Adventure Magazine Cover, October 10, 1921 — page 181: what you’re looking at

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

Solomon Fai WORTHINGTON halted and Ke icy, passed his hand vaguely before his eyes. What was this?—great hole in the earth—a cafion, opening now to en- gulf him? Then reason, and recognition, returned to the man’s fever-throbbing eyes. In one comprehensive moment he knew where he was, though he could in no way account for his being there. It was the gorge, the rocky path that led down into his Solomon Valley, and there were the tracks of the horses he had trailed through all that nightmare of the past days and weeks. But what could they be doing there? It must be that the Don’s strong- hold, far from his ranch on the Border— guessed at but never definitely located by rangers in the past—lay somewhere away to the south of this hidden valley, and the Don, aware of the water and grazing, had dropped in for the night. The man began the descent into the gorge—and as he dropped lower and lower the moonlight from above ceased to pene- trate. It was black as a pocket. Then came the sudden burst into the moon- flooded valley, light as day after the dark- ness of the gorge. There at the foot of the slope, close to the fringe of cottonwoods, a fire flickered red, casting leaping shadows upon the forms about the little circle. There were men still stirring. One rose and strode toward the horses, picketed twenty or thirty yards from the fire. The man in the opening slipped behind a jutting rock; then stole to the half-standing barricade. The men and horses were so plainly visible that to the man above it seemed impossible to avoid discovery. For long moments he lay watching the figures about the fire. Time passed. A quarter of an hour dragged into a half, then an hour, and the forms about the fire had one by one slipped from the lighted area to seek blankets and sleep. There was no sign .of a guard over the camp. For a time longer the man above waited and watched, then began a creeping de- scent into the valley, hoping as he crawled that none of the restive horses would make known his presence, as he drew near. He had noted one horse picketed beyond the others and although he could not distin- guish the desert stallion at such a distance, he felt that it was Solomon. It was slow painful work, crawling 171 forward, belly to the sand, with frequent tense pauses while he lay still and motion- less fearfully anticipating the shout or quick shot that would evidence his dis- covery. But there was no sound nor sudden movement among the still forms about the little fire, and the drowsy picketed horses were to the windward. Nearer and nearer the man crept. He swung wide of the fire, then worked in toward the horses once more. There remained but thirty yards between Worthington and his object,. the horse picketed a littlt beyond the others, when a figure stirred. The man flattened instantly, and dropped his hand to the holster at his side. A bulky blanket shrouded form sat up, drowsily looked about, then rose and stepped over to the fire. Throwing fresh brush upon the still glowing embers, the vacquero rolled a cigaret, then squatted by the growing blaze. The man lying prone upon the sand scarce hity yards distant cursed softly to himself. “Why in did the greaser have to roll out at such an ungodly hour? And how long is the —— going to squat there by the fire? -—— him.” The blaze was growing, leaping tongues of flame’ threw darting gleams farther and farther out upon the sand. 6c 1?? —— the greaser!” he breathed again and again, as the hand closed hungrily about the gun at his side. And then came the inspiration. With his fingers to his lips the man whistled softly, cupping his hands toward the desert stallion—the call which he had taught him. The white crest raised instantly. The stallion gazed eagerly in the direction from which the well known call had sounded. There was only one that whistled like that— Worthington—the one man who had been kind to him, who had really known him and won his confidence and love. Here in the camp of the Don there were only enemies. The great desert stallion hated them all, and most of all, the Don. Out there, beyond the leaping flickering light of the flames, his master, Worthington, waited—had called to him. Solomon taut- ened the lariat that held him, and pawed the sand. The man at the fire had risen at the sound. It- had not been loud. Worthingten had muffled it as best he could, but it had been near. And the listening vacquero sought in guttural undertones to convince himself: Cconmicoooks C@