Cowboy Short Stories, November 1939 — page 63: what you’re looking at

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

64 COWBOY SHORT STORIES straining up a steep mountain trail. The spicy odor of cedar and fir was heavy in his nostrils. His thoughts flew to Mary Randall, won- dering if she was safe. Then he thought once again of Little Jeff McLeod, and the rage of impotence boiled in his veins. He wondered if he himself was to be killed with a slug in the back, as loyal Little Jeff had been. But his thoughts were curbed by the stopping of his horse. The rope was cut between his hands and feet and he was dumped head-first on hard ground. He rolled over and tried to sit up, but fell from dizziness. From where he lay he saw a blanket jerked from the mouth of the cave, letting out a flood of yellow light that played over the surly features of Grizzly Pocock towering nearby. Four men came darting from the cave. In a moment Gil found himself lying stretched inside, with everybody gazing down at him. He calmly surveyed the circle. One of the outlaws was a big buck- toothed renegade with a black patch where his left eye should have been. Another was a gangling beanpole of a man with a fixed crafty leer. Further away stood a sallow youngster with restless hands and bleary booze-reddened eyes. But it was the leader, called by the others “Cuchillo,” who caught Norcross’ attention. He was an undersized little weasel with merciless agate eyes, as bald as a doorknob. The left corner of his mouth was twisted in a permanent grin. When he spoke, it sounded like the scouring of a skillet with sand. He pointed toward the torn flesh and clotted blood on the side of the prisonet’s head and face. “You mighty near overplayed your hand, Grizzly,’ he rasped. “I want this polecat kept alive. Soon as we get back from mak- ing this raid on old Goodnight’s beef to- night, I aim to make this polecat write a letter to Santa Fe telling his boss every- thing’s keno. Once a week he can do that. That way, the cockeyed Association won't be sending a man down here every so often to be gut-shot like I done that chuckle- headed Jeff McLeod.” Gil Norcross felt hot blood go surging to his throbbing head. A picture of his murdered saddle-mate flitted across his mem- ory. And there, not ten feet distant, stood the wizened little rat who had planted the slug in Little Jeff’s back. Cold rage chilled him. His steely gray eyes stabbed like dag- get points at the agate eyes of the grinning little outlaw. “You dirty little yellow-bellied bush- whacker,” he said distinctly. “You're well named—‘Cuchillo’—the knife. you, if it’s the last job I do on earth!” The devil called ‘‘Cuchillo” bared shining yellow teeth in a savage snan. “You got good guts, lawman,” he rasped. “But I been killing your kind so long it ain’t even a chore.”” He swung around. ‘‘Pocock,’” he sneered. “Did you shove them beeves of Goodnight’s over toward Crazy Man Creek, like I said, where they’ll be easy to get at?” “Shore ‘nough, boss,’ growled Grizzly, ‘and drifted them this way.” “We got to get a move on,” rasped Cuchillo. He motioned to the others. “You there, Randall and Patch, tie that polecat up so he can’t wiggle. We got nobody to spare to stay and guard him. I'll be ready in five minutes. You be ready too. Move!” HE scrawny little leader ducked outside, followed by Pocock and the bearipole. “So-0-0!”" thought Gil. “The young booze-hound is Laury Randall—Mary’s kid brother.” He noticed the sallow youngster avoided his eyes. The two made fast the lashings on Gil’s ankles and wrists and stretched him out between opposite bunk supports till his long body was as taut as a fiddle string, then hurried out. A few minutes later came the dying rumble of flying hoofs. In half an hour Norcross was free. That was merely routine stuff for him. It had been routine ever since he nearly lost his life by being left tied in blistering Borax Sink, Nobody ever noticed anything different about the boots Norcross wore. But they were different. They were built to order with stiff, heavy horsehide collars three inches wide stitched inside the ankles. No matter how tightly his ankles were bound, he could free himself by gradually working his feet out of his boots. It was painful, but it worked. Once his feet were free, he found a sharp edge on a bunk rail and began sawing on his wrist lashings. He was puzzled to find that the hoggin’ strings had been tied so loosely they almost fell off. He took precious time to search the cave, but failed to find a gun of any kind. On the far side of the little meadow in front, he discovered a pole corral holding three GOMIGIOO I will kill S (©