THE ADAM CHASER
By B. M. Bower
Author of “Black Thunder,” “The Meadowlark Name,” Etc.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the September 7, 1925 issue of The Popular Magazine.
Treasures of the storied past, records of prehistoric settlements of the American Indian, lure a young archaeologist, Professor Abington, to the Sonora caves of Arizona where fate plays him a grim trick, and makes him arbiter of the destinies of living men.
CHAPTER I
A BAD HOMBRE
Halfway up a long cañon that cut a six-mile gash through ruggedmountains thinly pock-marked with prospect holes, the radiator capof John Abington’s car blew off with a pop like amateur home-brew.
For a matter of a minute, perhaps, that particular brand ofautomobile developed a lively hot-water geyser. Followed a briefperiod of steaming, and after that it stalled definitely and setsquare in the trail which ran through deep sandy gravel and rockrubble—a hot car and a sulky one, if you know what I mean.
Abington harried the starter with vicious jabs of his heel, thencrawled reluctantly out into the blistering wind which felt as if itwere driving down the sunlight with sharp needle points of heat thatstung and smarted the skin where they struck.
The canteens were buried deep under much camp paraphernalia, acircumstance which gave occasion for a few minutes of eloquentmonologue. Curiously, the driver’s vituperation was directed neitherat the car nor the wind nor the heat, but at an absent individualwhom he called “Shorty”—and at another named Pete.
Considerable luggage was shifted before the canteens were finallyexcavated from the floor of the tonneau; both canteens, because thefirst one was so completely empty that it made no sound whenAbington impatiently shook it.
He was standing beside the car, mechanically sloshing a pint or soof water in the second grimy, flat-bottomed canteen, when adust-covered roadster came coasting down the four-per-cent grade ofthe cañon half a mile or so away. He glanced at the approaching car,set the canteen in the sand and helped himself to a cigarette from asilver-trimmed leather case. Abington was leaning against the rearfender in the narrow bit of shade when the roadster came down uponhim, slowed with a squealing of dry brakes and stopped perforce. Inthe rocks and deep sand that bordered the road a caterpillar truckcould scarcely have driven around the stalled car.
“In trouble?” A perspiring tanned face leaned out, squinting aheadinto the sun through desert-wrinkled eyelids.
“None whatever,” Abington calmly replied, smiling to make the wordscheerful. “I’m waiting here for the car to cool off a bit. I hopeyou’re not in a hurry?”
The driver of the roadster slanted a quick glance at his companion,who slumped sidewise in the seat with his hat pulled low over hiseyes.
“Kinda. Got plenty of water?” This in a hopeful tone, which his nextsentence explained. “I’m kinda short, myself, but I’ll hit Minabefore long, so