Adventure Magazine Cover — page 121: what you’re looking at

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

The Lord of the Stony Rises could not reach Rushton, could not land the one smashing blow that would put an end to the conflict, for afterwards—after the blow had landed—he was going to take Rushton’s head between his hands and beat it to pulp. Beat it to pulp. It was a confused, awkward pursuit; a fumble through the darkness after a shad- owy figure, a sudden rush, a lunge—and empty air, and a laugh that came from be- hind him. Soon he was panting, his lungs cracked, his mouth hung open. For an instant he stood still, his arms loose at his sides. Then Rushton pounced as swift and as sure as a cat. Crash! Mitcham’s head rocked back on his shoulders, driven back by a trip-hammer blow beneath the chin. Before he could recover he was butted in the chest, struck again and again. He cov- ered up. He was tripped. Down he went, torn down, full length in the mud. As he struggled to his knees Rushton leaped upon his back and hanging there bore him to earth again. There were no rules to that struggle. It was fought in the dark, to the rumble of receding thunder, in a wind-driven down- pour of rain. It was merciless, silent, sav- age. By the glare of the lightning they saw each other’s eyes and what they read there set them at each other’s throat with re- newed ferocity. When his brain cleared after the first shock Mitcham shook off his assailant with one sweep of the arm, but he could not fol- low up his advantage, he was slow on his feet. Most of his blows fell short. Those that did strike home made him grunt with pleasure. as he felt Rushton give to the im- pact. They were torn, bloodied and bat- tered, still they maintained the same hur- ricane pace. ; Rushton’s mouth was an open wound, his right cheek-bone lay bare, his whole face was wet with blood, but he was not giving ground. Strangely enough it was Mitcham who broke away, a step at a time, wincing at every glancing blow, for he was no longer quite so sure of himself and astonished that Rushton should still be facing him and fighting him. He was hurt, too, and he did not like pain. His scalp was torn open. It throbbed. He could feel a warm trickle down his back inside the clinging wet shirt. He was dizzy, faint, yet he had to keep his leaden arms up in front of him and parry we the rapier-like blows that shot through to his face, his neck, his heart. Rushton was a will o’ the wisp, a wasp with a hundred stings. His blows found the open cuts where his fists seemed to twist as they landed, making the gashes each time a little deeper, a little bigger. At last, crazed and blind with fear—fear of defeat, fear of death, fear of more pun- ishment—Mitcham with a scream gath- ered together the tatters of his strength, bunched himself for one last effort—and Lund, stealing up from behind, dealt him one crack on the top of the head with the handle of a stock whip. The scream be- came a gurgle as Mitcham slithered down and out. When Rushton found his breath he gasped: “What made you butt in, Lund? I was just polishing him off nicely. You’ve spoiled everything. When he comes to he’ll think he’s still the strong man from Borneo.” “That’s gratitude for you!” exclaimed Lund. “Here I wake up out of a sound sleep and run about hunting for where the noise is coming from, and bust Mitcham over the knob just in time to save you from ex-tinction, and you ask why I butt in! You ask——”’ ‘“‘My mistake,” said Rushton. “You are hereby appointed foreman of the Stony Rises Run for conspicuous valor, but I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to finish him off all by myself. If we can find a couple of cows we'll start—” the words were thick on his tongue and his knees sagged—‘“we’ll start a new herd, a new——’”’ He fell forward all of one piece on top of Lund said: “Foreman, eh? I’m doing good, if it lasts!” Then he dragged Rushton by the shoul- ders, heels trailing along the ground, to the shelter of the tree and left him there while he made fast Mitcham’s wrists and ankles with a leather belt and a scrap of rope. When dawn crept into the sky the storm had blown itself out. The country lay green and fresh and glistening in the light of the rising sun. But the wrecked house and the corpses by the overturned wagon were a blot on the landscape. So, too, was Rush- ton’s face as he limped painfully down the slope toward Mitcham. He was, literally, battered beyond recognition. Go DOOK 1 @)