Adventure Magazine Cover — page 147: what you’re looking at

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

Battle of a Thousand Hoofs others more or less like it. He was aware of the cruelty of the man, did not doubt his savagery. Yet he was made of the stuff that went into the heart of the Ameri- can pioneer and Indian fighter or of the present average border citizen. He was used to facing danger. Protection of him- self and others was in the day’s work. So now he kept on toward the clutter of adobe huts there on the hill. Presently he was passing dark, empty shacks. Bandits long ago had driven the dwellers permanently away. Farther along a burst of laughter smote his ears, then dwindled away. A light shone through a door. He made for that point. Joash, from the darkness, made out the long room that was adjacent to the so- called dungeon. There were beds down upon the floor, and blankets; and a long table down the middle of the room, made of boards and wooden “horses.” And around the table was a gang of men gambling. Rather, only two were gambling. The others were standing, some of them well back, looking on. Another man straightened up, spraddle- legged. He was big and thick. Joash knew him for the Straddler. The men not engaged in the play regarded him deferen- tially. The Straddler pulled out a big silver watch and looked at it. “Hi,” he bawled in Mexican, ‘finish there now. It’s time to go over and ham- string the gringos.”’ “IT speak for Bud, the Ranger,” sang out one of the men. “And I for this scarecrow of rags that we have in the dungeon.” “‘He’s yours if he isn’t starved by the time we return.” So, thought Joash, they didn’t know yet that Jim had got free. ‘Come on!”’ snapped the Straddler to the two remaining players. “One more play,” begged one of the men. “I have everything he owns but his pistol. Let me win that.” The Straddler laughed at that and nodded. The two players flung down their guns. One of the men had a pile of stuff around him that he evidently had won—a knife, a watch, a hat. “Tf you win the gun,” said the Straddler, “‘you must give it back until after the raid. We can lick the gringos without guns, but 137 it’s more fun to shoot them and see them squirm.” Joash pushed in nearer, the better to see and hear. The Straddler had got around to the end of the table. One side was to the door. He stood looking down upon the two players. Joash saw the two men dealing and taking up cards, saw their guns lying there. Another odd impulse came to the old man. Why not step inside to give his mock warning to the Mexicans? To slip in so Close, to be among them before they knew it, would be a great joke on them. It would be told, whether he lived to tell it or not, up and down the border and would put the Straddler to shame. He knew well that any one of the bandits might shoot him down, but—something urged him on. He stepped inside. Every eye was intent upon the final play for the gamblers’ guns. He easy-footed it to the corner of the table, no more than four steps from the doorway. The Straddler became aware that some one had stepped to his side. He glanced down, and stood petrified. “Hello,” said Joash easily. The Straddler licked his lips and shot a glance to the door to see if others had slipped in on him. Other Mexicans were looking at Joash now, and one grunted in surprize. The old man slid his Panama across his head and grinned. ‘Pardon my intrusion, sefiors,”’ said he, “but I have come across the river to warn you.” ‘“‘Warn us?” roared the Straddler. “Of the gringo cavalry. In a moment you will hear the beat of hoofs and the firing of guns. You'd better run.” “Run!” bristled the bandit chieftain. “Why, you little wart——”’ He got no farther. His thought was drowned in a sudden rattle of racing hoofs and a crackle as of musketry. Joash listened curiously to this audible manifestation of his visioning. It was odd gunwork. Something of the oddness must have held the ears of the Mexicans, for every man was listening with a growing terror upon him. The shooting was ragged, about like that of American troopers getting tuned up. But, strangely, some of the shots were much louder than others—not like machine-gun work, but heavy, roaring. Go NOOK 1@)