Western Story Magazine, May 12, 1934 — page 57: what you’re looking at

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

Cowboy Samson “Have you ever,’ Lafe Hunt asked with great emphasis, “counted up the ropes he’s spoiled, and the brones he’s wore to the bone, and the pitchfork handles you’ve had to buy since he came here? I bet it’d ‘tote up to a right smart sum. And the bunk-house door is hangin’ by one hinge because he opened it quick the other day. And three of the bunks has got busted slats because he sat on ’em.’ “And what’s so new about that? Hasn’t it been going on ever since he hit this place? He’s not a bad kid. He just hasn’t learned yet to handle all that muscle and size he’s got.” “Well, it sure gets your goat when you have to live with it right along, was Hunt’s reply. “Besides—well, I don’t hardly like to say this.” Old Schraber looked sharply around at him. “What in the world do you mean by that?” “Well—well, boss, I just some way can’t quite trust that feller.” The small, dried-up rancher planted himself before the tall cow- puncher. “Spit it out!” “ commanded. “We-ell,” Lafe Hunt still hesi- tated, “I ain’t really got anything definite to go on, but you know that it is queer about the way you been losin’ your stuff this year. herd has been kinda thinned all over, slow and easylike; and who but some man on this ranch, or ridin’ the range for you, could get away with that? And those weaners that was lifted right out of the foothill pas- ture, with us boys sleepin’ only half a mile away. No thief that come in from outside could figure things so close. Well, you can see what I mean. Somebody on the Crosstree is playin’ double.” “Don’t you suppose,” Schraber, snapped “T’ve known that all Your - 55 along? And you're suggesting that Bascom Parr is the man? Stuff and nonsense! Balderdash! Tommy- rot!” “But it’s since he came here that things begun goin’ real bad——” “Call him in, I told you!” Lafe Hunt stepped to the door, the broad wings of his chaps flop- ping as he walked, giving an added swagger to his gait. “Hey, there, Parr!” he yelled. “Come in here! The boss wants 39 you. BROAD — shadow moved across the doorsill in the August sunlight. Then the opening was filled, both as to height and width, and a gentle voice asked: “You wanta see me, boss?” Six feet above the floor, mild blue eyes looked down at the rancher. The face of Bascom Parr was fair and round. Curly, straw-colored hair rioted above a smooth forehead, * and a sensitive mouth and square chin completed the face. He looked, thought old Schraber to himself, about as much like a vil- Jain as a cherub on a pink cloud. But the rancher was troubled, and this small irritation; piled upon all the rest, was just that much too much. Yes, and Hunt seemed to mean what he said, and he was the only man on the place capable of carrying on in the owner’s absence. Still, Schraber wanted to dodge the issue if possible, so he inquired tartly: “What’s this I hear about your breaking up the bunk house?” Bascom looked reproachfully at Hunt, and stubbed his boot toe on the threshold as he moved into the room. “TI didn’t go to do it, boss. The slats on them buvks.-ain’t..murh)...