Cowboy Short Stories, November 1939 — page 59: what you’re looking at

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

60 COWBOY SHORT STORIES the man with the mutilated ear. He whirled back. The friendliness was gone now from his gray eyes. “Why did you signal to that gun-dog who I am?” he asked flatly. The girl’s limpid eyes were panicky. Her face flushed and paled. Then her little pointed chin came wi But when she spoke, her red lips quivered. “Besides being impudent,” she said thin- ly, “you must be loco!” HE reached up above the window and released a catch. A wooden blind dropped in front of Gil’s nose with a bang. He stood there for a minute listening to the girl’s footsteps fading in the rear, then with a twisted grin on his haggard face he cat-footed to the door with his sinewy right hand hovering over the scarred gun- butt on his right thigh. The slit-eyed man had vanished. Gil knew there was no use searching for him— not now. He swung along the street and shouldered into a Chink cafe. Supper time had passed. The cafe was deserted. Gil went back and sat down with his broad back in a corner, facing the door. While he waited, he read his letter. Don’t take a chance on coming openly to the Leaning G, twelve miles due west of town. Ride south four miles, Swing west into Big Coulee and follow that till you pass the mouth of Crazy Man Creek and hit two big sycamores with a boulder be- tween. Then come four miles due north lo the spread. Keep your powder dry. MOSS GOODNIGHT A fat Chinaman with a face like a greasy full moon set down a bowl of soup and pattered back to the kitchen. Gil read the letter through carefully a second time, then tore it and the envelope into small squares and stirred them into the steaming soup. The Chink brought the rest of his supper. While he ate he thought, wondered too if he would ever finish that meal. Gil Norcross was a top-hand with the New Mexico Cattlemen’s Association. For reasons he never talked about, he hated all outlaws worse than scorpions on his shirt tail. A week ago a telegram had come to head- quarters in Santa Fe from Moss Goodnight urgently requesting a man. The entire Tres Pulgas Basin was being rapidly stripped of cattle by a band of thieves nobody could uncover. A secret meeting of the cattlemen had been held and this action decided upon. Goodnight went on to say that Jeff Mc- Leod, town marshal, had been murdered by the rustlers—shot in the back. That’s what made Norcross ask for the job. Jeff McLeod was the best friend Gil ever had. When Gil thought of Little Jeff, as loyal a saddle-mate as ever a man rode the river with, cold rage chilled his heart. Gil Norcross was detailed. Moss Good- night was telegraphed to that effect and in- structed to have a letter containing details waiting in the post office. ‘And here I am,” mused Notcross. ‘‘But instead of being under cover, I’m most likely hemmed in right now by a ring of gun-slicks. Somebody run a whizzer on me through that Vision of Delight in the post office. And where does she horn in?” He shook his massive head mournfully. “And she seemed so sweet!’ Then he got an idea. Once whoever was behind all this had learned that a man had been sent for, that the man coming was “Gil Norcross,” and that a letter would be waiting for him, it was only necessary to post a lookout at the post office to watch strangers calling for mail and get a signal from the girl when the right one blew in. And that informa- tion could have been received from but one source—a tip-off on the telegrams. Big Gil Norcross banged a silver dollar on the table and slid to his feet. The China- man was lighting his lamps. Gil was sur- prised to see that night had fallen. He stepped out into the darkness, then slid sidewise. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the glint of lamplight on a gun barrel in the black shadow beside the gnarled trunk of a cottonwood tree. In such a tight, Gil Norcross acted first and thought afterward. The spurt of flame from the tree trunk was a shade behind matching his own. He threw himself side- wise. A slug snarled past his cheek. When no second shot came, he darted for the tree. A man lay huddled in the dust. Norcross rolled him over and slewed him around to get his face in the light. It was the gun- slick with the mutilated ear. He had an- other mutilation now—a_ gaping hole through his neck. Men came plunging from doorways all along the dimly lit street. Remembering what he was here for, Norcross knew he must make a quick getaway. But the dying dry-gulcher was mumbling. Gil dropped on one knee and put an ear down to his lips. ‘He was chain lightnin’, Crowley!” mum- bled the gunny. Then he died. CoOnniclooo S (C@