Adventure, January 20, 1922 — page 177: what you’re looking at

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

Powder Law ground the heel of his palm into Mora’s nose. Suddenly Mora surged away from him and started to get to his feet. Blaze laughed again and tried to revile Mora for being a coward, but his vocal cords refused to function. Very well, he would get up, too, and they could fight more. It was hard work, this getting up, but he managed to get to his feet. He struck at Mora, but Mora did not fight back. Mora almost fell out of the rear door, which was splintered and sagging. Blaze staggered after him, shov- ing Mora toward the rear of the Eureka. Once Mora stopped and tried to go the other way, but Blaze struck him in the neck; struck him with a fist which would not. stay clenched, and Mora whimpered like a beaten puppy. The front of Mora’s shirt was splotched with blood, where a bullet had ripped through the ‘muscles, and there was a jagged furrow across his neck, where another chunk of hot lead had barely missed its kill. Y bog of the Eureka. He stopped, but tei <i Blaze bumped into him, shoving him ahead. The room was in a turmoil. Sales, pistol in hand, a bloody smear across his face, had his left hand twisted into the collar of a man and was holding him against the bar. Another man was lying on the floor, with Frenchy standing astride of him, his knees half-bent, mouth wide open, but still gripping his big Colt; dangerous as an old crippled wolf. Two of Sales’ men were holding another man against a card-table. The crowd had given them plenty of room. Straight ahead staggered Mora, head down and weaving like a wounded animal, while behind him came Blaze, scarcely able to lift his feet. A group of dance-hall girls scattered to let Mora through. He came to a stop near Frenchy. “By , he didn’t get away!” croaked Sales. Frenchy threw up his head and looked at Mora. “Ho, ho, ho!’ Frenchy’s voice rasped weakly. “Tak’ look, everybodee! De big one she’s come to be judged!” Suddenly a woman, the woman who had stolen Black Mora’s gun, rushed past Blaze. She stopped a few feet from Mora, her right hand buried in the folds of her dress. MORA stumbled into the rear door 175 Her face was white with fury. Her pen- ciled eyes gleamed green in the murky light, and her carmined lips were a thin, red line, barely discernible. For a moment she stared at Black Mora. He seemed about to speak to her, but she forestalled him. “‘Black Mora, I’ve waited for you. You made me what I am because I was afraid of you, but I am not afraid of you now.” She brushed her hand across her brow as if to clear her thoughts. “My old father—you killed him, Black Mora. He came to this country to kill you for what you done to me and you and your men hung him... He was old and crippled, but you feared him. : “You and your vigilantes! Ha, ha, ha! You told me you would run this coun- try and that you would marry me. You wanted Jack Wheeler’s wife; so you mur- dered him.” Mora’s mouth was wide open and his breath was jerking from his lips, but no protest came from him. Cold fear gripped his heart. The crowd made no move. Blaze listened dully, as if to an oft-told tale, wish- ing that the woman would keep still so he could sleep. Frenchy was swaying on his feet, fighting to keep above the man, who had turned on his side and was staring at Mora, as if wondering if his chief could save him. “You wanted power,” woman, without a trace of inflexion in her voice. ‘‘Power—women! Ha, ha, ha!’ Her lips barely opened to emit the cack- ling laugh, and the lines of her face did not change. ‘Women, Mora. You didn’t care what breed. You lied to me. You killed my father and stole his gun. Listen to me, Mora. You said that my voice pleased you more than any you ever heard. Listen to it, because it’s the last voice you'll ever hear. My father’s gun, Mora. His initials are on the handle. Jack Henderson, whom the Indians caHed Running Wolf. He carved his hate into those handles, but he _loved the gun, because it was to kill you. Do you hear me, Mora?” Her voice was almost a scream. “ve got that gun, Mora! quick!” Mora threw out his arm blindly. Blaze lurched to grasp the woman, but her hand came up swiftly, the skirt still covering the muzzle of the gun. Pray— COmMicloooks continued the (E@)