Adventure Magazine Cover — page 114: what you’re looking at

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

104 whom such brief attacks were by no means a novelty, knew better. Whisky gave strength to a man, and did not rob him of it. Whisky did not cause those queer pains as if a horde of tiny demons were trying to pluck out his heart-strings by the roots. Whisky eased those pains, which were cer- tainly—most certainly—the work of Gran’ Mobi. Whenever the sudden sensation of a tug at his heart bent him double with the swift pain of it Beo the Indian knew that, though invisible, Gran’ Mobi was somewhere in the neighborhood. He glanced fearfully about, forcing himself to peer into the forest shadow ahead, lest the Gran’ Mobi leap out of some concealment where he might be lurking even then. But quite suddenly Beo the Indian forgot Gran’ Mobi and his fear. There came to him, apparently right out of the forest. the clear voice of a girl, caroling a swamp chantey. Raoul he stay in town one day— (Raoul, ain’t you ashame’ ?) An’ soon he feel so ver’, ver’ gay He throw that prit-tee shirt away, An’ buy a dress for his Aimée. (Raoul, ain’t you ashame’ ?) Digging his paddle deep into the black water, Beo the Indian checked the progress of his pirogue in its own length. Cautiously he edged in toward the bank, chuckling evilly as he came to the mouth of the ditch where a pirogue—a trapper’s pirogue, to judge by the little pile of furry bodies in the bow—was fastened by a thong of whang to the low-hanging limb of a live-oak. INNOCENTE was stooping over the trap where the sixth mink of her day’s catch was darting and rane with snaky speed to the limit al- lowed by the steel jaws which were locked on one of his hind legs, when Beo the Indian, parting the brush, looked into the ,’ or swamp clearing, where she was atwork. After one satisfied glance Beo the Indian discarded the stalker’s caution with which he had approached the cove and stepped boldly into the clearing. As she heard the step Innocente whirled about and faced the Indian, who hooked his thumbs into his belt, spread apart his feet and leered. Innocente’s eyes took on the hard look of spine obsidian, as—in English—she said: Adventure “What do you wish? doing here?”’ Beo the Indian shook his head. “T ain’t goin’ hurt yo’—me. are afraid?” he said. “Y’m not afraid,” blazed Innocente in- dignantly, stamping her foot with a splash on the sodden ground. ‘Make off, you “Don’t call poor Beo no ugly name— no,” said the leering Indian. “I only want to see you smile, my little, my lovely!” He advanced a step or two, and as he did so the girl retreated. Suddenly she turned and started like a deer across the clearing. With awkward leaps which cov- ered a surprizing amount of ground Beo the Indian followed her. Within twenty yards he had caught her and was crushing her roughly to him in his great arms. Struggle and scream as she might the girl could not break that grip. She saw the face with its two evil eyes come closer to hers. Without warning that evil countenance became transfixed in what appeared to be an agony of fear. The two arms which had held her powerless relaxed, and she slipped from the Indian’s grasp to a crouching position on the ground. Beo the Indian, however, stood motion- less. For from the other side of the clearing an awful figure was advancing upon him. It appeared to be a man, but it had no features—at least no recognizable features— for the face was puffed beyond all recogni- tion and bloody from countless encounters with the blades of the cane-brakes. Above the bloody, puffy face there hung glisten- ing, wet, ropy locks, like snakes writhing about. There was a rattle in the throat of Beo the Indian, and with his clenched right fist he was beating at his chest over his heart. “Gran’—Gran’ Mobi!” he gasped. Then his breath came back to him with a rush; and, giving one sharp yell of terror, he fled crashing into the swamp. What are you Why you Innocente had looked up in amazement, | but the sight which met her eyes sent her down to the ground, cowering, crossing herself, and beginning a paternoster. Yet the figure advanced steadily, halting when it had come within a few feet of the girl. “If you please, mam’selle,” it said thickly, “drink—they stole my pirogue—the mos- quitoes d With a little cry of relief the girl sprang GOMIIGoOO S co