A black form loomed before him and a friendly nose nuzzled at his pockets. “No more sugar this trip, Boulder, Old Boy. Nope, nary a bit.” He patted the neck of the great roan, rubbed him amiably between the ears, and then dropping his voice to a confidential rumble, talked over the events of the day. “Boulder, Old-Timer, we’ve got ’im goin’. See the limp he’s a-packin’ in his left foreleg, when we pushed ’im to a trot over that hard rock mesa? Solomon’s goin’ lame!. Believe it or not, you old reprobate—tomorrow, or next day at latest will see Solomon roped, hobbled, an’ hog- tied—an’ eatin’ out o’ my hand. ‘Shake your fool head!—a lot you know. Here, lend me one of them long ears, Old Hoss—you’re due for a whalin’ big sur- prize. Your boss an’ sugar-dispensaree, Worth Worthington wins!” A few moments later, the man said— “Horse dreams, Old Boy—buenas noches.”’ He kicked off his boots, slipped between the blankets, and with saddle beneath his head gazed at the cold little stars till he slept. The first streaks of dawn were showing in the east as the man rode up the valley, the _ great roan wide awake to the day’s duties, champing impatiently at the bit. It light- ened from moment to moment and soon the large oval tracks of an unshod horse became visible in the sand. They led straight out of the valley and onto the mesa above. Solomon held to the high ground where vision was unobstructed and there was no possibility of ambush. Horse and rider clambered up the last steep slope and gained the tableland. Here all traces of the fugitive stallion ended. » Adventure “Tt’s been dry goin’, Boulder—with promise of a —— sight worse, fore we’re through! But I know this country some, an’ there’s water not more’n fifteen miles further, nearer twelve, I’d say. Old Sol- omon knows it too. Reckon he’s well on his way by now, so’s to tank up an’ be off before we’re in sight.” With a slap and cheerful, “Let’s be goin’, Boulder,” he put the roan to a tireless trot that devoured the miles, taking across country southeast, as straight as the crow flies. The country became more rugged as the miles slipped behind—less mesquite, more gray-brown rock, with here and there a giant cactus. The sun grew to blinding intensity. The sand had turned from gray- brown to a glaring yellow and over it the heat rose in shimmering, dazzling waves. The great roan, black with sweat, a stream trickling from his girth, white lather flecking his shoulders and flanks, showed the marks of the grueling pace. ‘““Can’t be so much further, Boulder, Old Boy, I know well.” The man brought the horse to a willing halt and dismounted. The water in the nearly empty canteen was lukewarm and stale, but the man held it to his lips a moment with evident relish, and then moistened the roan’s dusty nos- trils with a dampened cloth. THE pair pushed steadily on, al- ways in a southeasterly direction, cleaving to a straight line except where uneven breaks in the country made detours a necessity. Little dust puffs rose from the tired roan’s hooves as he plodded doggedly forward. Mile after weary mile fell behind, and the man ‘showed a growing uneasiness. He swept the rugged draws and slopes for signs of green that should be yee if the water-hole had not gone y. With the memory of a born plainsman he should have no trouble recognizing old and familiar landmarks—but there were none. The feeling grew upon him as the hours wore away—he was lost, deep in the Mexican wilderness, ignorant of the paths and the water-holes. He reined in the roan for a moment’s rest—and as they paused there a moving object appeared, clear against the sky-line of a crest two miles to the south. Then it dropped from view—but the mag in the momentary glimpse had recognized the desert sorrel. cComiclool< Cc C@