Adventure Magazine Cover — page 176: what you’re looking at

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

174 off, the bullet passing close to Knight’s head and causing him to cry out wildly. “Hit him!” gasped Kinsty. Knight moved around the fire, but the interlocked figures were rolling and twist- ing so rapidly he had no opportunity to land a blow without running the risk of hittng the wrong man. He shuddered as he caught the flash of the firelight on two knife blades. Each man had drawn his long butcher- knife, and they grunted loudly as they en- deavored to give mortal wounds. They re- volved, a blur of arms and legs, out of the zone of light and crashed into the edge of the growth. Then sounded a loud groan. Knight came out of his stupor and sprang to the rifles and snatched up Kinsty’s weapon and stood desperately at bay as a figure emerged from the darkness. ‘With gaping mouth he leaned forward to discover which had survived the terrible duel. The figure entered the light. It was Daniels. “You’ve killed him!” yelled Knight. “Put up your hands! Drop that knife!” The man threw the knife to the ground and picked up a burning faggot. Then he commanded: “Follow me and take a peek at your friend, who was so cur’ous to see my back. Waving the torch to keep it alive he strode to the edge of the growth. Knight followed, the rifle cocked. Swinging the torch down in a half circle the man invited, ‘Take a_ look. What d’ye see?” MICHAEL J. PHILLIPS The two had torn the clothing almost from each other in their desperate fight. Kinsty, with his hunting-shirt ripped from hem to collar, was lying on his face. A red stripe extended the length of his spine. Straightening up the man continued: “Knew him the secohdIseehim. But he didn’t know me. He’s one of Little Beaver’s white Injuns. He’s Greeby.” Knight nearly collapsed. “Greeby the renegade! Why did he ask about my folks, my home, so many ques- tions about everything?” he cried. ‘‘So’s he could pass off for you where your folks was known and you wa’n’t. Now we'll pick up a canoe I had hid along here somewheres and cross to t’other shore.” “He was taking me to Massie’s station tomorrow!” ““He was taking your ha’r back to Little Beaver, leaving you dead where he cooked your supper. No more talk. Take his gun, powder horn ’n’ knife.” “Not the knife,” shuddered Knight. “Can you find your canoe in the dark?” “Why not? It ain’t run away. Come, hurry. This light may fetch a parcel of Injuns on our backs.”’ “Lord knows I’m grateful, Daniels—”’ “Boone. Dan’l Boone. Didn’t want to give my name to Greeby till I had a fair chance in a fight. Told him when we was scuffing on the ground. S’prized him so mightily I got home with the knife.” ‘lipurcio THE Humorist by Michael J. Phillips SHRILL whistle sounded. The four men who sat about the camp- fire by the Santa Maria River, in the upper part of Santa Barbara County, California, looked at each other, startled. They were miles from a settlement, herd- ing a band of several thousand sheep. And in that year, 1874, there were still a few bandits abroad, though most of those who had terrorized California for a quarter cen- tury had paid the penalty of their crimes. The youngest of the party, Louis Morris, who was only fifteen, had the most active curiosity. He went boldly out from the trees in which their camp, except for the smoke, was hidden, and stood on the bank of the little stream. The others hung back for awhile, but presently joined him. There was no one in sight, and the whistle was not repeated. When they began to think that perhaps it was only a trick of the senses, a man rode out of the forest on the opposite bank and a few yards below them. He was mounted on a splendid black horse. He was heavily armed. Tall, erect, and in the prime of life, he was something of a dandy in his well-kept black clothes and COMiICooo Cc S (©