Adventure Magazine Cover — page 67: what you’re looking at

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

The Bullet and the Blast “Ts this McLeod’s camp?” he inquired in that tone, at once gruff and direct, that passes muster as courtesy among the men of the open places. “Tt is that,” responded one of the men, halting and scrutinizing the stranger’s face. ‘‘And how far might ye be travelin’?” “No farther tonight if you’ve a spare bunk for me.” “Come along wid us, me bye,”’ was the Irishman’s prompt and genial invitation. Dalton followed the men into the long, low bunk-house, through the interior of which a big oil-lamp cast a feeble glow. A central passageway extended the entire length of the building between rows of double-decked bunks built like stalls, from which emanated a weird dissonance that presently could be identified as. the combined snoring and heavy breathing of half a hundred weary men. “Here’s an impty bunk, lad, wid enough o blankets. Sure, ye’ll nade thim all. It'll be chilly the night, ’'m thinkin’.” . With appropriate thanks to his host, Dalton forthwith began divesting himself of his apparel; and in a few minutes, utter- ly fatigued by arduous travel and fortified against the coming cold by six Hudson Bay blankets, he was unconsciously adding his individual notes to the sleepers’ chorus. Five o’clock in the morning brought the inevitable ding-a-ling-a-lin® of the cook’s triangle. with the resultant stretching of arms, reluctant yawnings and gathering together of working habiliments. From the stall-like bunks there crawled presently into the lamp-light a couple of score of weird figures; some full-bearded, some scraggly bearded, others with long, un- kempt locks and ragged mustaches; a bizarre aggregation of the males of many races representing numerous countries and a couple of continents. The malodorous air of the bunk-house began to vibrate at once with the rumblings of deep-chested men girding themselves for the toil of another day. Frowsy, unshaven faces were plunged into basins of cold water and attempts were made to straighten out some of the most obdurate of the kinks in hair and beard: until, the compelling notes of the triangle breaking rudely in upon their toilets or ablutions, in they trooped to the mess shack for breakfast. The meal, in conformity to that strict rule that governs table etiquette in the ) 6! camps of the North, was eaten in silence save for the frequent guttural demands necessary for the passing back and forth of the steaks, the coffee and the flapjacks. Dalton scanned with keen interest the double row of countenances that paralleled the long board. The polyglot assemblage included large, calm-eyed, heavily bearded Slavs; dark Magyars with their fierce, long black mustaches; volatile, mobile-faced half-breed French, gaudy in habiliment: and here and there, like landmarks in a strange domain, the clean-cut, dominating features of the Anglo-Saxons. After breakfast when paying the French cook for his meal, Dalton casually inquired: ‘Any men going West stop here night before last?” “Out, M’siew’, one—a frangais pedlaire wit’ pack.” “Did he do any business?” pursued Dalton with a smile. “Oui, oui. Some Russe men, she buy watch—one, two, t’ree,’ smilingly ad- mitted the French-Canadian with a flash of white teeth. Dalton grinned an understanding “Bon jour’ to the cook and went his way. It was seven o’clock and the workmen were strageling into the cut preparatory to beginning the day’s labor. The sun, now risen over the bleak granite hills to the eastward, was diffusing his welcome warmth through the chill air. Dalton entered the gaping mouth of the deep rock cut and proceeded westward. Ten minutes’ walk sufficed to bring him to the westerly limit of McLeod’s operation. The cut suddenly ended before a formidable wall of gray granite. From its face, deep-scarred and blast-marked, great slabs and polyhedrous masses of rock had been torn and lay in scattered profusion on the floor of the cut, ready to be loaded upon cars and drawn away to be dumped into the nearest ss on A ae “Last night’s blast,” mused Dalton, his gaze sweeping comprehensively over the rock-littered gorge. Climbing carefully over the débris, he reached the crest of the rock hill and there halted, surveying the scene. Away to the northward spread the sparkling expanse of Lake Shabogama, set between spruce-bordered shores. On every side his vision met the primal wilder- ness, scarcely traversed and hardly pene- trable except by half-breeds and Indians Gomicbooks (E@)