Adventure Magazine Cover — page 95: what you’re looking at

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

Driftwood Fire up the heavy iron which was struggling to hold the ship in place; and straight as a feathered barb we darted through the darkness into the river harbor. There, with the iron on deep bottom, with the storm wind broken by the headland, and with the swift river-current butting against the shore-driven’ waves, we were Safe through the night, till a gray dawn broke and the storm died to a whisper. “That morning two boats full of armed men went ashore and I led them. We found the sodden ashes of a driftwood fire. It had been built on the wind-whipped peak of the headland, though all around were Shelters of boulder rock and caves in low ledges. When the men looked at the fire, they saw and understood what the head-man’s daughter and I had understood long hours since—that man Stevenson before darkness fell had seen our ship in the storm’s grasp, and had kindled the fire to guide us into harbor. ‘“‘He must have known, too, that his fire would surely bring the coast tribe to him. In the wet sand were moccasin prints of many warriors who had crept upon him during the night. There was no blood or signs of struggle. Clearly they had not killed him there, but had taken him away, perhaps that all their village might enjoy his death. His shoe-tracks leading back into the savage country were the last signs I have seen of Jim Stevenson—until this day.” Those last three words I added deliber- ately, and in English. Im the eyes of the other man there was a queer light. Tense, waiting for him to break, I met his level gaze. Right then I knew it is a lie that a man can read another’s thoughts through his eyes. If I could have seen beneath his paint, perhaps his features would have settled my raging doubt. But his eyes be- trayed less than nothing. Some time after I finished, the chief pushed his fire-sticks toward the center, motioned to a bed of fresh spruce boughs 85 for me, and lay down on his own bed, wrapped in a wolf-skin rug. I could not hold myself from a last stab, as I spread the blanket. “Jim Stevenson, Theresa Jodrell is in Nome, unmarried.” That settled it for me. I dozed off to sleep half-amused with my fanciful imag- ination. ada IT MUST have been two weeks | later—for we were across the moun- tains and half-way to the first cde pei ohen Paul, one of the Crees, came into my tent one evening. As usual when he was excited, he spoke so quickly in garbled French and Cree that I caught only the general drift. I gathered that one of our pack-dogs which we secured from the Hare tribe had run off into the woods after feeding-time. Its pack had not been opened since we left the teepee village, until Paul opened it to distribute the load with the other dogs. We assumed it contained caribou Jjerkie, of which we had bought a good deal from the chief. “But here, look!’ concluded Paul. ‘Look, m’sieur! Look at this!” I was gazing at a robe, or rather a cape, all of fox-pelts. It was made of snowy- white Arctic skins and was trimmed with choicest black fox; but richest of all were the two beautifully matched silvers which criss-crossed in front. It was a king’s ran- som, that cape, or a queen’s despair. The gorgeousness of it tied my tongue. And I saw, at a second look, that it was made for a woman. Paul was breaking out again, and thrust- ing something else under my nose. “But that, it is not all! Look, look here!” It was a revolver, an old thing speckled with rust, but unmistakable. “What the !? Paul spluttered. “Smoke of smokes, m’sieur! I do not un- derstand.” “But I do!” said I, after a pause. DOOLK 1 @)