Adventure Magazine Cover, March 20, 1925 — page 100: what you’re looking at

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

— 82 find that his actions had aroused a sus- picion in the minds of the fishermen that the bark carried a cargo far more precious than fine hardwood lumber and farm ma- chinery. Some said gold in bullion, some said ambergris picked up at sea, some said pearls, and all said treasure. Any man in his senses would have known that such a rotten old hull as the Blackfish would not likely be trusted with bullion. But men with the treasure lust are not in their senses, and to them all things seem possible. Dugan jerked the one remaining loaded pistol from his belt; savagely he squeezed the trigger, time after time. Five, six shots, and the hammer clicked more than once on empty cylinders before he realized that the last shot had been fired. Hardly did he notice that after his first shot jets of flame spurted from the black lump on the mast and that bullets whistled by him; hardly did he notice that the moon was out again; only saw that his lead had all gone wild. Opening his lips in one almost unearthly of rage, Dugan O’Day sprang upon the utt of the prone mast and prepared to charge the crouched figure. And Dugan O’Day for once failed to conquer by his sheer ferocity and reckless courage. Even as his feet set on the mast the man arose, and the moonlight gleamed on a long knife in his hand. Moonlight, too, gleamed on the white teeth in his laughing mouth. Suddenly Dugan remembered the fish knife in his belt. Eagerly he drew it and advanced along the trembling mast. Dagger met fish knife, and sparks ground from the twain. Dugan’s antagonist seemed a mulatto, standing nearly as tall as O’Day himself, and being far broader, with arms which hung to his knees. No knife fighter, was Dugan O’Day, and he faced a man who was. Inch by inch the laughing, jeering negro forced him back along the mast. Down to the deck he drove him, and back—back—back. Ever the dag- ger drew circles of light before Dugan’s straining eyes. Dimly he saw, presently, that the tug had witnessed the fight and was coming in. She was less than fifty yards off when she halted again, and the rifleman took a hand in the combat. With solemn cadence his weapon. spoke, but, because he was afraid of hitting the mulatto and because the Adventure moon is the poorest of lights for shooting, he missed consistently. : Back past the stump of the mainmast went Dugan, back almost to the saloon scuttle. ——! would it never end? or would it end all too soon, with that flashing dagger in his ribs? With his broad shoulders, ape-like arms and long knife the grinning mulatto had a foot more reach than had Dugan. Too unequal to last, and slowly Dugan knew that it was a miracle that he had so long withstood the other’s onslaughts. Still the rifle spoke deliberately; still bullets whined by Dugan’s ears. And more than once he flinched from them. The black grew even bolder; time and again he leaped in recklessly, and Dugan saved himself only by his dancer’s nimble- ness in dodging. Several times that slither- ing knife touched his shirt, and three times it marked his arm. Then it ended. Writhing to evade one of those murderous thrusts, Dugan felt his foot catch in something, and he toppled headlong to the deck. He saw the long arm sweep above him; | heard the rasping of the man’s breath. Still that rifle spoke. Could it be the marksman had mistaken the man who fell? For the bullets now lisped softly around the muscular negro’s body. The man faced the tug, waving his arms violently and opening his mouth to yell a warning—a warning that died unspoken. There was a soft little thud, a dull, dry thud. Queerly the arms dropped; silently the man relaxed in a sprawling heap, his head touching Dugan’s feet. For a bullet had entered his gaping jaws. And the Henry B. was not thirty yards away. Summoning every ounce of will and courage, Dugan leaped to his cats. Full time they hissed and struck again. Almost madly he thrust blocking under the rear end of one of them, veering it around to cover the tug in her new position. The rifle for the moment was silent. Thirty yards. At that distance, and aided by the former experience, he could not miss. The wailing chain struck hard against the already battered pilot house. There was a scurry of feet on the tug, raised voices, and another burst of rifle fire. Another chain and another. One struck solidly against the forward Sampson post, comiclboolk (©