Adventure Magazine Cover, October 10, 1921 — page 166: what you’re looking at

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

156 away to encompass a green-floored valley, a mile in length and half as broad. The ground dropped abruptly from the roan’s feet, then sloped gently on down to the narrow ribbon of water that glimmered its way through the valley to disappear among the rocks. little stream, and green grass grew luxuri- antly for a distance of several hundred yards on either side. The man rubbed his eyes, then scanned the valley walls. There was not a break in their sheer surface. A patch of green, trickling water, trees—an oasis cached among the desert mountains. It was a prison. There was but one means of en- trance and exit—the twisting, deep-cleft gorge. In the narrow aperture stood the roan, his lean brown rider gazing spell- bound across the valley. There a great sorrel horse, with whipping mane, lunged and tore in futile attempts to scale the in- vulnerable walls. PZ, THE sun was setting as the man Ze tossed his hat to the sand, mopped his brow, and surveyed his handi- work with satisfaction. Across the narrow opening of the gorge he had thrown up a nine-foot barricade, rough and crude in workmanship, but substantial. “Take a bird to clear that, I reckon,” grunted the man as he turned from his work to prepare a comfortable camp for the night. After a leisurely evening meal the pipe was produced, and clouds of wispy blue smoke wafted away from the outstretched form upon the blankets. From beyond the little circle of light there came the nipping crunch of the roan’s grazing, intermingled now and then with a chesty snort. The trickle of water was audible from below where the little stream showed white against the dark- ened background. Suddenly there came the drum of beating hooves that slid to a startled stop scarce a stone’s throw distant. A snort of fear, the sound of a whirling horse, and the hoof- beats died into the night. “Old Solorhon up to see‘ what he can see! Reckon he won’t rest so easy tonight—be a-worryin’ his fool head off from now till mornin’, and the man rolled over in his blankets, and slept. The little camp was awake and stirring with the first streaks of dawn. While the breakfast simmered and. boiled the man Giant cottonwoods lined the Adventure stripped the saddle of all its equipment— saddle bags, poncho, and rifle-scabbard. “Traveling light today, Old-Timer,”’ he called to the roan, as he strode over to saddle up. There was a pause at the stream while the horse drank. Then they forded the™ stream and pushed toward the lower end of the valley. Great cottonwoods obstructed ‘the view, and the man sat alert in the saddle, straining for the first sight of the stallion. Suddenly there came the crashing of underbrush and the pounding roar of hooves. The great sorrel burst into the open, running low, the white mane whipping over the powerful shoulders. The big roan whirled and leaped to cut off the stallion’s rush but the sorrel was not to be turned. He swept by, out of range of Worthington’s . lariat, and raced toward the mouth of the gorge. As the man rode clear of the cottonwoods the barricade became visible. Fifty yards from it the desert king, torn between fear of the man behind and this new obstacle in his path, that looked so like a trap. The sorrel cast anxious glances over his shoulder at the slowly approaching pair below, then advanced gingerly toward the log barrier. He whistled in nervous fear, stopped, pawed the sand, then advanced again. Once he wheeled swiftly to pound down the slope—thought better of it, and turned back to the barred exit. To the man below, the great sorrel stallion was wonderful—taut in every mus- cle, with proud head, arched neck with snow-white mane, powerful shoulders and straight back, slim legs, clean cut as those of a deer, and hooves that pounded and pawed a nervous challenge upon the sand. Man and horse had crossed the stream and begun the ascent up out of the valley when the stallion with an impatient snort of fear and disapproval wheeled from the barrier and swept down the slope, angling to avoid the man below. Again and again the big roan and his rider worked up and down the valley in pursuit, the great sorrel’s speed always serving to carry him safely beyond reach of the hissing lariat that each time fell short of its mark. The sun, directly overhead, beat down with blinding intensity. Both the fugitive stallion and his relentless pursuers were dripping with sweat and grimy with dust. The pace was telling on all three—but most upon the fleet Solomon whose mad spurts COnmiclbooks Cc C@