Adventure Magazine Cover — page 139: what you’re looking at

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

Sled Wheeler and the Nameless Order keep up his guard—such a fury of attack would wear Wheeler out—then he would torture him as he slowly finished him. He knew just what he would do; he had only to be patient. Dan was following him up—slash, swing and drive—right, left and thrust—until he had his man almost to the wall. Then it was only by a vicious combined thrust and parry that Garth managed to slip away under Dan’s arm. Wheeler was after him with a whirl and catlike spring that all but caught Garth on the turn—guard down. Garth’s smile faded, and he settled down keenly to the business of saving his skin from the furious onset of this amateur—this reck!ess madman. Dan was living his life to the full. This was what he was made for—his work and deep pleasure—and he fought with keen and hearty zest. His man was before him, and nothing between. The world might go hang; he would get him, and the harder he fought the better. Not that Wheeler belittied the skill he met. He could feel by instinct, by the waver of the treacherous black eyes, that there was something coming. ‘That vicious, drawing stroke at the inside of the leg behind the knee—ha! That was Bren- don’s “‘hamstring stroke!” He met it with circling blade as he heard Brendon’s “Pretty work!” and swung a full back- stroke in answer that made Garth leap back. Again he saw Garth slip—a false slip— and hold ready for a nasty upward thrust at the stomach. He simply stepped back in cool disdain—waited for Garth to raise his guard. Then he went after him with a new and stronger attack. Now he noticed that Garth was beginning to breathe hard—was saving his strength— using the point to keep him off—abandoning the slashing cuts that took more strength and wind. Dan kept his gaze fixed on the beady eyes— on the face that now was the face of a trapped and snarling beast—and pushed his man hard and harder. ‘The resistance his blade met was getting weaker. Each blow was a bit less heavy—each parry a bit more tardy—while he felt his own strength still on the increase. He still had power in reserve. Now he had only to tear in and finish him! : But wait! Was that right? That would _a wildcat. 129 be too easy. Was it a ruse? Even as he checked his foot in a sudden advance his back-stroke met no blade! Garth had ducked his head, and at the same time whipped a vicious point back crosswise at his eyes. Dan felt his circling blade would be too late—threw back his head—yjerked up his left arm—just in time to save his eyes. Even in that frightful instant he dimly recalled reading of that supremely dastardly stroke, worked out by some Italian in olden time. He had escaped, but at the cost of a hacked forearm and a cut above the brow that spurted blood on the instant. Even ashe recovered, Garth was on himlike Thrust on thrust—in quarte—in tierce—over—under—smashing his guard. Then a ripping upward stroke that Dan only escaped by a backward leap. For the blood that flooded one eye put him off in his measure of distance. Dan cleared his eye with an upward wipe of his left hand—guarding with the blade in his right—but those left fingers would not work and the blood swept down like a crimson curtain. Again he had to strike and duck to get out of a corner, for Garth was driving him in fierce triumph, ready to finish him at the right moment. The watchers were silent and breathless. Again Dan made the attempt to free his vision—found his little and ring-fingers still worked responsive—with them held up the flap of skin and dammed the flow of blinding blood, just as Garth’s blade passed under his arm and he swayed his body. He had it —and held it tight! Left hand at his brow and keeping his sight clear, he sprang for- ward with a quick lunge that wiped once more the grin off that hateful face. Dan heard himself utter a low growl as he called on the reserve of mighty force within him. Now he was Dan Wheeler at his utmost—the super-fighter whose virile power grew greater with the call upon it— and a thrill shot through him with each smashing blow he swung at that demon face before him. Fast and faster—strong and stronger he drove at that head before him—each cleav- ing drive more downright and resistless. Slashing with a force and crushing weight that would not be denied—twice the oppos- ing blade gave way beneath his own—his edge found flesh—wounded the face that he GOMIIGoOO S (© iin