Adventure Magazine Cover, March 20, 1925 — page 59: what you’re looking at

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

The Snow Driver “Fas the wench put a spell on ye? We can be masters in this island before the sand runs from the glass again.” Thorne looked :at him silently. He and Joan had not been gone from the house an hour and in that time twenty savages had downed: two half barrels of brandy and beer. They were not accustomed to such liquor, and he wondered whether they would ever stand upen their feet again. Here, as Peter said, was a chance to make sure they would not. And yet he had made a truce with these same savages. “Mistress Joan,” he ebserved, ‘the boat- swain here has a mind to rid us of the Easterlings while they lie befuddled. What say your Are you for us, or for them!” The girl lifted her head impatiently. “You are both fools—faith, I know not which is the greater. Peter, have not the Laps eaten up the main part of your victuals?” “Aye, mistress—”’ Peter was civil enough to Joan’s face—“that they have. And they have e’en drunk up my beer.” ‘Now if you kill them, how are we three to get us food to live through the winter?” Peter started ‘to reply, and scratched his head. “How will we live in any case?” “With bows and snares and nets that they make these savages will get us small game and fish. If you had slain them you would starve before another seventh day.” To this Peter had no ahswer, but waxed surly for being reproved in his folly. He had hastened to Thorne after watch- ing from the tower stairs until the Laps were past heeding his doings, and he had expected that the armiger would fall in at once with his plan. Now he stared at his young companion distrustfully. Thorne’s mind seemed to be elsewhere. His eyes narrowed and his lips close drawn, he was staring at a wrack of clouds out to windward. Peter shook his head moodily, marking the high color in the lad’s cheeks, the splendid poise of the curly head. Aye, the boy was rarely favored, being more than handsome, and this was why the maiden, who must be a sea troll in human form, had laid her spell on him. She wanted to have him for her own. Beltke, thought Peter, she would suck the life from Master Ralph or else beguile him into the waters and ‘swim down to the sea’s bottom, she who had taken a dead man’s 41 name, who sat each day in the evening hour by a grave, who had a man’s wisdom and a witch’s craft. “Peter,” said Thorne, and his words came in an altered voice, so that the girl glanced at him fleetingly, ‘‘this is what we will do. Fetch me my arbalest from the Wardhouse, with pistols for yourself. Look yonder!” The boatswain knitted shaggy brows and presently made out what the armiger had been looking at. A boat was heading into the harbor. He sprang to his feet to shout joyfully, when he paused uneasily. This was no full rigged ship, but a longboat that tossed on the swell, moving sluggishly under a lug sail. ‘Tis the sailing skiff that Tuon sent for,” cried Joan. “It will be ours before Tuon is on his feet again,’ said Thorne. € THE lugger—if the long, ramshackle skiff could be called that—staggered slowly through the cross currents at the mouth of the cove and was coaxed to the shore, where three men sprang out, to tug it ub onthe sand. A fourth Easterling, who seemed to stand no higher than Joan’s chin, loosened the sheets and left the leather sail to flap asit would. Then, without more ado, they started up the path to the Wardhouse and were con- fronted by Thorne and Peter with the cross bow ready wound and a brace of loaded pistols. “Avast, my bullies!” roared the shipman. “Bring to and show your colors, or swallow lead the wrong way.” And he brandished a long pistol, motion- ing with the other hand for them to remain where they were. His.aspect and voice had a startling effect on the savages; three of them dropped the light spears they carried and raced away; the fourth, the smallest of the lot fell to his knees behind a hummock of grass. Before Peter could sight his pistol, the little Easterling had strung his bow and loosed an arrow that flicked past Thorne’s throat. The amiger pulled the trigger of his arbalest, but the bolt flew high, so close- ly did the miniature warrior hug the earth. “Hull him, shipmate!” bellowed Peter. “Down between wind and wat—xugh!” A second arrow from the native’s bow struck Peter fairly under the nbs with a re- sounding thud, driving the breath from his comiclboolk (©