Adventure Magazine Cover, October 10, 1921 — page 115: what you’re looking at

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

The Gold Cure but they won’t sell to you. You’re black- listed.”’ “Oh, ll set ’em up, blast you!”’ Fox sur- rendered. “Come on up to the tent and get your drink, if it’ll start the think-tank working. Things have broken badly for me. I counted on that Guayappe placer— was going to start a big company and sell shares—but it fizzled. “T’ve got just about enough to finance ane real deal, but I can’t take chances. If I don’t find the right thing, I’ve got to go back to the States. —Hi, you women!” he shouted in atrocious Spanish. “Keep what gold you have washed, and come to the tent in the morning for your pay. —This way, Boozy!”’ =x] KELLY’S tent was set on the top of wi a bluff overlooking the river, in the cool shade of a large ceiba-iree. It was a fine tent, of khaki-colored silk, with a ‘ big fly extension, under which stood a portable table and a pair of camp-chairs. The promoter liked to do himself well. The interior was comfortably furnished and eloquent of money. Confidence was the foundation on which Kelly had built his success aS a swindler; and in building up confidence he found show and style as valuable assets as his angelic face. Under the fly sat Kelly and Boozy, breathing in the cool breeze that sprang up with sunset. The western sky was like burnished copper. Below them the river sang quietly to itself. Between the two scalawags stood a small table, and on the table a bottle of Black and White, its glory almost departed. Kelly’s eyes rested anxiously on the satisfied tramp, who reached out to complete the bottle’s discomfiture. ‘‘Well?”’ snapped the promoter. Boozy set down the empty bottle with a sigh. ‘“‘There’s just one mine,” he said slowly, ‘Just one, that you might be able to pick up. Since you skinned Doc McWhinnie, the only man left in Olancho that would deal with you is—Doc himself! An’ Doc’s got—a—treal—mine!”’ Kelly scowled. ‘Have you drunk my good liquor to run a bloomer on me, you bum? That cock won’t fight! Doc won’t deal with me again. Give us something better, or I’ll run you out!” “Doc may sell.” Boozy’s voice was 105 calm, even dreamy. ‘Nobody else will. He wants to get rid of that mine anyway. It’s a liability!” on liability! And you want me to buy Say, you’ve got a fine notion of a joke!’’ Tilting back his chair, Boozy embarked suddenly on a sea of sleepy reminiscence. As he ran on, yawning between sentences, Fox began to lick his lips greedily. “Doc took that mine in payment of a bad debt. Old King, of Galeras, died with no assets but the mine. He never did get more than an ounce to the ton out of it. Doc hasn’t worked it at all—wouldn’t pay without more capital than he can raise. It’s not been touched since King died. “Ho-hum! Well, there’s an old tale— the natives say old King had a mighty rich vein, an’ that the miner he hired to work it had a grudge agin’ him. A bit of a stringer came in, runnin’ a bit over an ounce an’ a half. The miner give the tunnel a twist that run the real gold-bearer into the hang- in’ wall. Then he just worked the stringer, which didn’t yield enough to put through the araster. His idea was that King ’ud quit the mine in disgust. Then the miner planned to denounce it later, an’ work the rich hidden vein for himself. But the rock caved in on him an’ killed him. King never knew about the vein, “It’s maybe just a yarn, an’ maybe more. But if you want a speculation—” Boozy’s voice trailed off in a snore. Kelly prodded him awake. “Look here! That tale—if I could get the mine cheap, I might take a chance. I could float stock on the strength of the yarn. But I can’t buy it myself. The Doc would soak a fierce price on me. Now if you’d go to him—”’ “Fat chance!’’ wheezed the tramp. “T’m not a-goin’ to have no dealin’s with that dirty, sneakin’ Scotch pill-shooter!”’ Kelly stared. “What you got against McWhinnie? I heard you and he were chummy!” “Was, but ain’t. The danged old pil- grim squirted a lot o’ muck into me when I was sick. The stuff spoiled my thirst for half a year. What kind o’ trick is that to play on a feller? Dang his hide, I’d admire to stick a knifé into him!”’ His eyes closed again; but they opened wide, and he sat up, at Kelly’s next words: “There’s another bottle under the cot. ‘Wake up, and talk business!”’ it! cConmicloool C@