Adventure Magazine Cover, October 10, 1921 — page 167: what you’re looking at

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

Solomon were wearing down even the tempered steel of the desert-bred horse. Twice the man had checked the roan in his rush to turn the stallion and the latter, sensing the slower pace, believed the roan to be weakening fast. He paused longer among the willows and cottonwoods, then broke from cover at a less extended gait, and the lumbering Boulder swerved to meet him. The stallion scarce diverged from his path, confident that the tiring roan was no longer a factor to be greatly feared. Suddenly Boulder, galvanized to a pound- ing charge by spurred heels driven into his flanks, bore down upon the sorrel. Solomon slid to a startled stop in a flurry of sand, whirled; and leaped away toward the lower end of the valley. But swifter than he, sped the slowly opening noose, whipped from the eager hand of the man. It dropped over the stallion’s head and tautened with a singing twang, as the big roan with braced fore feet and haunches in the sand slid to a stop. The sorrel’s rush was checked with a jerk and his feet were whipped from under him. © stallion regained his feet, despite the NF roan’s valiant attempt to hold the rope taut, and again broke for the open, only to be thrown as cruelly as before by the snake-like lariat that bit into the glossy neck. ‘Goin’ to bust yore fool neck or wreck this saddle o’ mine, yuh fool,”’ growled the man, as Solomon again clambered to ~ his feet and lunged away. But in place of the tautening of the lariat followed by the jolting thud that took much of the fight momentarily out of him, Solomon felt only a steady pressure, and throwing back his head—there was the roan running behind him. Then the stallion. ran, low and swift, with a rhythmic beat of hooves that cast back cutting slashes of pebbles and sand. The ground streaked from beneath the man like the ties beneath an express, and the wind roared in his ears. Drawn by the wild burst of the great stallion the big roan was pounding over the ground faster than ever before. Up and down the valley they thundered—the sorrel tiring fast under the killing pace and effort. Slowly the man checked the roan to a trot, a walk, and finally toa halt. Solomon WITH a threshing of hooves the 157 fought gamely, but he could no longer drag the man and horse. Foam and sweat trickled and dripped from him. He was grimy with dirt, but his eyes still blazed their savage challenge. Taking in upon the lariat, hand over hand, the man had ridden to within a few paces when with a blast of rage the great stallion charged. Bared teeth showed in the blood-flecked mouth, the fore hooves struck like twin pile- drivers, and there was the lust to kil] in the stallion’s raging eyes. The roan whirled in fear, all but unseating the man who lashed savagely with his long quirt at the head of the fighting stallion. Again and again the quirt descended, the biting lash cutting close to Solomon’s eyes. He whirled from the attack and charged down the slope, only to be again snapped up short and thrown upon his flank. He struggled to his feet, trembling in every limb, while the man blindfolded the roan. Then mounted upon the unseeing horse, Worthington advanced. Again the stallion charged and the man slashed till he sought flight, racing down the valley, with the big roan no longer twenty yards behind, but now almost neck and neck. The ever ready quirt lashed mercilessly each time the fighting stallion sought to rend the blind- folded roan with snapping, crunching teeth, or to strike with the lightning swift hooves. Twice up and down the valley and the pace had dropped from a racing gallop to a jog-trot. On and on they went, up and down—from a trot to a walk—finally toa dead stop at the edge of the little stream. The-sorrel’s breath came in great gasps. He was all but exhausted. Shaking, he watched the roan drop his nose to the cool water, and drink thirstily fora moment. The man extended a tenta- tive hand toward the stallion’s withers— With a savage slash of the big white teeth the flannel shirt was ripped from the man’s forearm. The stallion lunged back, wheeled, and again pounded down the val- ley, dragging the roan at his flank. Hours later the exhausted horses again paused at the water’s edge. As before the roan drank and the sorrel watched—but in the eyes the lust to kill was gone. In its place had come the dumb appeal of the brute—to drink the cool, clear water that could soothe the flaming of fire-filled veins. Slowly the desert king lowered his head, ever watchful. He nosed the rippling cComicloooks C©