Adventure Magazine Cover, April 3, 1918 — page 112: what you’re looking at

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

IIo in his belt gave a touch of the primitive. A stranger to his history would never have picked him as being the one of the two who came from the East. ‘“‘About as much alike as an apple and a cactus,’ commented the commander as he watched them disappear down the trail. “Contradictions at every point; and yet the two best men I’ve got.” erke3 SILENT was inclined to conversa- Mm tion as he and his companion neared the Caches without having discov- ered any new signs. Texas, too, seemed to have discarded his nervous mood and spoke frankly of his life in St. Louis. “Even now I can’t make it seem real,” he morosely declared as they slowed down at the Caches. “I spent nearly all my life there, and yet it seems as though it was a dream, that I had never quit the trail.”’ “Injun talk come natural to ye?” timidly asked Silent. ‘ “T absorbed it,” sighed Texas. ‘I speak English according to thebook, but I always feel as though I was repeating something I had memorized.” “By jing! Reckon no one could talk it so O. K. ’less he done a mighty big heap o’ mem’rizin’,”’ admiringly cried the hunter. “Reckon I’m too old to larn it as she should be spoke.” “Tt was my father’s orders that I should have it hammered into me—it was.” “Wal, I wish my father’d fixed it so it could ’a’ been hammered—hi! I count a coup!”’ And leaping from his pony Silent held aloft a small deerskin pouch. “Medicine bag?” curiously queried Texas. Silent took out several fragments of black micaceous iron and made soft black marks on the back of his wrinkled hand, and corrected: “War paint. Paint-bag.” “Tf a Kiowa dropped it, it proves the hunting trip to the Platte was merely a cover for a raid along the trail,” Texas forcefully declared. “Bead work says Kiowy,” slowly ad- mitted the hunter after studying the pouch closely. ‘“‘Represents Sci-Manzi, th’ ‘Mes- cal Woman.’ I’ve seen it on th’ sacred gourd rattles used in th’ mescal ceremony; but never on a paint-bag afore.”’ “Wish I were as well versed in reading their picture-writing as you are,” said Texas. Adventure “‘An’ I wish I could swap what I know f’r yer knack o’ tossin’ th’ English lingo ‘round. Funny world. Camp here or push on to th’ Crossing?”’ “Neither,’’ was the prompt reply. ‘“‘T’ll ride a half circle on this side of the river while you do the same on the other side. We'll meet five miles below here at the big patch of sage-brush. We ought to hit the trail of the war party that lost that pouch.” “Good talk,” grunted Silent. “I knew yer nerve would come back once ye hit th’ trail. S’long.”” And wheeling his pony he dashed through the shallow ford and sped away in a wide detour. Although it lacked two hours of sunset and he had no need for haste he used the quirt liberally and maintained a sharp pace. Traveling rapidly he passed the rendezvous of sage-brush and galloped a mile before turning back to the river. Then instead of riding back to the brush he crossed the stream and continued due north. Two more miles were covered in this direction; - then he dismounted, and, leading his pony, turned his back to the setting sun and proceeded slowly, his head bowed low, his eyes searching the ground. Descending a low ridge covered with a coarse scrub grass he halted and dropped on his hands and knees. The light was failing and in the hollow it was difficult to pick up signs. Lowering his head like a hound he cautiously crawled about, his ° pony keeping at his heels. At last he grunted contentedly and rapidly described a circle. When he had finished he sprang to his feet, displaying an agility not to be expected of his years, and vaulted into the saddle. This time he raced southwest, heading for the Crossing. The pony responded to the demands of his master as though his very ugliness were converted into fresh speed and endurance. It lacked an hour of midnight when the hunter splashed into the Crossing and as- cended the opposite bank. Near the river glowed smoldering camp- fires. His noisy crossing had attracted attention, and as he became a silhouette against the sky-line a sharp voice called out: ‘Red or white? Quick, or I’ll fire.” ‘“‘Gov’ment scout from Fort Larned in a hell-of-a-hustle,” bawled back the hunter. “What train’s this?” “Colonel Vrain’s. vance, or I'll fire.”’ Who are you? Ad- Go JOO ANG SCO)