Adventure Magazine Cover — page 129: what you’re looking at

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

Go-Fever They counted sixty warriors, advancing in little groups of from three to five. There had been no yelling, no sound that came to the watchers in the spinifex. There may have been no warning but, when the nearest of the blacks were some twenty yards from the cave and perceptibly slowing up, each group apparently content to give another the honor of being the first to enter —by this time they could have had little doubt as’ to the occupancy of the cavern, the number and color of those withn—a white man appeared, yawning and stretch- ing. Then came the first yell from the blacks as the man jumped back before a flight of spears hurled from throwing-sticks, some of them entering the cavern itself. The answer was rifle-fire. Cole and Reynolds could hear the dull reports, like some one beating a carpet. The blacks scattered and fell prone on the sand, crawling away for cover, none apparently hurt. It looked as if the volley had been given for warning. The odds were twelve to one but the whites, with their weapons of which the tribesmen were evidently supremely afraid, held a real advantage, at least for the pres- ent. They could make a sally whenever they wanted to without much risk. The spears and boomerangs were short ranged. With repeating rifles the blacks could be massacred by good shooting. The Myalls—scattered as they were— began calling to each other. Having once hugged the sand they were afraid to re- commence an attack or leap up and make themselves a running target. Once more a man came to the cave mouth—this time with a riflegcarried across the hollow of his arm—and called to them. It was too far to distinguish anything of what he said, though sounds seemed to magnify and carry far across the sand, but it was evidently a peace palaver. The fear inspired by the rifles was the best argument, according to Reynolds and it proved effective. First three tribesmen slowly neared the cavern. Others joined them. Four of the whites appeared. Cole imagined Alec Brown staying inside, not trusted, very likely in such an emergency. But the palaver went on and after a while a man made a signal to the women and they came up. Some of the tribe went inside the cave. Friendship seemed established, barring treachery. 127 “They are wise birds, all right, the ones Sievers took into partnership,” said Rey- nolds. “They could stand off the blacks here all right, chase ’em away but, when they started to go out through the spinifex with the gold, spears ’ud be as good as rifles —better. “But they’ve cooked our goose, making friends. We can’t tackle that bunch. They’d spot us coming before we were out of the And the last of the water’s in that ant dope for Petrie.” “Let’s give it to him, anyway. He must be wondering what’s up.” Cole spoke thickly and both of them, as they went back to where Petrie lay, walked like men who have seen a forlorn hope crumbled before it could be tried. The desert suddenly laid a heavy hand upon them. Both had a brief vision of whitening skeletons. The game was up. Morbora dug up the canteen, smelled, tasted and pronounced the infusion ready. Cole had carried his tin cup out to the mine that morning that seemed so long away, and Morbora swiftly plaited grass blades to make a sieve through which they filtered the bitter stuff, without much faith in it. It looked as if Petrie was the best off after all. Unless he was rallied he would prob- ably stay in coma until the last of his strength and life oozed out of him. It tasted like strong vinegar and it smelled curiously like vanilla. It stung their lips and parched inner membranes. Once in the stomach it set up an intense warmth. They all took some, but. Petrie’s dose was a large one, measured by Morbora. ‘This time one more day, you take three time, you feel fine along your belly,” he announced. ‘One more day you all right.” And it was Morbora who gave them another little ray of light. ‘‘Those malle—-men—no good. Too much ¢algoro. Suppose white fella no look smart all time I think maybe they vooly pretty soon. TZalgero men too much smart aJl time. Not very long, I think, white fella, black fella, along that place have borboree.” The day dragged on to sundown with the sky flaming orange and crimson. The wind sprang up again, shifting the grains of sand, rattling the spmifex. By sunset their thirst was almost unendurable, but Petrie was undoubtedly better. “It’s stopped the dysentery, chaps,’ he cComiclbool C©