Adventure, August 1917 — page 52: what you’re looking at

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

50 permitted him to get her out of the way. A couple of rocks, the convenient lake, and no one could fasten anything on him. Stanton, on the other hand, had only one bit of evidence that Joan was at the trading-post, or had been there. Fleenor knew of the discovery of the lost river. And Fleenor could have learned that only from Joan, for only Joan and Stanton himself had known it. It was not upon this that Stanton depended, however. The conviction had come to him that Joan was in danger at the trading-post, might even then be past his aid, and that conviction had been so strong, so certain, he did not need, in his overpowering dread, any substantiating. circumstance. “Fleenor,” he said, “I’m going to kill you if you don’t produce Miss Malloch, and if she’s hurt I’ll kill you anyhow. I’ve known ever since I first saw you that there was something wrong. I felt it rather than sawit. I felt as though I were contaminated whenever I came near you. I tried to overcome that feeling as there seemed to be no ground for it, but now I know my in- tuition was right. “You are the vilest thing I ever knew, Fleenor. You came into a peaceful, happy, clean country, where from, God only knows. But you have tracked in with you the slime and depravity and evil that we never thought possible, and we do only one thing in this country with such as you.” Stanton paused a moment as if for breath. Fleenor sneered, but the sneer died instantly when the missionary began again. “I’ve got the proof of your hashish ped- dling at last, Fleenor,” he said. “I’ve got the proof of who was responsible for the murder of the squaw at the mission. And now I’ve got you. But first you’re going to tell me where Joan is. Where is she?” and he strode forward threateningly. At once the entire situation changed for Fleenor. It was no longer a case of his tracks being covered, of his needing only to sit tight, until things had worked out as he had planned. Still, there was one hopeful element. Bancroft was only bluffing. If he had nerve he would have come himself and not have sent the girl. “Look here, bo,” he retorted. ‘Cut out those funny names you’re calling me and quit getting off those hoppy ideas. I tell Adventure you I ain’t seen the skirt and she ain’t been here, and as for this some kind of peddling, I don’t know what you’re talking about. You and I’se always been friends.” “Tell me where she is!” interrupted Stanton angrily. ‘‘No more talk. Actl And do it quick!’ He had been standing in the middle of the room and as he began to speak he ad- vanced slowly toward the trader, his left hand holding his rifle, his right clenched. _Fleenor had not changed his position from that in which he had been when the mission- ary entered. His chair was tilted back against the wall. His feet were resting on the lower front round. His hands were clasped behind his fat neck. It was a characteristic position, one in which Stan- ton had often found him on going to the store. But as the missionary advanced the trader’s pudgy body suddenly contracted. Of its own power, it seemed, the chair snapped down to the floor and Fleenor’s right hand flicked out from behind his neck, There was a bright flash and Stanton, dodging to one side and throwing up his rifle instinctively, felt the shock of some- thing strike the butt. The rifle quivered in his hand and he saw a short, thick knife vibrating there, its point half buried through the thick wood. Dazed by this sudden, unexpected at- tempt upon his life, fascinated by the quivering blade that had been aimed at his chest, Stanton did not act instantly. He had not adjusted himself to the idea that this squat, flabby man could resist. Fleenor, trained in many such encounters, possessed of a skill and resource developed through long years of brawls and stealth and trickery and brutality, found no cause for hesitation. The same motion that had thrown the knife ended in a grasp upon the chair and was continued in a swinging, flail-like sweep of the heavy piece of furniture. Again Stanton dodged to one side and threw up the rifle instinctively, only to have it knocked from his hands and into’a corner. Fleenor did not end the swing there but whirled clear around with the mincing steps of a hammer thrower, and launched the chair straight at Stanton, following it up instantly. The missionary caught the full force of CoOMmiclsoo CO 5}