Adventure Magazine Cover, February 3, 1921 — page 77: what you’re looking at

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

The Road to El Dorado the beginning of the quest. Now, unless the tactiturn trapper’s interpretation was at fault, there was to be more blood spilled before they left the turbulent stream. “Still ye say we oughter gone Clear Crick Canon way,” said Joe after they had hob- bled their horses at an opening where a fringe of cottonwood-trees had Secured foot- hold. ‘How could that be right if there’s blood along here?” “Th’ snake ain’t said yet whose blood will be spilled here,’ grumbled Reason. ‘“‘May be ours for all I know.” “Then that means th’ outlaws are here,” triumphantly retorted Joe. “We won’t be bleedin’ ourselves, or each other. That wouldn’t make sense. Let’s leave th’ hosses an’ scout ahead a bit.” For five hundred feet they followed along the bank of the river, then came to where the walls nearly met and where the river made an abrupt turn. Rounding this bend, Joe clutched his companion’s arm and pointed triumphantly. Above a mound of detached boulders rose a thin spiral of smoke, hardly discernible until it reached the top of the walls; for al- though it was not yet sundown and the heights were alive with light the bottom of the cafion was smothered in dusk. As the two watched, the spiral of smoke changed into puffs. ‘““Injun smoke!” regretted Joe. ‘‘Signalin’ to some band up th’ cafion. If they’re "Rapahoes we’re all right. If they’re Utes we need considerable more room.” ‘They advanced, reconnoitering a rod at a time, gliding from gray rock to rock, now keeping well under the cliff and again com- pelled to crawl along the edge of the stream. The boulders hiding the fire were once a part of the cliff and in falling had choked the right bank of the cafion nearly to the river to a depth of twenty feet. They could see no men, but they did hear a sound of low chanting. Suddenly there broke upon their ears a deep, rushing noise that did not emanate from the river. It was more like the sough- ing of the wind; and instinctively they raised their gaze to the sun-lighted crest of the opposite canon wall, where the trees were toys and perfectly motionless. “Tt ain’t wind,” whispered Joe. “It’s a roarer. They’re makin’ medicine with it. Danged if I didn’t think a rainstorm was comin’.”’ 71 The fire beyond the boulders leaped higher and threw a ruddy glow above the rocks, and in this light there now appeared the nearly nude figure of an Indian. He held two oblong pieces of wood, each nearly a foot in length, secured to a thong of raw- hide. By means of the cord he swung the “roarer” around his head; and again came the dull rushing sound. He leaped back to the fire, vanishing from the trappers’ view, and was quickly succeeded by an- other, an older man, whose elbows and ankles were decorated with fragments of red flannel. On his head was a white man’s hat of black. A gaping wound through the crown of this suggested a violent death to the original owner. It was such a style of head- gear as an immigrant or gold-hunter might bring from the East. This man was a medicine-maker, for his face was painted in black and red stripes. His outstretched hands invoked the sky, the earth and the four wind quarters. And as he shifted his position he held up a buckskin bag and scattered a light-colored powder. “Throwin’ hoddentin,” whispered Joe, giving the Apache name for the yellow dust of the tule. ‘““Cat-tail medicine,” sneered Reason. “My snake can lick out o’ that.” ‘The man began chanting, and Joe ex- claimed under his breath: “Utes! Bringin’ a pipe ag’in’ th’ ’Rapa- hoes! Huh! Listen to th’ beggar.”’ For now the man’s words were audible. As he scattered the pollen he kept re- peating: ‘We want the sun to help us. the moon to help us.” And then followed a similar supplication to each of the four winds, to the waters and to the earth. After each prayer the men below the rocks cried in chorus, “Be good, O Sun!” or, “Be good, O Moon!” The glow from the hidden fire increased. Now the medicine man restored his pouch of pollen dust to his girdle and from between his feet picked up a bow and arrow. ‘“‘Now he’ll make th’ arrer come this way as a sign for ’em to keep on th’ path,” mumbled Joe. With a great show of whispering to the arrow and of listening to its reply the medi- cine man finally set the notch on the string, and, drawing the bow slightly, released the We want shaft, apparently aiming at the zenith, but. comicbooks EO)