Adventure Magazine Cover, April 3, 1918 — page 33: what you’re looking at

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

Ambush ‘‘Andrews, Andrews,” groaned Carlisle, his face whitened to an ashy shade under his bronze, “‘tell him he lies! You knew my father. You were his friend, and my guardian. ‘Tell him he lies!” “May God forgive me, Paul, but I can’t,” murmured the priest, catching him by the arm. “I know nothing but what Wayne has said and that the raid was made in liquor. Liquored men are madmen and their brains do not know what their hands are doing.”’ “And you knew, Andrews? And you never told me? But, high heaven, he was my father, my father!’ Reiterating the words, Carlisle stood gazing wildly across the table at Joan, star- ing into a face as pale as his own, into eyes as wide-set with anguish. “And you, Joan, you knew—’” he began. “Only the—the—truth, Paul,” Joan cried. “My father never told me whose hand was age 3 ‘There was no need,” snarled Wayne, “‘no need till now! Am I a liar, then, Carlisle? If you think so, go and ask Richelieu. I have no love for him at this late date, but he was once our friend, for he was as dashing an officer as one would find anywhere in those days. ‘Simon Richelieu was a nineteen-year-old lieutenant then, officering what local force we had, and he was the one who took me home and showed me the crumpled, bleed- ing, breathless thing that war makes of woman! And, a few hours before, I had left her all rose and golden! By heaven, go and ask Richelieu, I tell you! He saw!” ‘“T—will—not,” panted Carlisle in a pas- sion of despair. ‘‘One word of Richelieu’s corroboration and I would kill him!”’ “By the Doom, you hold a tarnished honor brightly! It’s well Charlie Carlisle fell on the Wyoming. It would have been better for yourself if you had never lived. When I drifted North from my homeless valley with my girl of four I swore an oath against the Carlisle breed, and by the grave that lies southward on Wyoming waters I will keep it! Now, go back to your post, Carlisle. Joan’s word is mine. Mason will hand you over your twenty-five men.” The petrified Missourian sprang into life again, but the Factor did not move. He re- mained staring stupidly at Joan till the priest drew him toward the door. Maissowa, Waseyawin and the four middlemen crossed 31 the veranda ahead like gliding shadows, and like gliding shadows they mingled in the yard with Mason’s muster of the aston- ished Hudson’s Bay prisoners—Drummond, Lewis, Garry, Lea, Hampton, Jarvis, Wells, the James Bay Crees, Ojibways, Chippewas. But of these Carlisle took no note. He walked unseeing, urged by the priest’s hand across the dark yard. “Andrews,” he burst out as they passed through the gate, “‘did my father know the district he was raiding?”’ “Yes, Paul.” “The people?” “Ves.”’ ‘The house?” Vee! “Oh, my God—her?”’ “Ves. I can’t lie to you. can’t!” “Did my father love her?” he blurted harshly. ‘For heaven’s sake, tell me if he loved her?” “Yes, he loved her,” declared Andrews in a broken voice. “That much I know. When your mother died in the Niagara post, Paul, his was a lonely life. He loved Verna Miller! Aye, and so did the stripling Richelieu, though Wayne won her from them both!’ Like lightning the significance of Andrews’ words flashed home to Carlisle as he stum- bled along the rough shore of Pine Island Lake toward Cumberland House. Before him was more than the competition of three rival trading companies, more than the essay at empire of three rival corporations. He was plunged into the tense struggle of souls in combat, all the wrongs of another generation crying for their righting, with the very spirits of the dead arising from the grave to claim that righting. You know I CHAPTER VII TRADE WAR ITTING around the counter of Galt’s trading-room at morning, the Hud- son’s Bay officers leaped swiftly to their feet as Carlisle came in. All the sleepless night he had shut himself up in his council- room, and now they hung upon his decision concerning the course to be pursued against Northwesters and Free-Traders alike. “Is it war, Factor?” they chorused eagerly. COnnICcLOookxs (C@