Cowboy Short Stories, November 1939 — page 64: what you’re looking at

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

TERROR RIDES IN TRES PULGAS 65 mustangs. Expertly fashioning a hackamore from a piece of the rope he had been tied with, he mounted bareback on a stocky bay gelding and shot through the cut leading toward the northeast, where lay Big Coulee and Crazy Man. He tode like a maniac for Big Coulee, hurling the stout bay recklessly down out of the dark foothills. Two images kept flit- ting across his mind—the freckled face of Little Jeff McLeod, and the merciless eyes of the devil called ‘“‘Cuchillo,” the fiend who had boasted of having shot Little Jeff in the back. The idea of riding to the Leaning G for help never even occurred to the racing out- law hunter. One thought alone boiled in his aching head now—to get his steely fin- gers on Cuchillo’s scrawny throat. He had no gun, not even a saddle. But as he spooked the bay he planned. 2 He should strike big Coulee just about the time the rustled herd emerged from the dry bed of the Crazy Man. He had a hunch Cuchillo would be bringing up the drag— staying back where trouble would be most likely to occur. And that’s exactly the way it was. Gil was charging down the south slope of Big Coulee when he saw the leaders of a herd of big steers come stringing down the north slope. A human beanpole was riding nt. Gil struck him like an avalanche, horse and all. The hooter went sprawling from his saddle, his head striking a rock with a dull thump! His six-gun flew from his hol- ster and exploded when it struck. Norcross pounced on it and hair-pinned into the sad- dle of Beanpole’s buckskin. The two riders on the right flank swerved and went spurring up the slope toward a pinon thicket, firing over their shoulders as they rode. The lone rider on the left flank cut straight through the herd and dashed up the slope after them, his carbine crackling. But, to his astonishment, Gil saw clearly by the direction of the car- bine flame that the lone rider was firing at his companions! And he knocked them both from their saddles. Then he himself pitched over his horse's head. Gil whirled. The rider who had been bringing up the drag whipped around the edge of the herd in a dark blur that spat lead. A slug burned past Norcross’s ribs. Another nicked an ear. His own six-gun roared. The outlaw leader grabbed wildly for the saddle horn, missed it, and parted company with his mount. Never, so long as he lived, would Gil Norcross forget the sight of that unhorsed figure hurtling through the moonlight, to land with a sick- ening crunch in a pile of stones. Gil turned his head and covered his eyes with his hand. His throat felt as if someone had shrunk a rawhide band around it. That hurtling figure was clothed in a woman’s riding habit. Gil couldn’t clamp his hand tight enough to shut out the vision that was seething in his brain—a vision of a slim girl with gleaming coppery hair and eyes like still pools beneath motionless willows. The moan that came welling through his clenched teeth helped to cover the pounding of ap- proaching hoofbeats. | Gil jerked his hand away. He was sur- rounded by breathless riders on_ horses flecked with foam. He saw old Moss Good- night drop clumsily from the saddle beside the crumpled figure in the rockpile, then straighten as though he’d been stung by a yellow-jacket. “Tl be a hick’ry-legged ol’ tumblebug!” exploded the oldster. ““Lookee here!” Gil was closest, and though his legs felt like rubber he was the first to reach the limp body old Moss had turned face up. “Cuchillo!”” he gasped. “Who?” snorted old Moss. “Cuchillo!’” repeated Gil. ‘“Boss lobo of the Bullpine Meadows pack of curly wolves.” “Cuchillo—my grandmother!” snorted old Moss derisively. ‘““That’s Tom Padway!”’ IL felt a tiny hand work its way into his. He glanced down. ‘The limpid eyes of Mary Randall were pools of veiled light. A goggle-eyed fat man waddled up be- side old Moss. “When Mary come to me,” he muttered, ‘‘and spilled the frijoles, just before she and I rode out to your place to- night, Moss, I just couldn’t beliéve Padway had been pulling the wool over my eyes for twenty years.’ He stooped and peered down into Padway’s bruised face. ‘That’s Tom Padway,” he muttered. “But sure as my moniker’s ‘Duke Crowley’ I'll newer believe Maty’s tiny fingers tightened round one of Gil’s. ‘‘Padway forced me to point you out, Gil,’’ she said, with a catch in her voice, “by threatening to have Laury hung for the murder of Jeff McLeod. Then, after I'd done it, I knew I couldn’t do such a GOMIGIOO S Go