Pulp Fiction, 1955 · page 43 of 101
15 Western Short Stories — page 43: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# Page Analysis This is **story prose** from a Western pulp fiction narrative (page 43). The text depicts a frontier wagon train drama: after Boone defeats a man named Prescott in a fight, the group prepares to depart. Boone, now their guide, discovers through an Indian reconnaissance trick that Pawnee warriors are nearby. He sounds an alarm using a prearranged bobcat call, triggering a firefight that Boone participates in before returning to retrieve his red shirt—only to find it missing. The passage emphasizes frontier survival tactics and mounting tension as the wagon train faces potential attack.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
IT WAS A LASS-ROPE ALL RIGHT 43 It was out, and time for it. Men exchanged looks, unvoiced unease in every face. Too many were giving se- rious consideration to Boone’s words. Prescott lunged, aiming to take Boone unprepared, but though he whirled sudden as a striking rattler and kicked out like a mule, that didn’t work. Boone just stepped aside and chopped hard to the jaw with a left. He was sure of his ground now. When a man couldn’t answer, except by blows, you had him dead to rights. RESCOTT was big, quick as a scared rabbit, hard as the rocks the wagons jounced across, and as bare of scruples. But a man learned the tricks of survival in this country. It was a case of learn if you were to live, a case of all-out fight. Boone didn’t resort to some of the things which Prescott tried—with Jean Marie watching, he didn’t care to, nor was it necessary. It took a spell to chop Prescott down to size. The early sun came splashing across the horizon before it was finished. Prescott wasn’t a pretty sight, his eyes blazing out of a bleody face. He came unsteadily to his feet, and weaved to where his horse was picketed. He got a saddle on, and rode out of camp. No one tried to stop him. “We're well shut of him!” That was Annabelle’s father, and he voiced a popular opinion. “You take over to guide us, Boone.” His voice took on a tinge of anxiety. “Has he got us in a bad spot?” “Not so bad as it would have been, another two-three days,” Boone said. “By then it would have been tough.” “But what could be his purpose?” one woman wailed. “Why should he deliberately lead us to—to our de- struction?” “Might be that’s the answer. A train like this is big booty to Indians, and there are white renegades, well as ‘ wed” “You mean there’s a chance they'll try to wipe us out?” Jean Marie asked. “IT don’t reckon you’d have been in any danger—of that sort,” Boone said soberly. “But TV1l feel better when were ten days away from here. And the sconer we breakfast and get go- ing, the better.” Boone didn’t show much mark of the fracas he’d been through. His red shirt had a tear in the sleeve, which Jean Marie insisted on mending with needle and thread. Boone demurred, but he didn’t require much persuad- ing. Doing it brought her close, and it was a task to keep his mind on prob- lems which must be faced. “I’m glad you’re our guide, Boone,” she said, and skipped back to the wag- on. Boone took a cup of coffee as it was offered him and _ half-strangled on the hotness. He was wakeful the next night, and on watch along with other sentries as morning came close. The night was too silent, with nothing to see. Boone made use of an Indian trick. He shucked his red shirt and thrust a feather in his hair, crawled away from camp and had his look. It was a handy precauticn. He brushed so close to several half-nude warriors that they saw him and would have been suspicious but for his bare back. With Enowledge that they were there, he wormed back; with a sure sense of timing, he knew he didn’t dare wait till he was safe in his own lines to sound the alarm. He’d arranged with Annabelle’s and Jean Marie’s pa what the signal should be, the squall of a bobcat, and he gave it an angry sound, and heard stir of preparation. Apparently the Pawnees heard also, for all hell broke loose, but everyone was awake and ready, and guns made red lances on the dark. Boone emptied his gun, and reached the wagon where he’d left his shirt, draped across the tongue. It wasn’t there. Not that it mattered too much, for he was plenty busy. Daylight was coming, making good targets, which helped. The surprise attack hadn’t worked, and after that it didn’t last long. All at once it was over, the Pawnees scurrying for cover. Some were past all that. Boone found his red shirt, since it was bright and made a fine target. It had six ar- rows stuck through it, ruining it past any skill Jean Marie’s needle might possess. The arrows were embedded deep in Prescott, but despite the (cont'd on pg. 54) cCoOmiclbooks.c©