Adventure Magazine Cover — page 123: what you’re looking at

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

The Lord of the Stony Rises over their shoulders at the slightest rustle, the least sound. The hovering flight of an eagle-hawk, the harsh screams of parakeets fluttering out of some coppice, the leaping rush of a startled kangaroo brought them up rigid and taut with their hands on the butts of their guns. At night, while they slept drugged with fatigue in some sheltered spot, the slayers crept back. They awoke with the sound of shots or the angry bellow of maimed beasts ringing in their ears. And each time Rushton said: “Wait! Let ’em go.” “‘He’s losing his nerve,” Lund decided, for he was eager to be off in pursuit. ‘‘He’s afraid to tackle them.” But at last came a day when the run had been explored from corner to corner, crossed and recrossed, and for a day they lay idly in the sunshine on the crest of a hill, and Rush- ton flat on his back in the grass, his hands locked beneath his head, dispelled the doubts in Lund’s mind. “Surprize,” he explained, “that’s what counts. It’s no use running after them, we must run into them. From behind if possi- ble. Lately we’ve been too dog-tired to do much scouting after dark. I know I couldn’t. We’ve both done the best we could, even if I do say so.” Lund made deprecatory sounds in his throat. “Yes, sir,” Rushton went on. “I take off what is left of my hat to the two of us. But I’m wandering. Now, we want to explain a thing or two to our friends over yonder, particularly to Mitcham, who, I presume, is doing most of the dirty work. He’s a lad is Mitcham, a lad of the village, and he must be rating himself rather high these days, so we shan’t have much trouble cornering him. He probably thinks he’s been too clever to be caught, and the chances are he imagines we’re afraid to tackle him . “No wonder! Four nights running he——”’ “But tonight, my dear Lund, we shall waylay him. Weare going to settle what is called his hash. Are you feeling murderous?”’ “Tf I get close enough to him——’”’ “That’s the proper sympathetic spirit. The plan is simplicity itself > At twilight they left the hilltop and on foot, keeping well under cover, went swiftly toward the break in the scrub where the track across the marshes opened out upon the plain. 8 113 Here they settled down to wait. An hour went by and another. Lund was fidgety. He talked in whispers, keeping close to his companion for he dreaded the task ahead though he would not admit it even to him- self. He was used to fights, bitter and brutal, waged with steel-capped boots and fists and tooth and nail. But to kill in cold blood from ambush! He found himself trembling so violently that his teeth rattled. All about them in the darkness things crept and crawled with soft little sounds, and from the marshes came the bullfrogs’ chorus— “Clunk-clunk! Clunk-clunk!”’ It went on and on, exasperatingly monot- onous and regular compared with the disor- dered beating of his heart. And there were water snakes and great marsh worms, slimy and blind and five feet long. His confidence in Rushton vanished as the minutes went by. Rushton was a puzzle: A good cattleman, reliable, steady— but queer, different from the ordinary run of men. To Lund’s way of thinking he was too self-possessed and master of himself. You couldn’t tell what was going on inside his mind. There he kneeled, motionless, his head bent a little to one side, listening. On his knee rested his revolver, its polished barrel faintly luminous in the starlight. And it was as steady as a rock. Lund came to hate that very steadiness. Try as he might he could not copy it. “Think they’re coming?” he whispered. “Tt’s getting late - “Hardly twelve,” answered Rushton, and as if he could read Lund’s thoughts he added: “Stick it out. It won’t last long now.” “Tt’s this waiting. Killing a man when he hasn’t a chance—I don’t like it.” “T know,” agreed Rushton. “T feel the same way about it. If it can be managed I’m going to take ’em alive and trot them down to Yorke. But if they won’t surrender then let ’em have all you’ve got and don’t shoot wild.”’ “Are you——’ “Shut up!” A barely perceptible sound had reached Rushton’s ear. Seconds passed and it grew louder, more distinct, changed to the thud of horses’ hoofs pounding the soft turf. Then came voices and a muffled laugh. “Mitcham,” breathed Lund, no longer trembling. ‘“That’s him! I’m going——” ) NOOK 1 O)