10 Short Novels Magazine — page 74: what you’re looking at

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

Wan a9 PhS pt UY eA se Re ee ae : hi ann ae" vA gel sy : / ' ; { . ) 8a, i} oa “‘ f ‘ oe ie ‘Soy 7 . i EE — ovels Magazi ve ort Nov oi et . . < “2. ; “on aie en en ~~ oT CHAPTER II NECKTIE PARTY UFF put up his hands without being told. | Saying nothing, the four stalked grimly forward. Three were bandy- legged cowhands with nothing unusual about their appearance. The fourth, their leader, came to a stiff-legged plant before Ruff. The fellow was tall, a bit dog-faced. He wore a green silk shirt and a lemon-hued silk necker- chief. The band on his black hat was lemon silk. The man rifled Ruff’s clothes in search of weapons, eyed Ruff’s empty holster, then looked at the buckskin. “Musta lost his gun when the bronc throwed him,” he growled. “Sure, that’s what happened. He sneaked away from the dang girl’s ranch carryin’ a bridle an’ caught this stray bronc. He couldn’t ride the cayuse bareback.” “Couldn’t ride—”’ Ruff choked off his snort. He had discovered the Boxed-Y brand worked with silver rivets into the dog-faced man’s leather chaps. He began to understand. These were Boxed-Y riders. The dog-faced man must be Silky Ed Crowder, the outfit foreman. Ruff flicked a glance across the sage and pifion-carpeted brakes, saw no trace of the girl and the giant. They must have seen these men. “What kind of a hoorah is this?” he demanded. Silky Ed Crowder ignored the ques- tion, jerked an order at his three men. “Tie the little squirt up!” Ruff swore explosively, backed away. A lasso rope looped toward him. He failed to duck the noose and was yanked off his feet. The three punchers swarmed atop him, tossed half-hitches over his ankles and wrists and yanked them tight. Silky Ed Crowder came over to glower down at him. “Figure you’re one of Miss Dawn Lorde’s Broken-Stirrup . hands,” he gerunted. “We’re gonna find where you’re holdin’ old Zeke McCann. And if you’ve learned where the Devil’s Ear is, we’re gonna make you tell us that, too. First —how’d you get away from the Broken- Stirrup ?”’ “T’ll be damned!” Ruff gulped. “This business is gettin’ crazier every minute. An’ you sure got me wrong. I don’t—” _Silky Ed Crowder tossed his head at the buckskin. “Make a surcingle around that bronc with a rope. Tie the other end of the rope to this runt’s feet. We'll make him think crazy business when he’s dragged through a few cactus beds.” nay = 7 Ruff reared to a sitting position, his homely face shocked. “Hey—you ain’t gonna do that to me? I’m just a ranny — siftin’ through on the scout for a job. I don’t know nothin’ about no Zeke Mc- Cann or Devil’s Ear or anythin’ else!” “You don’t, eh?” Silky Ed Crowder showed coffee-colored teeth in an ugly leer. “In that case, you’re just outa luck, because we think you do. You’ll be ready to beller the truth when you’re full of cactus stickers. Did you leave the Broken- | Stirrup alone?” Ruff lunged against the ropes. “What you’re gonna do to me ain’t human. I tell you, I don’t work for no Broken-Stirrup outfit.” “Our milk of human kindness has _ plumb curdled,” said Silky Ed Crowder. “Havin’ the Broken-Stirrup salivate two of our rannies soured it a-plenty. That, an’ grabbin’ old Zeke McCann to find out where the Devil’s Ear is. We’ve had the Broken-Stirrup watched close for a week hopin’ to get our hands on one of their waddies.” “T tell you—’” “Throw a surcingle around that buck- skin’s barrel!” ordered Crowder. Ruff rolled his eyes in the direction of the waterhole, where he had left Dawn Lorde and the giant Titanic Harrison. If they were looking on, there was no sign of it. : | Doubling backward like a contortion- ist, Ruff found his spurred boot heels with numbing fingers. “Hey—lemme show you something!” He made his voice terrified. © Silky Ed Crowder came over, bent down, said, “Well, what—” Ruff reached up both hands—mazgically freed of ropes—and gripped Silky Ed Crowder’s throat. He jerked the man sprawling atop him, seized the fellow’s guns, pointed them at the others. “High like a house!” he snarled. Up went their hands. Ruff knocked Silky Ed Crowder away, then twisted his spurs so the man could see them. The lower edge of each spur tine, between rowel and heel-band, was ground to a razor edge, “Got dragged with a foot hung in a stirrup one time,” he said harshly. “Since, I’ve kept my spurs sharpened like that so I could cut myself loose if it ever happened again. Now—’” He let it trail off. Hoof-hammering sound was reaching his ears. UFF fanned his captured sixes at the four. “Unbuckle your belts!” he rapped. They obeyed, snarling, reluctant. And hardly was the last belt and holster on : ; —— <2 es os. en De