Adventure Magazine Cover — page 25: what you’re looking at

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

THE PENNSYLVANIA LINE Middlebrook in New Jersey. The storm, through which the ragged files had blindly thrashed for hours the day before, had passed during the night; and now the snow lay inches deep on the levels. It made the darkness seem faintly and unnaturally luminous from below, but blotted out all shadow and form, so that no whitened object could be seen, not even after other senses had informed one of its presence. But if the posting party did stumble over a root, a stump, a log, a ditch, or a hollow, no noise came from it; for the snow muffled sound as completely as it did form, till a silence as dense as the darkness overhead was created. Near the public highway the sergeant- major posted a double guard, observing, as in all things, every customary form and military order as if he felt the critical eye of the God of War upon him. His in- structions given, he passed on, his lantern spangling the snow with tiny brilliants of white fire, wherever its beams were falling. The two men he left on guard proceeded each after his own fashion and nature. Macklin, who had drawn a black lot when sentries were cast for, tramped harder down the track which marked the post, knowing when he was out of the way by the cold that mounted his ill-protected shins. Swan, a tow-headed boy of mixed English and German stock from Lancaster, stood leaning on his rifle, striving in vain to pierce the luminous gloom that en- veloped them. A still cold that seemed malicious in its biting cruelty joined with darkness and silence to oppress their spirits; and at last Swan spoke, as if he could endure the three no longer, and must break one of them at least. “T hate these still kind of nights,” he remarked. ‘I hate ’em worse’n p’ison!”’ “Why don’t you take your post?” asked Macklin, his tones sinking as if he feared the enemy, some twenty miles away, might hear him. “They always make me think of a tale my old grand’ther used to tell,’’ went on Swan, ignoring the other’s suggestion. “One about a White Woman, who haunted in the Black Forest, back in Germany where he come from.” “Well, I reckon ye know that if Fallen should turn back, unexpected-like, who’d be up for a dozen stinging ones,” said Macklin. “As I ain’t a-standing ’round gabbing, it wouldn’t be me.”’ 23 “Seems like she’d go to house that stood off by itself in the wilderness,’ continued Swan, turning his head uneasily, “always a-picking one where there was childer. And these she’d ’tice out into the woods, one by one, and nothing more’d ever be heard of ’em after. But there’d be found wolf-tracks leading to the door, but not from it, and off in the forest, a great smear of blood in the snow, and then ’twould be known—” “Yes?” said Macklin, on the return trip and most unsympathetic, “I don’t reckon I’ve heard that boogy-tale more’n a score of times afore this, and feel small need to listen to it again at this time of a main chill morning. Of course, ye can stay there, talking to yourself, if ye like, till Red Roger comes a-sneaking through your post. And, believe me, he’s a wolf as doesn’t bother to change his skin when he’s out for blood! He just lifts that what’s a-covering your own empty noodle, leaving what brains ye got tocakesolid inthecold— My God!” as his breath deserted him, ‘‘what was it?”’ “Just a twig a-snapping in the cold,” breathed Swan, at last. “Naw!” whispered Macklin. ‘“‘ ’Twas a sort of clink. There it goes again!— It’s horses!” “°*Twont be Red Roger, then,” said Swan, relief in his smothered tones. ‘‘He’d sneak up on us from the brush on foot.” “Might be, though,’’ whispered Macklin. ‘“‘We ain’t supposed to be here, ye know, and he’d be careless, not expecting to meet up with us. They’re riding right into us. There’s only three of ’em—a scout, maybe.” “More likely a bunch of farmers,” Swan was suggesting, when Macklin raised his voice sharply. “Halt! Who goes there?” The answer that came back disconcerted the sentries horribly. “‘“General Wayne and staff.” “‘Gollv!”’ whispered Macklin. we do?” “Ask for the countersign,” said Swan quickly. ““Advance, General Wayne and staff, and give the countersign!’’ bellowed Macklin in his most ritualistic manner, as if this might make up for the irregularity of other pro- ceedings. They sensed, rather than saw, three dark forms looming upon them. “Chesapeake,” gave Wayne’s tones. “What'll comicloolk CO