Adventure Magazine Cover, June 20, 1925 — page 163: what you’re looking at

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

King the Husky time in the circumstances. Despite fre- quent stops and the pain of his leg he had covered some twenty miles before darkness and exhaustion forced him to halt in a wil- low thicket. | King’s nose was still dry and hot and he could not be prevailed upon to eat, though he licked snow continually and drank thirstily any water that Shorty gave him. His temper, however, had improved. Not that he showed either gratitude or affection, but he permitted himself to be handled without even a growl, and curled up beside Shorty as a matter of course when he lay down for the night. For Shorty the second night was worse than the first. His shoulders were not quite so painful, but that was more than counterbalanced by the condition of his leg which burned and throbbed and often woke him out of his sleep with a pang of agony. ~The third morning dawned fair but chill, with a temperature of twenty below zero, and Shorty was almost frozen before he got the fire lit. But there was a decided im- provement in King’s condition, and he even languidly chewed up a small whitefish, but he was still unable to walk more than a few steps. Shorty’s leg was at first so bad that he almost despaired of continuing his journey, but after he had bound it tightly from ankle to knee he was able to hobble. Though the first half mile was an agony that brought the sweat out on his brow, the pain gradu- ally lessened and its place was taken by a disquieting numbness. Fearing that his foot was frozen, Shorty hastily camped and made a fire. When he uncovered his foot two toes and the heel | showed a dull dead white. He rubbed the frost bites with snow until the acute misery of their thawing out made him grind his teeth and groan aloud. Then the leg was bound up once more and the weary journey resumed. He made few miles that day, and night found him far gone in pain and exhaustion. He was all but ready to give up and die. Nothing human could have endured much more. But there came a gleam of hope to cheer him. King was evidently much _ better. He got out of the carriole by himself and ate a hearty meal of fish. It seemed likely that he would be able to limp along by morning at least as well as his master, and in that 145 case they could leave the carriole and make a dash for the post together. Another cheering circumstance was that the wind which had been blowing from the north northwest, veered suddenly just after nightfall to southwest, and began to come in warm, heavy gusts. Shorty welcomed it with profound thankfulness and fell asleep full of sanguine hopes for the morrow. But he had overtaxed his strength. The horrible dreams of the two previous nights returned with redoubled terrors. It seemed to him that his leg swelled and swelled until it was a mountain at which huge wolves tore and worried with fangs of red hot iron. He tried to escape, but the leg had grown so vast that it held him prisoner, and all he could do was lie and scrabble at the ground in awful agony. That dream passed, but was succeeded by others, and through them all throbbed pain and fear. Toward morning he became light-headed, and screamed and fought with. imaginary terrors. Once he felt certain that he was in the grip of a wolf, and regained momentary consciousness to discover that it was King who had him by the arm in his teeth and was shaking him. He had a vague impression that it was dawn and the, weather mild, and then the dog let go of him and he sank into a deep sleep that was al- most unconsciousness. When he awoke it was broad daylight and the March sun was shedding warm bright rays upon him. The air was mild and balmy, and a chinook boomed across the land. He sat up weakly and looked about him. He looked and stared and looked again. King had disappeared. It was a terrible blow. The treachery, the black ingratitude of the brute was more than he could bear in his weakened con- dition. Childish tears trickled down his face. Wounded and ill himself, he had dragged the worthless beast in comfort for three days, had shared with him his food and his bedding, and then, when his own strength had in a measure returned, without rémorse and without shame the cowardly had abandoned the man who had all but given his life for him, and might yet lose his life by what he had done. He remembered the words of King’s late owner, ‘‘He’s treacherous.”’ Believing, as every dog lover does, in the unswerving loyalty and fidelity of dogs, Shorty felt that this evidence of callous COMIGDIOOKSEEO