Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 4, 1922 — page 58: what you’re looking at

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

368 as they followed its course between the bowlders. It was not far from dawn when Lois pulled in her horse. They had reached the summit of the elevation up which they had been climbing steadily for four hours. Everywhere about them rose the granite hills, bare, save for thorn scrub and cactus. ‘“ We must leave the path now,” she said. “It lies over there.” She pointed toward twin kopjes that tow- ered like pyramids in the distance, with wooded bush veldt between them. “ It was a native village until the Portuguese raided it three years ago. My father knew of it; that is where he is lying.”’ They rested a few moments. On their right hand, in a deep gorge, the Fulani roared, now a furious torrent, impassable even at the drift, until the spate abated. ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. Suddenly Dean’s horse pricked up its ears and reared. ‘What is that?” cried the girl. Something was lying huddled among the bowlders. Dean dismounted and led the shying beast toward it. It was the body of a man—of two men. : One was Tietjens, the other the Bushman Swartz, and they were fast in each other’s arms, but in no love embrace. Upon the face af each was stamped the last fury of the death struggle. Tietjens had a gaping gun-shot wound in the breast, such a should have killed a white man instantly. Swartz’s head was nearly severed from his body by a common small clasp knife, held immovably in Tietjens’s fingers. Both bodies were cold, but they had not begun to stiffen. They had probably been dead an hour. (To be continued NEXT WEEK.) Thought f 4 Jack oa I can’t make ’em out. They don’t vote like their fathers did, and they don’t act like the men that made this great and glorious land of desert, sand, bunch- grass and scrawny cattle. Take for in- stance this young Bill Haskell. Under- stand I haven’t got a thing against Bill— he’s a good lad accordin’ to his mazdas, which ain’t mine, and I’m plumb satisfied to go on bein’ foreman for him here on the To younger generation sure beats all! Straight H, just as I was for fifteen years for his late lamented uncle, Steve Haskell. But Bill’s always doin’ things I can’t make out. You never know what he’s goin’ to do next, or how. ‘ But there’s one good thing about Bill, which is like old Steve— he sure gets things done. Old Steve was easy to comprehend. You always knew just where he stood, and he couldn’t be moved from where he stood, what’s more. Him and I got along fine. oA COmiCbMooks.GoOm