Adventure Magazine Cover — page 100: what you’re looking at

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

94 opportunity to return to the style of fighting he preferred. My chance came the next time he charged me, goaded into despera- tion by these strange tactics. I aimed a smashing blow at his head with the toma- hawk, and, as he lifted his own hatchet to guard, I thrust for his belly, parried his knife and ripped him open. His death-yell was in my ears as I leaped over his body and looked to see how my com- rades were doing. ‘Ta-wan-ne-ars had just knifed his man and was running to the help of Peter, who had two assailants on his hands. As Ta-wan-ne-ars came up, the Dutchman closed with one, dashed the defending weap- ons aside and grasped the struggling savage in his powerful arms. The last Cahnuaga turned to flee, but Ta-wan-ne-ars did not even attempt to pursue him. Without any appearance of haste the Seneca balanced his tomahawk, drew back his arm and hurled it after the fugitive. The keen blade crushed the man’s skull before he had passed from the circle of firelight, and Ta-wan-ne- ars sauntered across and scalped him. “That time Ta-wan-ne-ars did not miss, brother,” he observed to me as I watched with fascinated horror the bloody neatness with which he dispatched his task. “But why do you scalp your enemies, Ta-wan-ne-ars?”’ I answered. ‘‘Surel « “T am an Indian, not a white man.” “Yet you = “T have forgotten what the missionaries taught me,” he replied impatiently. ‘“‘All except what I think may be useful to my people.” Peter brought up his captive and tossed the man down in front of us. “Oof, that was a goodt fight!” he com- mented placidly. “Why a prisoner, Peter?” asked Ta- wan-ne-ars. “We will ask him of der Doom Trail,” re- turned Corlaer. He jerked the man to his feet. “Where is der Doom Trail?” he demanded. The Cahnuaga, badly shaken though he was, drew himself erect and folded his arms across his pamted chest. “The Rat can go to the torture-stake and not answer that question, Corlaer,” he said ~ quite simply. “We will take you to the nearest village and let you make good your boast,” threat- ened Ta-wan-ne-ars. The Cahnuaga smiled. Adventure “Tf I told you, none the less should I suffer at the stake,” he said, “for the Ga-go-sa Ho-nun-as-tase-ta(a) knows all. Do your worst, Chief of the Long House.” A tinge of mockery colored his voice. “Be sure that whatever you do you can not equal the ingenuity of the Ga-go-sa. Yes, I think you will come to know more about them some day, Iroquois. I seem to see pictures in the firelight of a stake, and a building with a tower and a bell that rings, and many of the Ga-go-sa dance around you, and your pain is very great. Aye, you are shrieking like a woman; you = He sprang, not at the Seneca but at me. His hands were around my throat before I could move. His eyes blazed into mine. His teeth gnashed at my face. A gout of blood, thick and warm, deluged me. The next thing I remembered was seeing Ta- wan-ne-ars bending over me. “My brother is whole?” he asked anx- iously. The ferocity was gone from his face, and his fingers prodded me tenderly in search of hurts. “Yes,” I said, sitting up and rubbing a very sore throat, ‘‘except that I shall not be able to swallow fora time.” “You were choked, brother.” “And the Cahnuaga?”’ “That dog is dead. Do you sleep now, for the dawn grows near and we must be upon our way.” CHAPTER XIV ALONG THE GREAT TRAIL STIRRED to wakefulness when the first pink light of morning was in the eastern skies. A pungent whiff of wood-smoke filled my nostrils, and I turned over to watch Corlaer frying bacon and maize cakes —only to lose my appetite at the spectacle of Ta-wan-ne-ars stretching scalps on little hoops of withes to dry by the fire. He went about it in a very business-like way, yet he indulged in an amiable grin over my look of interested aversion. “What does my brother find that is so horrible in a scalp?” he inquired, extending a particularly gory one for my inspection. ‘““°*Tis mo more than the crown of a man’s head—and that man an enemy.”’ “T like not the idea of mutilating a (a) Mistress of the False Faces. Gomichbooks (C@)