Adventure Magazine, April 10, 1924 — page 115: what you’re looking at

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

The King of No Man’s Land been any—were now broken into a weltering chaos of individuals fighting with the feroc- ity of a blood-hatred centuries old; a howling, hurtling, heaving mass without cohesion or sense, madly slaughtering it- self. Down on it rained stones and other missiles hurled from the precipitous plateau towering above. From it rolled a reek of powder-smoke and fresh blood. Rifle-shots thumped, arrows flew, machetes and spear- heads glinted redly under the westering sun, close-locked antagonists wrestled and tore and fell and were trampled into the crimson soll. How far along the curving wall that homicidal conflict extended, and how the fight was going, the three men crouching at the edge of the trees could not discern. “Aw !”? boomed Tim. ‘We can’t do nothin’! If we open fire we'll likely kill some o’ Hozy’s gang—can’t tell who’s which in that mess! What’s the word, cap? Tear into ’em or set tight?” “Hold your fire.”’ McKay and Knowlton scanned the cliff. The portion facing them was blank, the shelf forming the only ascent being farther to the left, above the fighting horde. The jumble of big boulders across the clearing, against the precipice, would make almost invulnera- ble cover and enable them to crawl into a commanding position. “All right,” decided McKay. those rocks!” They broke cover and rushed. For all the attention they received, they might as well have walked. The mind of every warring Indian was concentrated on his hereditary foes, and the arrival of a puny handful of white men meant less than noth- ing even if seen. So the three reached the rocks unnoticed, vanished among them, and, finding a faint path leading upward, worked rapidly higher and nearer to the center of conflict. Soon they were well above the horde and peering down from a small cafion between jagged blocks of stone. Viewed from this point of vantage, the confusion was a trifle less bewildering. ‘Though the tide of battle constantly ebbed and flowed, it became evi- dent that a force of brown-skinned, long- haired warriors fought with their backs to the cliff, facing a seething mob of men much lighter of hue and shorter of hair. In the main, the Huambizas were quite well bunched, while the attacking White Ones were eddying back and forth, being hurled 8 ‘Rush 113 back time and again but ever boring in with undiminished fury. | “By cripes, them Warm -Beezers ain’t collectin’ no heads from Hozy yet!’’ bellowed Tim. “Got all they can do to hang on to their own. See Hozy or Dave anywheres? I can’t make out nothin’ but Injuns.” A long, keen gaze at the writhing mass ended in head-shakes. In that welter no individual could be distinguished. But Mc- Kay saw something else which held him quiet a moment, then decided him as to the tactics of his three-man attack. “Look over yonder!” he yelled. “That point of rocks! White Ones are trying to cut through and roll up the Huambiza flank. Fire ito the Huambizas there!” “That’s the dope,” approved Knowlton. He swung his pack to a niche where he could readily draw on his reserve ammuni- tion. McKay and Tim did likewise. A moment later they were lying prone on a hot slab and aligning their sights on the brown men at the point designated by McKay. Firing at will, with the rapid precision of trained shots, they dropped head-hunters in swift succession. The Huambizas oppos- ing the Sumatara wedge began to crumple up, and the White Ones boted deeper. Re- loading from their web belts, the sharp- shooters poured another blast of concen- trated fire into the same spot, and a veri- table path opened before the light-skinned battlers. They surged into it with the speed of flood-waters sweeping into a newly breached channel. Before the divided mass of head-hunters could close and crush them, the deadly gun-fire from above was widening the gap, and more exultant Sumataras were pouring in, penetrating farther cliffward by their own vindictive prowess. When the belts of the Americans were empty, a lance- like lane of White Ones had pierced deep into the Huambiza horde, and the left flank of the savages was virtually surrounded. Arrows began to rattle on the stones near by. A slug fired from some ancient gun flattened itself against a boulder, a yard to one side. The nearest Huambizas had at last located the spot whence poured the devastating, smokeless rifle-fire, and were sending up a few desperate shots to silence it. Tim leaned out, shook a fist, thumbed his nose, and hastily withdrew, just in time to dodge an accurately driven arrow. Chuckling, he crawled back to his pack and began digging up fresh cartridges. Conmicloool< (© 5}