Argosy: The Short Story Magazine — page 120: what you’re looking at

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

‘120 JOHN WYNDHAM He understood what I meant, for he shook his head. *‘ No, but I can get the little girl sometimes—that’s how we picked you up. Who is it she talks to? ” I told him that it was someone far away that the rest of us couldn’t reach. He understood that, too. ‘“* Queer thing, this,’’ he said. ‘‘ Different strengths, and differ- ent kinds, too. Better not to talk now. It isn’t safe round here.” For the next couple of miles we went on in silence except for the thumping tread of the greathorses’ hoofs and some creaking from the panniers. A few small creatures scuttled out of our way, but we met no large animals. Then there was a line of deeper darkness ahead, and an edge of the forest loomed up like a black wall across our path. We held straight on, and had come within a hundred yards of it when, without warning, a gun fired somewhere to our right, and shot whistled past us. Both horses were startled, and plunged. I was almost flung out of my pannier. How the man on the saddle-board held on I don’t know. The one between the panniers on the leading horse did not: he sailed through the air as if in flight. The rearing horses pulled away, and the lead rope parted with a snap. The other horse bolted towards the forest, then changed its mind, and swerved to the left. Ours pelted after it. There was nothing to be done but wedge oneself in the pannier and hang on. The man on the saddle-board above me still contrived to keep his seat, holding on grimly in a rain of clods and stones thrown up by the hoofs of the lead horse. Somewhere behind us a gun fired again, and we speeded up even more. For a mile or so, we covered the ground at a ponderous, earth- shaking gallop. Then I caught sight of a flash ahead and half left. At the sound of the shot, our horse, almost level with the other now, sprang sideways in mid stride, and swerved to the right. It was too abrupt for the man on our saddle-board. He suddenly wasn’t there any more, and we were racing towards the forest again. I crouched low as we crashed among the trees. By luck alone, we entered at a point where the bigger trunks were well spaced; but, for all that, it was a nightmare ride, with saplings and branches slapping and dragging at the baskets. One could do nothing but keep crouched in order to avoid being knocked out of them. ‘The greathorse simply ploughed ahead, avoiding the larger trees, thrusting through the rest, smashing its way by sheer weight while branches cracked and snapped before and beneath it. If we had not lost the man on the saddle-board before, he would certainly have been swept away then. The horse was forced to slow down, but its panic determination to get away from the guns abated very little. I braced with arms and legs and my whole body to avoid being battered about in the pannier, scarcely daring to raise my head for a quick look. It was impossible to tell whether there was any pursuit, but it seemed improbable in the dark. A horse of ordinary size would most comiclooks.conn