Adventure Magazine Cover — page 102: what you’re looking at

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

96 Fortune’s heart sang. He had been fooled often before—but this time each blow of the _ pick into the rock ledge brought additional proof. He worked steadily, early in the mornings and after the sun had dropped low, resting motionless in the shade of the tent during the intense heat of midday, until, desert-rat that he was, he had to give up. Nothing in human form could with- stand those burning blasts that withered and seared from the sky. A few more days and the last of the water in the hole would be gone. Mickey Fortune filled the bottles and packed the burro after shoveling sand into the gap made by his pick in the ledge. Even a veteran would be fooled into putting it down as an old failure after one look. He started at night for the town at the edge of the desert, and the great white terrier trotted at his heels beside the burro. In the pack on the burro were some bits of rock that afforded proof of the prized mineral. At the edge of the desert Mickey Fortune turned and looked back. Heat mists arose from the alkali in waves that ‘seemed to leap and arch. Here and there a swirl of burning wind stirred up the dust devils, and far off the horizon was tinged with red and purple haze. Mickey Fortune - smiled through cracked lips and grabbed the neck of the terrier with familiar rough- ness. Then the trio went on toward the town. eS pion of the pits, came stories of a magnificent fighting terrier that had been brought in by a desert-rat, for Mickey Fortune told the tale of the fight with the lobo and of how the terrier had led him to the water-hole to any who would listen, and himself engaged in various battles with those who scoffed. And there were other rumors that reached the ears of Joe Silva, rumors of a copper claim that had been filed with the commissioner. To Joe Silva it suddenly dawned that the stories all fitted and dove-tailed into a con- nected narrative; the dog of a fighting breed, born on the desert and left there to die, the water-hole, the ledge of rock with its indications of copper that had failed to materialize under his half-hearted digging. Joe Silva’s hands clenched, his eyes be- came mere slits above the high cheek bones, and later he came to the town on the edge of the desert from which the stories started. TO JOE SILVA, with his new cham- Adventure With him was a bull-terrier of finely drawn, gracefyl lines, with every muscle standing out hard and taut, and wearing a heavy collar studded with brass knobs. But September was passing and Mickey Fortune was gone, back into the desert, none knew where. With him were the ter- rier that bore the scar of the lobo’s fangs and the aged burro which carried all his earthly goods; for Mickey Fortune belied his name and the stake on which he pro- spected was a narrow one. Then Silva, too, went off into the desert with the huge gun swinging at his hip and the fighting dog beside him. The moon was high in the heavens, dip- ping toward the west, while the silver dots of myriad stars made the September sky briliant two‘nights later when Silva neared the arroyo to which Mickey Fortune laid claim. Silva dropped the halter of his burro, loosened the gun in its holster with the terrier cringing at his heels under his sharp command. He bent low as he en- tered the arroyo and silently made his way around to the old rock ledge. Then his lips curled back. There it was—the new pile of rock a few scant yards below where he had dug the season previous before he gave up in disgust. This desert-rat. had burrowed deeper, had known his game better perhaps. Mentally, Joe Silva scoffed, and his hand was on the gun-butt. One shot, and Joe Silva could go back to wait a few months, a year or more if need be. Then he could happen to wander into the arroyo and find the skeleton of a man—and file a new claim himself. It had been done before, many times by others. He picked his way silently along in the shadows, clinging close to the side of the arroyo, the dog in back of him. There was a slight bend, and beyond it the camp of Mickey Fortune. The gun was in Joe Silva’s hand as he peered around the bend. In the moon- light he saw the form of a man stretched on his blankets near the waier-hole. A burro stood with head bent toward dry tufts of desert grass. Then there was a rush of something white, a silent rush past the feet of Joe Silva, and fierce mouthings as the two great terriers—blood brothers—met in battle. Mickey Fortune leaped to his feet, con- fused, wondering, and a few feet away the gun of Joe Silva pointed at him. COMmMicloookX C@