Adventure Magazine Cover — page 176: what you’re looking at

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

740 world’s binder twine for harvesting ma- chines is spun. Grown and shipped to the United States at a cost of two cents a pound, and bringing ten cents a pound after the destruction of the Philippine hemp indus- try, the Yucatecos—white, mestizo and Maya—owning the lands, the only lands in the world on which the plant could be grown, were made millionaires in a few years’ time. Not one-twentieth of the land could be cultivated because of the scarcity of labor, and that kept up the price. After the fifth year a plant would produce for thirty years, and it required little attention, for the soil was so dry and stony that even the weeds were unenthusiastic. Not that there was not enough rainfall. The trouble was that when the rain fell it went down through the soil at once and collected on the hard-pan floor from ten to a hundred feet below the upper level, where it formed subterranean rills, brooks, swamps and rivers called cezotes, a peculiar condi- tion similar to that in certain districts in the Belgian Congo, the American desert and in the Jamaican cockpit country. Here and there, dotted about the level plain of the peninsula, were holes where the earth had fallen in, exposing the underground streams. Sometimes the hole was a few feet deep; sometimes one must descend a fraction of a mile to get water. The greater part of an hour passed before the party was beyond the bounds of the last henequen field and out of sight of the last group of laboring peons. The trail led straight on into the thicket, and Haskell noted that the number of large trees was increasing, but he dared not take his eyes from matters close at hand. From the tail of his eye he must catch the first suspicious movement of Don Felipe’s hands. Once or twice Don Felipe reined up to scan some tracks in the trail, and, again, he called a halt and commanded silence while he listened as if he heard sounds ahead that alarmed him, but he rode on again until they came to a cluster of rocks. Haskell was forced to ride a little to the front. He heard the click of the bolt of the carbine as Don Felipe threw ina cartridge, and, as he turned, the muzzle was pointed full at his back. Hate and murder shone in the aciendado’s eyes as he pulled the trig- ger, but the carbine did not speak. There was only the snap of the trigger. Adventure “You dirty, murderous, cowardly dog!” cried Haskell, throwing the blue nose of his gun level with the Yucateco’s eyes. Charging like a dragoon came the first of the two mozos. The other could not get around Haskell’s astonished guide, who had reined up squarely across the trail. Secing the flash of the upraised henequen knife, the American swung the pistol at right angles and let three of the bullets from the magazine pour forth before he took his fin- ger from the trigger. The terrific impact of heavy steel-jacketed missiles seemed to lift the mozo out of the saddle, and he pitched sideways among the rocks, while his pony clattered on toward the forest. But Don Felipe had had time to draw his revolver. A shot splintered Haskell’s pom- mel and burned his thigh. Another whirred under his ear, and then he fired. The glit- tering pistol whirled into the air, and Don Felipe, cursing bitterly, clapped his left hand to his right forearm, where there was a red welling of blood on the white sleeve. Rearing madly and backing from the flame of the revolver before his eyes, the Yucateco’s horse threw himself and rider behind the guide and his mount. It was a stroke of fortune for the hacien- dado, this confusion between the two In- dians and the blocking of Haskell’s line of fire. He saw it and, seizing the reins, whirled his horse and sped down the trail. The mozo followed suit, and the best that Haskell could do was to send Don Felipe’s horse to his knees. The rider was off as the horse fell, up behind the mozo and out of sight untouched, though Haskell sent the last of nine shots after them. Well back on the trail could be heard the drumming of many hoofs and many voices shouting. In advance was a lone rider ap- proaching rapidly. Now he dashed into sight. It was the little man Haskell had seen riding away from the quarters of the peons. He was a cripple with a withered hand and a queer twisted face. “Seftor, don’t wait! Come quick, sefior! Follow me and ride fast!” he cried, reining up and turning under the very nose of Has- kell’s horse. The engineer stooped and caught up the carbine, rode over to Don Felipe’s dying horse and lifted the ammunition belts from the saddle; then set out after the newcomer and the guide, already a hundred feet ahead on the trail toward the forest. COMICLOOCKKS. EO