Adventure Magazine Cover, November 10, 1924 — page 67: what you’re looking at

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

Peasant Wit great “Sauvage” himself—leader of the out- laws. Or his lieutenant, the “Wolf.” Le Sauvage would not be so bad. Bril- liant, reckless, he was often generous to his enemies. But the Wolf! He was all that his name implied—a fabulous creature, bitter, cynical, cruel as death itself. With the thought Madame Borel glanced down to where her little one still played upon the floor. For just a moment there was panic in her look. After all she was a young woman, scarce well into her twen- ties. But responsibility had brought her the gift of years. They must find her calm, courageous. ‘That was the principal thing. But this waiting. Each moment was like a year. When at last there came a rustle outside, Madame Borel’s. sigh was almost one of relief. The thump from the porch found her tense and ready. “Quiet, Adita,” she murmured. Her gaze went straight to the doorway and stayed there until the looked-for figure appeared. It was a tall figure, gaunt and menacing, the shoulders hunched curiously to ease a dangling left leg. One hand thrust for- ward a heavy revolver. The other gripped, hard to a half-rotted fence paling which, held beneath the left armpit, did duty as a This much Madame Borel caught in a look that went instantly beyond. No, there were no other figures. The man was alone. Her gaze returned to study the intruder’s face. There was no mistaking the face. Gray, venomous, it was like a mirror of hatred. Peer into it as you would, hate stared back at you, deliberately and deadly. As she rose from her wheel, Madame Borel’s breath caught in a little gasp. The child, half-frightened, half-curious, scram- bled forward to clutch at her skirt. Though her hand went down in a gesture of soothing her eyes did not waver. . “Well, m/’sieu?’’ questioned Madame Borel, and awaited the demands of the Wolf. THE Wolf had had a bad day of it. “a Shot from the saddle in the fight ai that morning, he had taken refuge among the flags and rushes of a coulée. Later, finding the length of paling, he had set off across the prairie toward the vague, 65 gray blot that marked the nearest china tree island. Thanks to a running fight he had been almost without ammunition. But four shots remained tohim. A desperate chance yet his only one. Should he find afhorse, he could still escape to the sea marsh and safety. This he must do before sunset, when the Vigilantes of the prairie would be riding home again. It had been hard, that slow, hobbling journey to the island. And, at its edge, he had encountered Blue, the watch-dog. Three of the precious shots had gone to quell his fierceness. Thus, as he stood in the doorway, the Wolf was not pleasant to see. For the moment his cold malignancy was warmed by a glow of resentment. His eyes went first to the wall above the open fireplace. The crude gun-rest, made of forked sticks, thrust forward emptily. Nor did a further look reveal the weapon in the sparsely furnished room. So much for that. Yet he would make sure. He turned savagely on Madame Borel. “You are alone here?”’ “Yes, m’sieu.” ‘Your husband?” “He is gone?” “With the Vigilantes?” “T only know that he is not here.” “Get me a horse then—and quickly.” “The horse is gone also, m’sieu.”’ The Wolf moved forward, his face like a fiend’s. “If you are lying to me—”’ he threatened as he hobbled toward the door in the rear. “T do not lie, m’sieu,”” answered Madame Borel. . A look outside was enough. The small stable stood empty with open door. There was no corral. To the Wolf the situation was plain. One horse, and the husband had it. One shot with which to take it away from him. It was a problem. Propped on his paling, the Wolf con- sidered it. In the end he thumped back again to drop down upon the nearest chair. There was still some time before sunset. And he was wounded and hungry. Once refreshed, he would be the better able to plan. Again he turned to Madame Borel. He spoke quietly now, yet with deadly purpose. ‘You know who I am?” he questioned. CoMmicbhool< Wh) © =