Adventure Magazine Cover, October 10, 1921 — page 87: what you’re looking at

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

The Pathless Trail “We’re in the jungle now, We ain’t behind the plow, We'll never git rich, We'll die with the itch, We’re in the jungle now!”’ CHAPTER IV THE GERMAN {eee door of the German’s room opened. The German came out and marched to the table. Two paces away he halted and faced the Americans, ready to speak if spoken to, equally ready to sit and ignore them if not greeted. McKay and Knowlton rose. “Herr von Schwandorf?” inquired Knowl- ton. “Schwandorf. Neither herr nor von. Plain Schwandorf.”’ The reply came in excellent English, though with a slight throaty accent. “Knowlton is my name. Mr. McKay. The third member of our party, Mr. Ryan, has just left.” Schwandorf bowed stiffly from the waist. “Tt is a pleasure to meet you. White men are all too few here.” Seating himself at a place beyond that just vacated by Tim, he continued— “You stay here for a time?” “Not long.”’ They reseated themselves. ‘“‘We go up the river as soon as we can arrange transportation.” The black brows lifted slightly. “Tt is a dangerous river. You would do well to travel elsewhere unless you have some pressing reason to explore this stream.” With an accustomed sweep of the hand he shooed the flies from the bean-dish and helped himself to a big portion. Over them he poured farinha in the Brazilian fashion. ‘“‘We have. We are seeking a tribe of people who paint their bones red.” Schwandorf’s hand, conveying the first mouthful of beans upward, stopped in air. His black eyes fixed the Americans with an astounded stare. He lowered the beans, stabbed absently at a chunk of beef, sawed it apart, popped a piece of it into his mouth, and sat for a time chewing. When the meat was down he spoke bluntly. ‘“‘Are there not ways enough to kill your- selves at home instead of traveling to this place to do it?” McKay smiled. The directness of the man amused him. “7 ““As bad as that?” asked Knowlton. “As bad as that. Blow your head off if you like. Cut your throat. Take poison. Jump into the river among the alligators. Step on a snake. But keep away from the Red Bones.” “Why?” shot McKay. ‘“‘Cannibals—and worse.” ““Worse?”’ “Truly. Most of the Brazilian savages do not torture. The Red Bones do.” - “Pleasant prospect.” “Very. Nothing to be gained among them, either. If you’re hunting gold, try the hills over west of the Huallaga. None here.” Knowlton filled and lighted a pipe. McKay slowly drank the last of his sirupy coffee and rolled a cigaret. Schwandorf continued shoveling food into his capacious mouth. “Know anything about the Raposa?” Knowlton asked. The Teuton’s eyelashes flickered. He ground another chunk of meat between his jaws before answering. “Of course,” he said then. ‘Wild dog. Sharp snout, gray hair, bushy tail. I’ve shot a couple of them.” ‘This one is a man. Green eyes, streak of white hair over the left ear. Paints himself like the Red Bones, as you call them, but is a white man.” “Oh. That one? Heard of him, yes. Wild man of the jungle. Want to catch him and put him in a circus?” ‘““Maybe. We’d like to see him anyhow. Heard about him awhile ago. Any way to get him that you know of?” “Might try a steel trap,’ the German suggested callously. “But I don’t know where you'd set it. Best way to get a wild dog is to shoot him, and he isn’t much good dead. Or would this one be worth some- thing—dead?” A _ swift sidelong glance accompanied the question. ‘“‘Not a cent!” snapped McKay. ‘‘And perhaps he’d be worth nothing alive,’ added Knowlton. healthy curiosity to look him over. Guess the Red Bone country would be the likeliest place. How far is it from here?” “Keep out of it,” was the stubborn reply. The Americans rose. ‘We are not going to keep out of it,” Knowlton declared coldly. COmiclbooks Cc “We are going ‘But we have a | C©@