Cowboy Short Stories, November 1939 — page 60: what you’re looking at

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

TERROR RIDES IN TRES PULGAS Booted feet were thudding on the plank walks. Men were yelling hoarsely. Gil leaped into the narrow opening between the cafe and the store next door, and from there faded into the blackness of an alley. There was no telling if his getaway had been seen. “Crowley! Crowley!” he kept muttering, then recalled where he had seen that name. It was in black letters on a galvanized sign he had noticed when he rode into town— “Crowley’s Brimstone Bar.” “That don’t make sense,” he thought as he ran. ‘“There ain’t no law in Tres Pulgas since Little Jeff was back-shot, and most likely Crowley wants it should stay that way. But if Crowley is the crow behind all this, he knows I ain’t no lawman come to clean up his town. But—” he crashed over an ash can, leaped to his feet and ran on—"if Crowley is the boss rustler in these parts, that would make sense.” HE dopey little telegraph agent was dozing at his desk when something woke him up with a start—Norcross’ gun muzzle in the ribs. “The name is Gil Norcross,” the big fel- low said distinctly. “Before I drill a circle of holes around your belly button, I want to know who you tipped off I was coming.” “I didn’t tell nobody!’’ quavered the cringing agent. | “It ain’t good for your soul to lie,” ad- vised Norcross, “not just before going to hell anyhow. I know you told somebody. My question is who? Quick!” The terrified agent dropped on his knees beside his desk and stuck both hands in the air. “If you promise not to kill me,” he blubbered, “I'll talk.” “She's a deal,” gritted Norcross. “Talk!” “I stole forty dollars one time,” blub- bered the agent, “ and I got found out. From then on I've had to show every wire, or go to the pen. I can’t go to the pen, mister. I’m a sick man. Id die!” “Who do you show the wires to?” de- manded Gil. “Tom Padway,” pleaded the agent. “It was from his bank I stole the forty dollars.” The tall terror to cattle thieves left the agent groveling on the floor and strode through the darkness to the feed stable where he had left his horse. He was set- thng his big Brazos saddle on Slumber- heels’ strong back when the little stableman came hobbling out of a stall leading a mare that made Norcross stop dead. 61 “I don’t wonder, cowboy,” chuckled the stableman. ‘“This here’s the finest piece of palomino horseflesh in the Basin. She’s a queen, and she is rode by a queen.” “I have found considerable knaves in this hell-hole,” said Norcross, “but nary a queen.” “You would,” affirmed the liveryman, “if you looked in the post office. Miss Mary Randall, she owns this mare.” He grabbed a comb and brush. “Miss Mary will be in right soon. Workin’ daytimes, she mostly does her ridin’ at night.” Gil rode out the back door of the stable and out of town by back ways, then struck south as he had been told by Goodnight. His thoughts were jumbled. Too many folks were getting bogged in this pie. He better learn what Moss Goodnight had to say. Tom Padway might or might not be hooked up with Crowley. Padway got cop- ies of all telegrams. Gil suddenly remem- bered that he had been grossly careless in one respect—he had failed to see if his letter had been steamed open. Mary Randall might be the whole show. The gent with the bum ear might have been a henchman of hers, not Crowley’s. The words he mumbted while dying could have been in delirium. The telegraph agent could deny he had said a word. Gil realized he hadn’t a shred of evidence that wouldn’t need the testimony of a dead man. When he judged he was nearing Big Coulee he looked back. Perhaps half a mile behind him, silhouetted for a moment on a ridge, a lone rider appeared, then dipped again into darkness. The big rustler hunter flicked Slumberheels with the spurs. When he reached the mouth of the coulee, he swung the big gelding in and ky cached him in a clump of red- ank. Then he went back to the mouth of the wash and hid in a rock pile, listening subconsciously to the sad night breeze whis- pering through the chaparral. At the sound of hoofbeats, his gun slid into his hand. The lone rider wheeled into the coulee mouth and passed within fifteen feet of Norcross’ hiding place at a long lope. When Gil saw who it was, he felt a prickly sensa- tion at the roots of his hair. It was a girl in a side-saddle, mounted on a tall palo- mino. It was too dark to see the girl's face. But the big Association man didn’t need to be told who she was. Quickly getting Slumberheels, Gil let the fleet gelding stretch out till he detected a CoOnniclooo® S EO