Adventure Magazine Cover, April 3, 1918 — page 53: what you’re looking at

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

Ambush same, creeping after him, panther-footed in their moccasins, through the hard-packed yard. ‘They reached the level of the steps without noise and, craning their necks, peered through the lighted window on the nearer side of the door. Inside the rough-walled mess-room the feast was all disordered, the feasters all disarranged, although it was at once ap- parent that no hands had been laid upon the main body of the Free-Traders who had partly composed the feast. Too drunk to care what company ruled the Northland, they slouched in their chairs or lolled forward across the table, grinning maudlinly at the plight of Wayne who had sought to chastise them. Upon half a dozen chairs Wayne, Mason, Murdock and the other three sober men sat in a row against the wall, their limbs bound tightly to the chair backs and the chair legs. Across one cleared end of the table lay Richelieu, his uniform flashing bright under - the candlelight as three or four Northwest- ers worked over him, and in the ministering hands those outside could see his muscles stir slightly. “He’s not dead, anyway, thank Heaven!’’ whispered Andrews. | “Then the devil must have him in special keeping!’ growled Carlisle under his breath as he laid his hand quietly on the latch. “Stand well to one side of the door jamb, Joan, and you, Andrews, in case of shoot- ing.” He swung the door wide and stepped swiftly upon the doorsill, two long pistols in his hands covering the packed room. “Bon soir, messieurs!” he greeted them mockingly. He gave neither order nor threat, yet in- stinctively they knew his intent and froze into immobility, staring at his huge figure in the frost-rimmed, furred capote and at the other figures, likewise frost-rimed, who crowded behind him on the steps, their long-barreled rifles looking down the table. “So Richelieu met with a little accident in his game,” Carlisle laughed. ‘Is he badly hurt?” “Not badly we think, m’szew’,” returned one of the Northwesters somewhat sullenly, “but you have a doctoring priest there. He could tell.” “Surely,”’ acquiesced Carlisle. ‘“‘Will you take a look at him, Father?” He made room for Andrews to push in, 51 and the priest walked up to the table where Richelieu lay. ‘Through the muscles of his neck, Pére,”’ the Frenchman pointed out the course of the ball. ‘‘He is just'on the edge of—how do you say it?—coming to!” “Ves,’’ nodded Andrews, passing a lighted candle over Richelieu as he lay, ‘‘and no great danger in that ball through his neck muscles! But do you see what is all through his face?” “Frost scars?” hazarded the Northwester, staring. : “Frost scars? No, you never saw frost scars like those. The man has smallpox!’ Swifter and harder than lead the diag- nosis hit them. Every one in the room seemed to start as if from a violent shock. The Northwesters around Richelieu threw up their arms before their faces in tangible defense against the plague, while all the rest crossed themselves in palpable terror. Even the slouching Free-Traders were stirred. The horrible significance of the word penetrated their drunken conscious- nesses. They stood up unsteadily, their faces whitening, sucking in their breaths in nervous clicks. Yet only for an instant did the great crowd cower. Abruptly, in a frantic rush, in an insane stampede they dashed for the doorway. Carlisle’s big frame blocked the exit, and he met the rush with clubbed pistols. Like cattle they came, shoving, trampling, frenzied with fear. Three of them went down from his clubbed weapons. A dozen more were hurled back from the stiff rifle barrels around him, as from the ends of lances. The rout fell aside, temporarily checked, swerved and made for the windows. Swing- ing chairs, they smashed away the glass and frames, but at Carlisle’s command several of his men had sprung to the outside of the windows, and an array of rifle-barrels speared the Northwesters back into the room. ‘Stop!’ roared Carlisle through the crash- ing babel. ‘Stop your panic or I’ll order my men toshoot. They can rake the whole place from the door and windows. Which will you face: smallpox or bullets?” The threat stayed for a little their wild frenzy, and Carlisle seized upon the mo- ment of their uncertainty to try to prevent another stampede. CORnICLOO S (C@