Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 131: what you’re looking at

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

THE VALLEY Like a cornered rat he ran from the jungle to the tent and back to the jungle, emitting little sounds of impotent fury. His words had been insane, he told himself, he had been moonstruck. He was sorry one instant that Jan was in danger, and the next he was foaming obscene blasphemies at him, for if he should return he would spit on a coward. At last he threw himself upon his couch and wept with -disappointment—and the sound of his crying was so loud that-he did not hear the patter of little feet—the chat- ter of little men—until they peered through his tent door. Then he jumped for his guns, fired through the opening, and ran to look out. There was no one in sight, no sound of movement. | He backed into the tent and stood hold- ing his breath—then turned and _ fired through the canvas at the back. There was silence and then the chattering com- menced again. It sounded like the murmur of wind through threes—like the slithering of sand in the desert—or the rustle of leaves under a python’s belly. Hardly able to walk, he moved to the tent door holding his revolver far. out in front of him. He heard something to the right and half turning put his left arm out to push the flap aside so that he might leap into the open facing his enemies. As he jumped past the canvas something U U OF SOUNDS. 601 whistled and he felt a shock in his left arm —stared stupidly at the handless wrist that he dangled. Then he was inundated be- neath a crowd of things that smelled hairy and very much like a fox’s den. The last thought he had was that foxes were gnawing at him all over his naked body with their sharp teeth. | When Jan Nordvek returned in the morning he found a ruined camp and what was left of Genaro Aquilar. Him he buried swathed in a great bundle of the strange sweet flowers from the jungle river—and over his grave he put a plank beautifully carved: | Rere tics my friend GENHRO AQUILAR May tuck be with him This he did before he disappeared from the ken of white men. All around the plank he planted the strange flowers that grew now in two places—the river of the strange little folk, and the grave of Jan Nordvek’s friend. They twine about the head of a staff upon which is carved totemlike figures that are like—very like—those on an amu- let dropped by one of the little men who killed Aquilar. I found it months later near the hand that was cut from him, and strange to say in that hand of Aquilar’s was gripped the rabbit’s foot of Jan Nordvek. ts oa LATE SUMMER WESTWARD wends the day With backward wistful gaze, Reluctant now to go Since summer stays. Robes of gossamer © Spread o’er plain and wood— To us but shadows gray Where bright day stood. Closely in her steps Follows eager night Bearing a lifted globe Of silver light. Lilian Nicholson. (EOVMMKE NOOKSqEC)