Adventure Magazine Cover — page 136: what you’re looking at

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

126 captors were upon him. First came Flinders, the troop-sergeant, overanxious, excited, his chest swelling inside his tunic, bubbling over with words before he was through the door. “Painful duty, Mr. Burdette— Under suspicion—evidence—arrest. Very sorry— grave consequences—uprising. Missionary —murder—Mitcham——” A stumble, a jumble of words. Burdette cut him short with a sharp: ‘‘What’s the matter, Flinders? Afraid to put me under arrest? Think I’ll bite you? You —— old fool, calm down!’’ Behind, edging into the room, came Wallen, smiling nervously, eager to miss nothing, yet afraid to go too far lest Bur- dette, somehow, should wriggle out of his predicament and turn the tables against them. And bringing up the tail of the procession entered Rushton and Lund. The former limped painfully and his face was hidden beneath lint bandages. “That’s it, Mr. Burdette,” the troop- sergeant went on. “Have to place you under arrest. It don’t seem right, I dofadmit —you being what you are. But duty ——” Burdette laughed: “You'll be sorry for this, Flinders. Trying to link me up with a piffling uprising——”’ “Mitcham,” put in Wallen with great deliberation, “Mitcham confessed, just be- fore he died. He told us about the gin——” “Oh,” Burdette slowly nodded his head. é ‘T see—”’ Now that the end was close upon him he felt eager to have it over and done with. His heart was racing and a queer ringing sounded in his ears at each beat, as if his heart was a muffled gong. But he was not through yet. There was still Rushton to be dealt with. Rushton, who stood in the background, studying him thoughtfully. Rushton, the only quiet, as- sured man in the room. Flinders took a step forward, stam- mering— “So I’ll have to request, Mr. Burdette, that you accomp——”’ “Stand back, all of you!” snapped Burdette. “Line up!” The gun flashed out of his pocket. Flinders’ hand went to his holster. “Tf you do,”’ Burdette warned him quick- ly Pi shoot to kill.” He backed them up against the wall, where they stood with their hands held ear- Adventure high, and he laughed at them, laughed even though the gong-like sound in his ears was deafening, and his face glistened with sweat that gathered by his temples and ran in cold rivulets down his cheeks. He must act, for his eyes were blurring and the four men he held at bay were be- coming indistinguishable shapes. Yet to the very last he bluffed them, imposed his formidable personality upon them. Witha supreme effort he forced his eyes to see, and his ears to hear, he steadied his flaccid muscles. “Rushton,” he ordered sharply. here! Come closer!” Rushton stepped out, a pace or so. “Closer!” Three feet from the gun-muzzle he halted his prey and peered at him intently, hunt- ing for some sign of weakness. He found none. It infuriated him, for he wanted to see Rushton quail, wanted to make him plead for mercy. “You are going to pay,” he said thickly. “I’m going to wipe that grin off your face. You and your kind be ——! You had a continent to choose from and you tried to steal what was mine. I’ve no time for the law. I make my own laws, and when I’m ready—you are going to die.”’ “Not yet,’”’ Rushton said softly. “Not yet? No! By no! Not until I’m ready. Rushton—” why did the words stick so in his throat, why was his mouth so dryPp— “Rushton, you ——,, you’ve yet to learn that I’m not to be beaten, you dirty blackmailer. You dug upa story, I remem- ber, about Travers, and you thought you could frighten “Yes,” agreed Rushton, “about Travers.” And then his tone changed. It cut like a lash. His whole body swayed forward as the words shot out: ““Travers—you can’t forget it! Because Travers once owned two-thirds of Credion. I know—because Travers was my grandfather——” ‘““Your—” choked Burdette, and the gong rang unmuffled inside his head, loud and clamorous—a summons. “And you drove him out, burned him out because you couldn’t have his daughter, because she turned you down. I know, I tell you, because she’s my mother, and I promised myself that, some day, I’d square the account. Now shoot—but you can’t. You’re done for!” And John Burdette, though he tried, “Come Go DOOK 1 O)