Adventure Magazine Cover, August 18, 1921 — page 184: what you’re looking at

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

178 rifle clattering ahead of him. Simul- taneously also the voice of the pipes choked and died in a curious caterwaul. Ringer, turning his head quickly, saw Fergus the Gila slowly subside to his knees. “BOYS!” cried Gaillard, his voice SR. choked with emotion. ‘‘We’ve won ee" out! We've won out! Corraled half the band, killed a third of it and smashed all of it! Where—where’s that Scotchman? Wh-where’s that hag- gis-eatin’, old Scot?” Adventure His voice split curiously and his underlip twitched. Up on top of the cafion arch Ringer found the Gila, lying like one who, tired, has lain down to rest a while. Over him spread the ribboned arms of the pipes. His fingers still lay lightly, almost caressingly, on the ebony chanter with the heel of tarnished silver. A dark stain spread over the leathern bag where the ball from Yellow Dog’s last shot, puncturing the bellows, had found the great heart of Fergus of Arden-Keppel. SWEETWATER RANGE by Lew Sarett WE WERE loping along in the Sweetwater Range, When the shadowy hand of sleep On the blue earth had settled like raven’s wings With a swift mysterious sweep. Tranquil and dark as a slumbering sea, The slow black tides of the plain Washed up to the outriding sentinel buttes, Washed back to the prairies again. The valley lay calm as a beaver-pond When the hunter-moon hangs low, And the hills were as soft as the velvet sod Under an antelope doe. Serene overhead in the dusky blue A single star through the night Glowed like a candle held by God As a friendly beacon-light; A flame in the window of His vast house Beckoning out to me— I could almost see Him peering down As He waited expcectantly. So I flung Him a couple of friendly songs As I cantered a lonely mile: “Swing Low Sweet Chariot,” “Old Black Joe,” “Jordan,” and “Beautiful Isle.” For the singing of psalms my voice was raw— I was never a parson’s pet; And the tremolo wail of a shivering wolf Made it a strange duet. But hard on the echoes—from Avalanche Peak, Where the Yellowrock Cataract spills— I heard Him sing down to me clear as a bell In the frosty dawn of the hills. COMmMiICMOook (©