Adventure Magazine Cover — page 122: what you’re looking at

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

II2 He sat down beside Mitcham and in- quired— “Are you fit to travel, ex-foreman?”’ BE !” said Mitcham, “I’d ’ave rived the guts out’n you if it ’adn’t been for Lund.” “You are fit to travel,’ Rushton went on. “And please don’t laugh because I’m a bit dilapidated. You should see yourself! You're a filthy mess, ex-foreman! I’m go- ing to turn you over to your friend Bur- dette, and you can tell him from me that I’m staying right here with my two cows and Lund and the wagon and what’s left of the frying-pan.”’ “When I get loose——” “‘We’re going to take you down to meet Gilding and you can kiss him on both cheeks. We'll each have a gun—if we can find a couple—and if you say so much as ‘Merry Christmas’ we’ll both fire simulta- neously. You don’t want te run any un- necessary risks because I’m in a highly nervous condition and Lund’s mad because you spoiled his night’s sleep and kept him from catching cold. You better have some hot tea before we start.”’ “You’re marked,” growled Mitcham, “and by , next time I'll finish the job.” Rushton tapped him on the shoulder. “Next time,” he said, ‘‘T’ll not only help you finish the job, I’! help nail the coffin and you'll be inside.” His words were so very unexpected that Mitcham found no ready answer. In fact the more he pondered over the remark the more ominous it seemed to be. He did not like it at all; moreover, the back of his head was very painful, so he lapsed into gloomy silence, which persisted until he was handed over to the astonished Gilding, who, when confronted by the mute summons of two wide-mouthed Colts, led him quickly away, meanwhile muttering beneath his breath: “What will Mr. Burdette have to say? What will he have to say?” Before he was through Burdette was destined to say and to do many extraordi- nary things. Ee “FIRST thing to be done,” said Rushton, ten seconds after Mitcham had passed out of sight down the track, “is to round up what’s left of our beasties. The rest can wait.” They explored the run from end to end and found stray bullocks scattered over Adventure forty miles of country. Some were found at the foot of the Stony Rises, others wal- lowing in the mud-holes by the river, yet others in the heath and the scrub, and a few strayed across the marshes on to the Wal- len estate. —Two hundred and ten were grad- ually brought together again at the price of unending, grueling toil. Alone, Lund might have given way in despair but Rush- ton spurred him on. A new Rushton with little to say for himself, even when his neighbor, Wallen, fearing Burdette, apolo- gized for having to refuse the loan of two handymen to help rebuild the house and retrieve the stores that still lay on the ground. Rushton spilled Wallen’s whisky on the floor and left without a word. They salvaged some flour, bacon, salt, tea and ammunition, and these they packed in a tin-lined box, ‘which they hid in a thicket down by the river. “Safer,” Rushton explained. ‘“Can’t tell what may happen while we’re away.”’ He was right, for some days later while they were scouring the high grass at the foot of the Stony Rises some one from across the Shaw River made a dash for the overturned dray and set it alight. Not only was the wagon and its contents burned, but the ruins of the house were thrown upon the blaze. Not only was the whole camp re- duced to ashes, but eight of the best cows were hamstrung. ‘““What do we do?” asked Lund. “Quit?” ‘We do not,” said Rushton. “We’ll buy fresh stores first chance we have. For the present we'll change camps every night and keep both eyes open all day.” Lund shook his head. “We can’t fight Burdette,” he said mournfully. ‘“They’ve got us cold. We might as well chuck it: It’s such filthy tricks they’re up to!” “Filthy is right. Would you like to pull out now—honestly?”’ “Well, if you’re going to stick it I sup- pose I’m game. Don’t know as it’s much use———”’ ‘“‘Never mind that now. The thing to do would be to get in touch with the mounted police, but we can’t—we’re cut off. I can’t spare you. The nearest telegraph station is Yorke, seventy miles, almost three days there and back! No good tous. We’ve got to nurse what’s left of the herd % Hot, dusty, high-tension days. lived like pariahs, always sharply glancing cComiclbool They | 1e@)