Adventure Magazine Cover — page 140: what you’re looking at

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

138 knocking the tall man down. Frantically Pete dragged Eben clear of the tangle. Crack! One last restraining limb snapped. Then the butt, braced against the granite shoulder beyond the chasm, was twisted free and sprung upward, stabbing at the hills beyond; the top rolled clear, and the tree plunged downward with a mighty splintering roar into the turmoiled waters far below. A spout of foam leaped into their vision from beneath, and a hissing wail came into the voice of old Snowbeard. The two old men stared back across the gap that they would never cross again; and the thought of the death that they had so narrowly escaped was already gone from their minds. “Wonder,” said Eben tonelessly, “why she was so crazy to get up that gulley. Wasn’t no sense to it, Pete. Mebbe she’s gettin’ old, Pete, old an’ crazy, like us.” “She run wild in this country once,’’ Pete answered, his voice dull. ‘‘Mebbe she throwed a colt up there somewhere’s. It pulls ’em back, Eben.” They gazed drearily across the chasm, weary old men, their taxed endurance vanished with their broken dreams. Pete was first to wrench himself into action. From one of the bundles he tore a cartridge belt. “T’m goin’ to make a run for it,” he said dryly. “TI guess I still got twenty-five miles under my belt. It’s easy walkin’, once I make the upper meadows.” Eben did not reply for a moment. He accepted as natural that they should yet fight for Fiddlin’ Ben’s discovery. “Not much hope, Pete,’’ he said slowly. “Nope.” “It would’ve been a hard ride to make, even with Baldy.” “Yep.” “T b’lieve we could o’ made it, if that tree’d stayed put.” ““Mebbe Stingaree’s hoss,” said Pete grimly, ‘“‘has broke a leg, or somethin’.” ‘He had three, though,” Eben recalled. Pete made no reply. Instead of putting on the cartridge belt he had taken the re- volver out of the heavy holster and stuck it in his waistband. He hastily extracted a handful of cartridges from the belt, and put them loose in a pocket. He could afford no extra weight, this old man who was going to try twenty-five rough miles in an afternoon, without food since eighteen Alan Le May hours before, and without rest for thirty. “T dunno as I can make the distance,” said Eben, falling in behind Pete, who was already starting up the notch. “Don’t try,” said Pete over his shoulder as he climbed. “We'll lose if yuh do! Stay here an’ rest an’ eat, an’ when yuh get some stren’th, foller along with some grub. I'll shore need it, by then!”’ “You better take some with yuh!” Eben called after him. “Gotta piece bread in my pocket. I’ll eat it on the way. Can’t carry nothin’ more!’’ He cocked his hat to one side and clowned a stumble, gamely humorous to the last. BEN sat down wearily on a boulder, and ran a gaunt hand through his crinkled, iron-colored hair. For fifteen minutes or so he watched the wiry figure of old Pete climbing steadily up the notch. When Pete had disappeared he roused him- self, and built a little fire. He had little enough appetite, but he must eat if he were to follow Pete with the grub. When he had eaten he felt a little better. He had not realized before how hungry and tired he was. The moments lengthened, until an hour had passed since the tree had plunged into the cafion, carrying with it their hopes. It was time for him to go on. If only he had a horse, it would not be too late even now. Baldy was no race horse, but she was tough, and could gallop many a good mile. It would bea race, but there would be a chance. It’s all a man asks—just the off chance. Something moved on the high skyline a quarter of a mile away, up near the top of the notch. Some big animal—a horse, a wild one, most like. It seemed to be surveying the notch, as if looking for its kind. Sud- denly Eben sprang up as he detected some- thing familiar in the way the horse stood. Wildly, clutching at a crazy hope, the old man shouted up the notch. “Baldy! Baldy!” The horse turned and looked down. Even at that distance Eben could make out the broad white face against the dark hide. ‘“‘How—where—” gasped Eben, racing and scrambling upward over the jagged stone. “It ain’t—it can’t be—” But it was true. Baldy, who knew that country as no man could, had preferred to choose her own way across old Snowbeard. She waited quietly as Eben came up. cConmiclbool (C©@