Pulp Fiction, 1897 · page 7 of 198
Argosy, Volume XXIII — Index Page, 1897 — page 7: what you’re looking at
A restored page from Pulp Fiction, 1897. Page through the whole issue in the reader above.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
THE ARGOSY. VoL. XXIV. JULY, 1897. No. 4. A CAMPAIGN OF STRATEGY. The story of a game of hide and seek with the Apaches—What followed the burning of Bozeman’s ranch—A “crank” photographer and the purpose served by his “ folly.” (Complete in This Issue.) CHAPTER I.—A STARTLING NEGATIVE. © See pitiless Arizona sun was beating down upon the vast, sandy stretch of plain. The ground, always dry, was parched to tinder, and the sky gleamed as if it were flaming brass. The “‘ bull holes,’’ which nature fur- nishes to thirsty man and animal, had gone dry, and the spiny cactus was the only vegetable that dared to raise its head in the blazing heat. And yet there was life in abundance, for alike in the arctic regions and the scorching sands of Sahara, nature knows how to accommodate her- self to her surroundings. The rattlesnake, bloated to bursting with venom, crawled through the sand, which was hot enough to roast eggs, or threw himself into a coil upon the approach of an enemy. Innumerable lizards, beetles, and hairy monstrosities wriggled hither and yon, stirred into activity by the crunching sound of horses’ hoofs approaching the spot where they lay basking in the fervid rays, which to them was the acme of enjoyment. Over this frightful expanse a solitary horseman was riding, headed south- ward toward the Dome Rock range of mountains. He was on his way from Bozeman’s ranch to Gannet’s ranch, the space between the two being some twelve miles. On every hand, except to the eastward, the cloudless sky shut in the sandy plain, but in the direction named the brown ridge was _ silhouetted against the heavens. There are some persons who seem to be born into this world with an in- credible insensibility to heat. Where others succumb, they bask in comfort and their skin scarcely glistens with perspiration. R. Field Atwood, as he - signed his name, was one of these extraordinary individuals. He was a gaunt New Englander, tall, erect, sinewy, and powerful. He had come from .the East only a few week before for the purpose of inspecting some of the wonders which are so numerous in the West. On the train he made the acquaintance of Austin Gannet, one of the leading cattlemen of Arizona, and (A) =) (S@) CoOmMicoooks