Adventure Magazine Cover, October 10, 1921 — page 182: what you’re looking at

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

172 that it had been but a bird in the night. But his suspicions had been aroused and he continued to peer uncertainly beyond the circle of light. Then, fearful lest the stallion’s restless pawing might draw the man to closer in- vestigation, Worthington staked all on a single chance. He rose to his feet, and his piercing whistled call stabbed the stillness like a knife. The man at the fire leaped toward his blankets and carbine, stumbling over sleeping forms in his path. Oaths sounded, and men startled from stillness and slumber, leaped kicking from blankets, rifles in hand. Then there sounded the challenge of a stallion, the twang as of fingers upon a giant string. The great desert stallion had leaped to answer the call of the man. The stout picket pin was whipped from its hold with the force of a hurricane. és) Worthington and the picketed horses the stallion checked his rush. For the first time in months, Solo- mon was free. A lariat dangled from about his neck, but there was nothing to held him. Goaded by hate of the Don and his vacqueros, the great stallion had thought only of escape, through the past days of capitivity. . His one thought had been of the wind- blown ranges, the mountain wastes, and freedom. No more to feel the lash of stinging quirt, falling again and again upon his glossy coat. No more to brook the detested presence of men. He was free. There was nothing be- tween him and the gorge that led back to his range kingdom. His fleet running would serve to outdistance the swiftest of pursuers. The great head was raised anda challenge pealed out into the solitude. Then as Solomon paused upon the verge of flight there came a sweeping feeling of emptiness, of utter loneliness. A captive of the Don, the stallion had longed only for freedom, escape, return to the wild life he had known. * To run, wild and free, proud king of the range, had once been the desert stallion’s all. Born to the wilds, a wilder- ness king, it had been a part of him. But in the past months of companionship with Worthington there had been subtle forces at work upon the heart of the desert horse. Perhaps unknown and unfelt, they MIDWAY between the waiting Adventure were none the less enduring; for the daily quest for sugar lumps, through Worthing- ton’s pockets, the touch of his hands, and the tones of affection ever in his deep voice had gripped the heartstrings of the stallion. The call of the wild faded before the call of human companionship and love. The desert-trained eyes of the horse swept the rugged walls of Solomon Valley, and saw far beyond; then returned to the man waiting out there upon the sand. A wilderness king, still—Solomon loved most his master, Worthington. To Worthington ages had passed as he stood weakly swaying, as the odds against him mounted moment by moment. He had staked all on the love of the desert horse. Was it in vain? In answer the great sorrel slid to a stop almost upon A lariat trailed at his heels, and as the man leaped astride the eager horse, he cast the noose from about Solomon’s neck and gripped his fingers deep in the thick white mane. As the horse and rider wheeled they loomed large in the leaping light. A volley of hurried shots cracked from prone and kneeling form about the fire. The desert-stallion lunged away into the night. A black form loomed up in the path— the Don with his great stock saddle, its silver mountings glinting in the far light of the flickering fire, hastening to his black stallion, El Diablo. With an oath the Don dropped the saddle and leaped—but the swift hurtling stallion was upon him. With a sickening impact the man went down, a crumpled form upon the sand. Glassy eyes stared from the twisted white face as the horse and rider swept up the valley. At the mouth of the gorge Solomon paused. Below a quiet little group gath- ered about a still, crumpled form on the sand. The challenge of the wild stallion pealed out across the valley, and Fronteras, the half-breed, made the sign of the cross as he stood above the still form of his master. The boy, Pasqual, whimpered as he crouched in the shadows. Then Solomon leaped swiftly by the tumbled logs of the barricade and thun- dered up the gorge—up, up, to the high rock mesa above. Out upon the mesa lay the cream pinto, Worthington’s saddle beside him. Miles to the north flowed the. sluggish Rio Grande, through the . DOO) Conn) S Cc C@