Adventure Magazine Cover, March 20, 1925 — page 195: what you’re looking at

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

The River Trail leave—don’t make me go—anything at all— but don’t make me leave.” Monroe looked at his enemy, broken in defeat, lying before him, and a swift com- prehension crossed his mind. “What do the police want you for?” It was a chance shot, but Joe Moon’s eyes widened, and he crawled slowly to his knees, shaking his head wearily. “How do you know?” he mumbled. “How do you know—they’re after me?” “Never mind.” Munroe strove to sup- press the elation in his voice. He had stumbled upon Joe Moon’s secret. ‘It’s enough that I know. Don’t lie, Joe Moon, or I'll put a bullet through you. What are they after you for?” The trader swayed unsteadily. “Escape,” he gasped. “I got out of Stony Mountain pen as “So you came up here to hide?” Joe Moon nodded, and then he crawled weakly over to the bunk and collapsed upon it. He was shivering again and Munroe, realizing that he was very cold himself, went over to the stove, still keeping a wary eye upon his enemy. But Joe Moon was beaten. Munroe took out the box of matches, lighted one, and dropped it into the stove. The yellowish flame caught the birch bark. It spread rapidly to the sticks of wood, which snapped and burned. “‘There’s. your fire,” he said shortly. “T’ve got your sled outside.” Joe Moon made no reply but lay shiver- ing upon the bunk and Munroe, after look- ing at him for a moment, turned and left the cabin, still carrying the rifle. He returned a moment later, lugging two packs, which he dropped upon the floor. “There’s grub there, and a sleeping bag,” he said. ‘We'll at least be comfortable here till morning. ” He wondered how to insure his own safety through the night. Joe Moon might not be as utterly beaten as he looked. The flickering firelight shone upon an object on the wall beside the bunk upon which the trader was lying, and Munroe stepped over to it. The object was one of Michael Angelo’s traps, stapled to a log. It wasa big trap, with powerful jaws, attached to 12 177 the staple by a heavy chain and, on a sudden inspiration, he roughly turned Joe Moon over on his side. The trader was too exhausted and beaten to struggle or protest. Monroe pulled his enemy’s coat aside and found the waistband of the trousers, then forced apart the jaws of the trap and snapped them over the rough cloth. Joe Moon was secure. The trap was at his back and so strong were its jaws that it would be difficult, almost impossible, for him to release himself without getting out of his trousers altogether, and this would mean noise. But Munroe had little fear that Moon would try to take advantage of any slumber into which he would fall during the night. Joe Moon was beaten. “Tomorrow,” he said, standing beside the bunk. ‘‘You’ll turn over your furs to me. I'll settle for them with the Indians. Then you’re going to get out of the country.” : “Tl tell you, I can’t’? mumbled Joe Moon. “They’ll catch me again. They’ll send me back—to finish my term.” “You can take your chances on that. You’re lucky to have the chance. For if you don’t get out of this country tomor- mor I’m going to tell the mounties that you’re up here.” Joe Moon started up, and was brought to a sudden stop by the trap. “You won’t do that—you won’t tell them ——” “Will you get out then’’? The trader sank back on the bunk again. “Tl go. ll get out tomorrow. But don’t tell the mounties. You can have the furs—everything—I’ll go.” “‘That’s the way to talk,”’ said Munroe, going over to one of the packs and com- mencing to rummage for food. “Just for that you can sleep on the bunk all night. I’ve got the sleeping bag.”’ There was no answer from Joe Moon. Munroe began to whistle as he took food from the pack. In the morning Joe Moon would go away from the Missabi forever. The trade of the Wakina post was saved. The blizzard still howled furiously out- side but, mingled with its bowling, was the exultant crackle of the fire. COMiIiCcloOoe