Adventure Magazine Cover, March 20, 1925 — page 194: what you’re looking at

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

176 He fumbled in his pocket and felt the small metal box. Strange that it should be Joe Moon who was depending on him like this. Strange that it should be left to him to save Joe Moon by lighting a fire. Strange that it should be foz him to help the man who had robbed him, ruined him. “Light the fire, then! Light the fire!”’ Joe Moon spat out the words between chatter- ing teeth, and great shudders coursed through his body. “Hurry! Hurry! ——, man, we’ll both freeze to death.” Munroe’s fingers touched the box again. So small it was. Just a tiny metal box. But so important. Matches meant life. Joe Moon had none. It was in Munroe’s keeping whether or not the fire was lighted. Into Joe Moon’s face had crept a curious expression of bewilderment. He Jicked his lips, nervously. Was the factor mad? Had the struggle with the blizzard affected his mind, that he should hesitate to light the fire? It was unthnikable. “What are you waiting for?” he asked, getting up unsteadily from the bunk. “Light the fire, you fool! Light it! I’m freezing. I fell in the river, I tell you; know what that means. Hurry!” Munroe got to his feet and grasped the rifle more tightly. “Tf I light the fire will you promise to get out of the fur country? You know what you’ve done to our trade with your whisky business. Will you get out? Will you turn your furs over to me and go away from here?” Understanding dawned upon Joe Moon. “You fool!’ he gasped. “Try to bar- gain pie ie F) Without warning, he plunged at Munroe. So sudden was the attack that the factor did not have time to raise the rifle before Joe Moon was upon him, a wild light in his eyes, a look of desperation upon his haggard, unshaven countenance. Munroe ducked instinctively as the trader’s great fist swung for his face. The blow was weak and slow, and Munroe regained his coolness, for he realized that Joe Moon was weakened from exhaustion and cold. He struggled to raise the rifle, but the trader’s great body was crushed against him, so he quickly dropped the gun and struck viciously for Joe Moon’s face. He could hear a savage grunt as the blow landed and then Joe Moon lashed out with Adventure flailing arms and Munroe felt a fist crash against his cheek and he was borne heavily to the floor. The blow was of no account, but the trader was heavy and Munroe wriggled quickly to get away from him, landing a sharp blow to Joe Moon’s stomach as he did so. He heard a sharp smack, and a groan as the trader swung at him blindly and missed, his fist striking the floor. They had tumbled clear of the rifle, and each thought of it at the same moment and . reached desperately for it. Munroe’s finger’s were closing ov_r the stock when his arm was suddenly swept aside and he saw Joe Moon’s great hand above the gun. He gritted his teeth and jabbed at the trader’s throat, and Joe Moon gasped in pain a his hand fell impotently above the rifle. They fought sluggishly, for both were tired and cold, but Moon fought with little strength, little else than the desperate hope of a beaten man. They rolled over and over upon the floor, against the wall, against the stove, and Munroe kicked the rifle out of reach. He dealt Joe Moon a smashing blow on the mouth, and then his opponent’s cold fingers somehow found his throat and clung there like grim death. Munroe lashed out viciously to rid himself of that choking grasp, while Joe Moon, his eyes closed, his breath coming in tearing sobs, clung to him with all his dying strength. Munroe knew that one more blow would finish him and he struck upward, fiercely, with every flagging energy, and he felt a savage joy as his fist crashed full against Joe Moon’s jaw and the clutching fingers loosened, and he wrenched himself away. Swiftly he sprawled out over the floor and grabbed the rifle, but there was little need for it. Joe Moon was beaten. THE trader lay weakly on the floor, his face bleeding, his huge frame in- ert. As Munroe got unsteadily to his feet and covered him with the gun he mumbled futile curses and then, opening his eyes, saw the rifle and terror leaped into his face. “Don’t shoot—don’t shoot,” he whisp- ered hoarsely. “I’m licked. Tl do any- thing you want.” “You'll leave the fur country?” “T can’t,” gasped Joe Moon. “T can’t CORnNICLOe (C©