Cowboy Short Stories, November 1939 — page 62: what you’re looking at

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

TERROR RIDES IN TRES PULGAS 63 “The devil,” hazarded Norcross, “being Crowley ?”’ “Nope,” contradicted the oldster. ‘Duke Crowley won't sell Laury a drop. But let’s get down to cases.” He shoved his cup aside and stuffed a load of cut-plug into a charred corncob. “This whole Tres Pulgas Basin is being combed clean of prime cattle by some crew of long-riders we can’t even put a finger on,” he resumed. ‘We've had _ several brushes with the damn wolves, killed two- three vinegaroons nobody recognized—but who in hell the boss lobo is, we don’t know.” “It wouldn’t be Duke Crowley,” inquired Norcross lazily, “or Tom Padway, would it? Old Moss Goodnight laughed till the tears ran down into his whiskers, ‘‘Hell’s hop-toads!” he sputtered. ‘That lard-barrel of a Crowley would skin you out of your eye teeth in a monte game, but Duke’s got his hands full acting as pects ees Mayor of Tres Pulgas. As for Padway— Tom’s meaner’n a cross-eyed scorpion and crookerder’n the hock of a cow, but there ain’t enough of him to be a hooter. Be- sides which, young feller, did I overlook telling you the ramrod of this pack of wolves is a woman!” And at Gil’s expres- sion of unbelief he added, ‘A she woman ridin’ a side-saddle!” Big Gil Norcross had heard of such a thing. But, if true in this case, it was the first time he had encountered it. His thoughts flew to Mary Randall as he had first seen her—coppery hair, smiling lips, and soft hazel eyes. Then he saw her as he had seen her last—flying off to the south- west on a racing palomino, and mounted on a side-saddle. He shook his shaggy head like a cornered bear. “Got any idea?” he asked, “where these hooters hide out?” “Not any,” grumbled old Moss. “There’s been a crew of birds with price tags on their hair up in Bullpine Meadows for sev- eral years, but them fellers ain’t never bothered us down here in the Basin.” “How would a gent get to Bullpine Meadows?” Gil inquired. : “Full of lead,’ snapped old Moss. “But if you’re plumb sot on it, you can go back to them two cottonwoods with the boulder between and on up over the ridge. That will fetch you down into a shallow draw where there’s a trail leadin’ off- to the southwest.” “The trail Mary Randall was riding!” shot through Gil’s mind. . “That trail,’ went on the oldster, ‘will fetch you fifteen mile up through the hills smack into Bullpine Meadows. But you won't know it—you’ll be cold meat.” IL plucked his hat off the floor and slid wearily to his feet. “I'll take me a gander up thataway,” he said. “You'll find your crowbait in the barn,” grumbled old Moss. “I'll rest my _ hick’ry leg. See you in hell!” When Gil stepped down from the ve- randa, he saw that the bunkhouse was dark. But a dim light shone from the open door- way of the barn. He crossed the moonlit yard warily, hand close to gun butt. Just outside the barn door and to one side, he hesitated and peered in through narrowed eyes. The light came from a smoking lan- tern hanging from a beam by a wire. Gil realized that once he stepped into that door- way, he would be a perfect target, from both inside and out. But danger or no danger, the rangy out- law hunter concluded he couldn’t stand there all night. Perhaps, after all, Pocock was on the leve:. Maybe he had left the light just for convenience, then hit the hay, Gil stepped swiftly through the doorway. Something that felt like a sledgehammer on a spree crashed against the side of his head. His brain reeled. Fire blazed behind his eyeballs. He fought to get his gun free, but his leaden fingers refused to close on the walnut grips. As he lurched around in falling, his glazing eyes caught a blurred glimpse of the malignant face of the giant Pocock, lying stretched on a beam above the doorway. His hairy hand gripped an axe handle, clubbed for another blow. Weird mgures were spinning in Gil’s tortured brain. But out of them all emerged two. One was Little Jeff McLeod. The other—a rounded girlish figure topped by high-piled coppery hair, and with a small, tense face that seemed all hazel eyes. A voice deep within whispered that no matter what the set-up was, little Mary Randall was riding on the brink of hell. Another thought piled on that one. Gil himself, and he only, could save Mary. Then his lights went out. He regained his senses in a swirl of pain. He was dimly conscious of a jolting sensa- tion that sent stabs of agony from his head to his toes. Then he found he was lashed crosswise of the saddle on a pony that was CoOnniclooo S EO