Adventure Magazine Cover — page 65: what you’re looking at

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

Three Wise Men 51 at the vein. ‘Million!’ he muttered, cal- culating the seamed ledge. ‘Million! If thot ledge is ten feet deep there’s ten mill- ion.” Carver swore and slammed his heavy gun down among the sand and stones of the cajfion floor. “Tf thot little runt was here now Id shoot ’im into a million scraps. I’d make him look like a nickel’s worth of sausage shot from a cannon. Well, I’m goin’ up an’ look at his location notice; mebby the fool didn’t have sense enough to get it straight at all.” He cursed again, vehemently, as he strode across to the location monument. Moore followed. ‘Together they drew forth the folded paper from the piled stones. Written upon it in a prim, stilted hand was the description, according to the legal form, of the location. The length and width of the claim was set forth, and the distance in feet from the point of the notice to each end of the claim, together with the general course of the claim, the date, and the local- ity with reference to the Jackear Peaks. The name of the claim was set down as “The Crazy Man’s Dream” and the names of the locators were recorded therein as: Obadiah Higgins Spade Gowdy Jim Moore Dan Carver. Obadiah Higgins had made good. The two men cursed vividly. “He’s half-way to the recorder now,” roared Moore, seizing the paper and rend- ing it into bits, “but by ——, if I catch him before he gits thar, there’ll be one less name on that paper. Here, Carver, you catch up Henry’s jacks. Let’s see if we c’n make it back to Oro. I can go without eatin’, but I can’t hoof it. Git ’em! Let’s go. Spade’s done for; leave ‘im lay. No! Don’t you try pickin’ up yore gun. I’m th’ gunman now. I'll teach you how to shoot a pardner in the leg’n’ cripple ’im. Git them jacks.” Bee A WEEK later two patient burros Bitia swayed into El Oro. Dried sweat stood on their shoulders and flanks and they sucked thirstily at their lolling tongues. The hair on their backs was rumpled; evidently there had been riders the day before or, perhaps, the week before that. Straight to the little trough beside the new well-curb they went and thrust their parched muzzles gratefully into the cool water. Henry Blane, standing protectingly at the side of Obadiah Higgins, who was con- versing with a group gathered in front of the recorder’s office, shaded his eyes with a gnarled hand. “Why,” he — exclaimed “them’s my burros!”’ Satisfied, the two burros stood before the new well-curb placidly shooing the flies with their bristly tails. Above their droop- ing heads and contentedly waving ears was the holy reminder— God is not mocked, surprizedly, Gomichooks.¢o mn