10 Short Novels Magazine — page 72: what you’re looking at

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

: 10 fee te Ten Short Novels lead biggest men Ruff had ever seen. His dusty, faded clothes fitted him like skin on an elephant. His keg of a face was dourly expressionless, his small eyes alert and aglitter. His left hand held a single- action Colt. “T’ll froggy you!” Ruff gritted. “What's the idea?” “The idea is that I got a cryin’ need for your cayuse, peewee,” rumbled the giant. “Not wantin’ an argument, figured I’d just step on your spine an’ peel your ironware. C’mon outa there!” Ruff grimaced rage like a wet, mad bulldog. Under the turbid water his fin- gers curled, scooping up fistfuls of mud. “You’re gonna freeze to my buckskin, eh? Plain hoss rustler!” “You got a crust, runt!” The giant jutted his Colt forward a couple of inches. “I oughta salivate you. But Ill tie you across the saddle an’ take you to the sheriff. The law’ll handle you—and your pards, too. The sheriff o’ this county ain’t finicky. He’ll work on you until you tell where you’re holdin’ old Zeke Mc- Cann.” Ruff blinked, blew muddy water off his lips. “I don’t know you. I’m just a ranny siftin’ through. Name’s Oscar Ruff—Big Seat Ruff. Reckon you’re makin’ a mis- e? “Big Plenty Ruff ain’t rough enough,” chuckled the giant. “You tryin’ to tell me ee, don’t work for Stan Yonkel’s Boxed- “Never heard of the spread.” “I ain’t seen you among the Boxed-Y hands, at that.” The giant worked his huge shoulders. “Well, I ain’t takin’ chances. You’d lie, anyhow. Looks like you jaspers will do anythin’ to get hold o’ that Devil’s Ear.” “Devil’s Ear—what’s that?” “You’ll find out when I get you to the sheriff. Quit lallygaggin’! Get outa that mudhole!”’ : “T ain’t no Boxed-Y hand. Look at the brand on my cayuse.” “That don’t prove nothin’. You’re prob- ably a gun-slinger Stan Yonkel’s fore- man, Silky Ed Crowder, brought in from somewhere.” Then the giant did what Ruff had hoped for—he looked at the buckskin. “Nope. Ain’t branded Boxed-Y, but that don’t—” Ruff threw both fistfuls of mud. The stuff splattered the giant’s face, blinding him. Before the man recovered Ruff was out of the water and had kicked his gun arm. The .45 flipped upward without ex- ploding. Ruff leaped, trying to catch it. But the giant managed to lash out a foot instinetively and trip him. Snarling, the fellow leaped. Twisting onto his back, Ruff drove both high-heeled boots into the giant’s middle. The man lost air out of his lungs with a gusty roar. They tangled in a gouging, mauling pile. “You little snort!” labored the big man. “You sure raise a stew for your size!” Muddy water worked down out of Ruff’s bristling hair into his eyes. He tried to rub it out, saw a fist coming —and the world exploded. UFF did not lose consciousness. But for several seconds his arms and legs were limp as worn hackamore ropes. When he was able to see, the giant was backing away, blowing on his huge right fist. The fellow stooped, got his 45. “You crawl me again an’ [’ll do worse’n bump your jaw!” he promised. “Boxed-Y hand or not, you’re gonna ride ee me to the sheriff—tied hand an’ 00 re Ruff glowered. “That buckskin won’t carry double.” “We'll break ’im to carry double, or my name ain’t Titanic Harrison!” rumbled the huge man. He sidled toward the buckskin. The bronco spooked and retreated, swinging front hoofs high to clear dragging reins. “Whoa, you yallerhammer!” soothed the big man, and tried again. Once more the buckskin leaped away. Titanic Harrison pointed his six-gun at Ruff. “Y ou catch the crockhead! He’s scairt of me.’ Ruff got to his feet with alacrity. “Don’t try to ride ’im off!”’ warned the giant. “You'll sure be pickin’ lead outa yourself if you do!” Advancing on the buckskin, Ruff came within reach of the reins without much trouble. He lunged, got them, gave them a yank. The brone reared—and for a moment Ruff had the saddled barrel of the animal between himself and the man with the gun. “Keep away from the Winchester!” barked the giant. The man could see the Winchester under the other stirrup, so Ruff had no fear of his shooting. Some seconds longer he roughhoused the buckskin. Then he led the snorting, blowing horse back to the big man. “This brone is mean,” he puffed. “He’s gonna pitch when you fork ’im.” - Titanic Harrison took the reins. “I’ll fog that outa ’im! You keep back. There ain’t no brone I can’t ride, even if you did spook this’n up on purpose.” CORNICLOOKS CO} |