Adventure Magazine Cover, October 10, 1921 — page 179: what you’re looking at

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

Solomon hands upon the reins. His momentary excitement had passed and he was cool, alert, thinking as he rode, knowing that this was to be no short easy pursuit and recovery of the desert stallion, but a gruelling test of endurance. He must keep the Don within a reason- able distance, avoiding discovery, and bide his time. There was no fixed plan in the man’s mind, merely the dogged determina- tion to hang on and on; for even with the burning hate of the Don, Worthington realized how hopeless must be any attempt to recover Solomon by means other than | stealth. There were doubtless from a dozen to a score of men in the Don’s band, for the most part crack marksmen and riders. As the pair pushed on into the night the moon rose, throwing its pale light across the mesquite-blotched plains. The man scanned the sand with eager-eyes. ‘There were tracks there, the fresh imprints of shod and unshod hooves. The cream pinto had instinctively followed the fast moving horses miles in the lead. Worthington settled back in the saddle, with a relieved feeling that all would pan out as It should. The little pinto had in- telligence and buck-skinned toughness. With ‘careful riding he should be able to trail the fugitives for days, till they should have ceased their watchfulness, and thought no more of pursuit. Dawn found him less than ten miles from the Border. Two hours later he crossed the line into Mexico, between the great concrete monuments at mile inter- vals that seemed observing sentinels. The country grew more rugged as he advanced. They were working into the mountains. And with the steep walls, abrupt turns, and deep ravines angling in from the flanks, came greater possibilities of ambush. Ever on the alert the man scanned the trail and the distant crests ahead for the sign of horse or rider, but darkness settled without a living creature having broken the monotony of hours in the saddle. Worthington did not dare light a fire so he ate his cold biscuit and drank sparingly of the stale water in the warm canteen. Then with the horse picketed near at hand the man rolled up in his blankets and stretched his weary frame upon the sand, thankful for the cool breeze that ee come with the darkness. 169 The man was astir and had breakfasted while it was still dark, and mounting the cream pinto, was riding with the first streaks of coming dawn. All day the pair pushed forward. Through the blinding heat of the noon hours the man and _ horse walked and rested alternately, conscious only of parching thirst and a trail that led on and on, down steep rugged slopes, through ravines, across washouts, and dried stream beds, and over the high rock tablelands, into the south and the east. The days that followed were of un- changing sameness, torturing heat and thirst, weariness, and the ever present fear of discovery by the men he so doggedly trailed. Each night the man camped without a fire, existing upon the diminish- . ing supply of dry biscuit and hardtack. He was pounds lighter and his face and hands were burned and blistered from the beating sun. The little cream pinto,.run down to skin and bone under the heavy rider and stock saddle — carrymg Worthington steadily whereas the horses in the lead were afforded a rest by their riders’ frequent changes to the stolen mounts—had to be prodded to its feet each morning. Never once had Worthington caught sight of the horses and men that left this heart-breaking trail across thesands. Eight days back there had been a split in the trail, a number of the horses swinging off to the left. Worthington had guessed these to be Horse Shoe stock, driven by perhaps two or three of the Don’s vacqueros. He had followed the trail that led on, confident that with these he would find the desert stallion. All through the hours and days of scorching heat, fatigue, and thirst the man clung tenaciously to the conviction that somehow, somewhere, he would over- take the tireless riders that left behind such certain evidence of their passing, yet seemed both fantom horses:and fantom men. IN THE camp of the Don and his h vacqueros there. had ceased to be much thought of pursuit. Miles and miles into the heart of the Mexican wilderness, there seemed little likelihood that man or beast could have successfully trailed them so far. Fifteen days had passed since the night raid and the flight, and thus far no attempt had been made to COnmiclbooks Cc C@©