Adventure Magazine Cover — page 122: what you’re looking at

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

116 plumb out of his latitude. The poor loco aims to end hisself. Stop him!” But Michael ain’t to be denied. He waves aside all objections an’ declares that he’s out to annex the twenty-five dollars that goes to the winner. “Maybe I ain’t never rode no Injun canoe before,” he admits. “Maybe I upsets. But _ any time [I stays right side up, I wins out over any Injun that ever swings a paddle. I’m a white man!” “Let the sap-headed dodo race,’’ Ole ad- . vises the crowd. “It’s a cinch he never gets ten feet away from the shore.” An’ with that Mr. Erickson turns his back on his former buddy an’ mushes up the bank toward the Pioneer saloon. He saunters away an’ leaves us same as if canoe races is as common to him as sourdough flapjacks. It’s plain that a shot of hooch is more interestin’ to that Swede than Michael’s efforts as a navigator. Jes’ the same, while them athletes is bein’ rowed across, I notice that Ole has returned, an’ he’s minglin’ with the crowd in a way that’s mighty puzzlin’. Twice I see him approach a tenderfoot, drag his overalls pocket an’ make a bet. He’s careful never to come near me; but I’m positive that Swede has rustled some money an’ he’s placin’ it ag’in’ poor old Michael. It’s too almighty bad. By an’ by we get the crack of the startin’ gun an’ they’re away to as purty a send-off - as any race-track ever staged. An’ they surely do come whizzin’ across. Them feather-weight little sheets of bark jes’ nacher’ly seems to leap right off the bosom of the old Yukon with each heavin’ stroke of the paddlers. Them shells is certainly real boats; an’ that day some real canoe- men was ridin’ in ’em. There they come, scootin’ bent, two big bucks a little out in front, hardly seemin’ to touch the surface of that brown flood; now gainin’ a few feet, now losin’—as purty a sight an’ race as anybody ever looked at. An’ to some of us, the purtiest, finest bit of the whole show was Michael Joseph Ryan, white man, tailin’ night alongside the two leaders, all the time! We don’t hardly dare to breathe as they get close enough for us to see ’em good; for Michael’s boat is mighty near turnin’ &zil- ipie with every stroke. That Inshman is defyin’ all the rules governin’ Injun canoe- work. He’s puttin’ his whole strength into Adventure every stroke, totally disregardin’ the fact that every time he dips his paddle he’s within a ace of capsizin’. But at that he ain’t got quite enough. He’s maybe a whole length behind the neck- an’-neck leaders when they reach the an- chored barrel that marks the last hundred yards. Skill is goin’ to count after all. She’s a gone race for Michael. So we’ve all jes’ about give up rootin’ for the paleface when that fool Irishman pulls another one. He does somethin’ nobody never done to no Yukon birch-bark, no time. He stands up! Full up on the toes of his moccasins he poises for his first mighty stroke—then he leans forward an’ dips his paddle. Well, sir, we don’t dast to even wink. It ain’t noways possible for anybody to stay right side up in that crazy, narrow, one-man paper-shell—not an’ act thataway. But Michael does it. An’, believe me, he comes on in! He’s got twice the leverage he’s had; an’, man, he jes’ nacher’ly picks-her out of . the water. Five strokes an’ he’s leadin’. Another five an’ he’s near enough for us to see the great beads of sweat on his forehead. An’ another few seconds an’ he knocks the whole bottom out of her as she scoots up on to the beach, spillin’ Michael Joseph head-first on to the gravel. He wins by a good five vards! Do we congratulate Michael Joseph, white man? We do not. We don’t get no chance. Mr. Ryan no more’n gets hisself picked up than Ole grabs him by the arm. “Come on home, you,” he commands. “There’s somethin’ you gotta know, right now.” An’ blamed if the conquerin’ hero don’t turn away from the whole admirin’ crowd, meek as a sheep, an’ go! It certainly is mystifyin’. “*Pears to me,” Scar-Face Ed opines, “that Scangahoovian is wearin’ a mighty glum an’ sour look. I see him makin’ a couple of bets durin’ the race, an’ con- siderin’ that him an’ Michael has been so sore on each other, it’s a cinch he’s been gamblin’ wrong an’ he’s loser a pile of pelf. He’s maybe figgerin’ on soakin’ Michael with the ax or somethin’ to even up. Maybe some of us better accompany them to their domicile.” “Let ’em alone,” Hank Sommers advises. “Let ’em be. Them two freaks is either goin’ to make up or else they’re due to pull EMOPMIE OOO KS (E) im