Adventure Magazine Cover — page 103: what you’re looking at

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

ra HOA, dogs!” W | At the quick command the five huskies straining at the big to- boggan heavy laden with a mis- cellaneous collection of traps, freshly-taken skins of mink, lynx and marten, and several chunks of frozen caribou meat, eased: up in their collars. Some, availing themselves of the brief rest, bit industri- ously at troublesome ice-balls between their toes, while others looked back question- ingly through the cloud of frost which rose from their shaggy bodies as though to learn from the movements of the driver what prompted the unexpected stop. Jim Ryan, breaking trail through the loose snow ahead of the dogs, also turned. He saw his partner, “Doc” Bishop, with- drawing a small caliber rifle from beneath the lash ropes which bound the load. ‘‘What’s up, Doc?” he asked. “I’m going to pot one of those ptarmigan for supper,” Bishop answered, indicating with a sweep of his arm a willow bar off to one side of the trail where a number of the birds like animated snowballs in their Win- ter plumage were visible, perched in the tops of the willows or feeding on the wind- swept ground. “Fat chance yuh got,” Ryan complained. “Yuh won’t kill anything but a lot of time, an’ we’ve got none of that to spare if we hit camp ‘fore dark. Yuh can’t sneak up in gun-shot of them birds out in the open like this. Come on. It’s turnin’ plumb cold, an’ we gotta keep mushin’.” From the closely drawn hood of his parka ¥ j. 4, . D . y POE TY A owe : < v, Jt » WILBUR WATKINS his breath rose like puffs of pale smoke as he swung his arms vigorously backward and forward against his body. On perceiving that his advice had gone unheeded he kicked off his long-webbed breaking-shoes and stamped impatiently in the snow as his partner advanced toward the willows. As Bishop raised the rifle to sight on the nearest bird the «whcle flock with great cack- ling rose in the air and swept away toward the lower end of the bar. Ryan snorted derisively. ‘What'd I tell yuh?” he jeered. ‘Them birds ain’t no fools. A cheechalker’d know better’n that. Let’s get goin’.” He slipped on the shoes once more and struck out rapidly down the ice-locked river. The dogs leaped to their feet, anx- ious to be on the way, for they knew they were due to arrive that night at the trap- pers’ home station where plenty to eat and a two-day rest usually awaited them. Bishop hurriedly returned to the tobog- gan and reaching over from the rear sought to shove the butt back under the ropes. As he did so there was a sudden sharp report and a dull “‘plunking” sound like a pebble hurled from a distance into deep water. He straightened up quickly, a startled look on his face, his hands clasping his stomach. Then a cry of anguish burst from his lips: ‘“‘T’m shot, Jim! My , I’m shot!’’ As Ryan wheeled about he saw his part- ner pitch forward in the snow. In his haste Bishop had forgotten to lower the hammer of the rifle when the birds took wing and in shoving it under the ropes 93 Goo (9) : S (©