Adventure Magazine Cover, October 10, 1921 — page 176: what you’re looking at

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

166 rear was out of the race. It was still too far distant for them to recognize the leaders and to miss the sorrel. Thoughts leaped through the man’s mind.’ What would the boys think?—his own outfit, and the Circle K and Bar Be He had failed them—was failing them— No! He had only given that black devil an awful handicap, that was it! And now Solomon must cut it down, down—must draw up alongside those fleet horses in the lead—pass them all. And when he swept by the black El Diablo, then he would have upheld the fame of the Horse Shoe— would have proved himself in the eyes of his fellow punchers, MacQueen’s men, and Belding’s. He must win! Solomon must run as he had never run before. Worthington was no longer the cool calm master seeking to hold his mount collected and steady. He was the frenzied jockey, calling forth every ounce his harse had to give. He had thrown away his quirt. There was no need of it. For he had broken Solomon to run without aid of quirt or spur. The low, tense eager voice in his ear was sufficient. The rider’s frenzy was carried to the horse. He ran with neck out- stretched, still smooth and even in his wonderful stride, but tremendous exertion showed in the corded neck and shoulders. On, on, the sorrel swept, cutting the terrible lead to less than thirty yards at the mile-and-a-half mark. The crowd could now discern the horse without difficulty. The Don’s vacqueros shouted exultantly as the black increased his lead over his nearest rival. The ranchmen who had backed the sorrel were grimly silent. They were,not men to show the white feather in a pinch, but they had expected at least a running chance against the black—and with the Horse Shoe entry running last they felt that somehow this had been a stacked deal. & and the wonderful running of the white-maned horse cut down the lead with almost unbelievable swiftness, the crowd went mad. Cheers rose in deafening volume. The Don’s group were drowned in a bedlam of sound that rose like a storm. On came the racing horses, lash and spur in evidence, as each rider sought to wring from his fast tiring mount the last spurt, THEN as the riders drew nearer Adventure that would mean victory. Worth, low on the neck of the hurtling stallion, locked tense fingers in the great mane and breathed over and over—‘‘Solomon—Solomon.”’ Witlra startled turn of the head the little rider on Dolly D gave evidence of his sur- prize. Thundering at his flank ran a great sorrel horse with white mane and out- stretched neck. He surged past the little mare, and swerving a fraction from his path flanked the Sonora horse, Pedro. The desert stallion was wonderful in his fliight— wild and free. Stretched low, running smoothly, Solo- mon was cutting down the black’s lead with each sweeping stride. He drew alongside Silver Tip, passed him, and in another moment was racing neck and neck with the dapple stallion, with El Diablo scarce ten yards in the lead—with a few hundred vards of open plain between him and the finish. A rocking roaring din rose from hundreds of throats—hats and many-colored scarfs sailed high above the waving, leaping crowd. Two men, of all the crowd, restrained themselves. Those two held themselves aloof. The Don sat his horse at ease, a half-smile of confidence, of disdain upon his dark face. Handsome, devil-may-care, his was the face and form of the victor. About the deep-lashed eyes there was a trace of gloating cruelty. Facing him, from the far edge of the track, sat J. B., straight and rigid in the saddle, his hat pulled low upon his brow. The deep tan of the open range had dark- ened to almost purple. His heavy jaw, protruding and tense, showed the blue of his beard that had not turned to white with the years, and a great clenched fist rested heavily upon the saddle-horn. From be- neath the wide brim of the hat steel gray eyes flashed, dancing in their depths with the light of hope that neither age, storm, sun nor wind had dimmed. Down between the rows of madly waving, shouting humanity rushed two great horses, a black in the lead, a sorrel almost a length behind. The riders lay low on the charg- ing horses’ necks, and as they swept nearer the black’s rider brought his quirt into play, slashing right and left with every gallant leap of the foam-flecked striving horse. To Worthington, the massed faces that swirled by on either side were not men and women—they were flapping gew-gaws in a COnmiclbooks Cc C@