Fifteen Western Tales, January 1953 — page 49: what you’re looking at

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

NEVER SELL YOUR SADDLE! 49 tility. He no longer tried to hit back. Rais- ing his arms, he sought to bury his face in them for protection but Valverde smashed them aside and hit Bedford flush on the mouth. He fell back, moaning with hurt. Then Valverde smashed him again. Now Bedford’s face was just raw, bleeding flesh. Another of Valverde’s blows struck him and he went sprawling. He was not unconscious but he Jay where he had fallen, face buried against the earth. Duke Bedford had quit. Valverde stood there, breathing hard, sweat dripping off his chin. The mask had slipped from his emotions and now his face ‘was a contorted grimace of pure and utter ferality. “Don’t ever let me lay eyes on you again, Duke,” said Valverde, “because if I do, I’m killing you! ...” HE sad and bitter part of it for Clinton was that Valverde still rode at night. Clinton was tempted several times to tell Valverde of the warning that had been de- livered by Fred Aderhold, but then Clinton figured that Valverde knew what it was all about, and he was just simply taking a cal- culated risk. Besides, Clinton thought, it was none of his business. Valverde had never once offered an explanation of his where- ‘abouts after dark and so Clinton let the matter lie. But he felt ill at ease and ap- prehensive about it. This night Ernie Clinton awoke with the sound of a running horse beating in his ears. He sat upright in his bunk, his heart starting to pound hard, ears straining as he listened to the thrum of the hoofs drawing nearer. _ There seemed to be a sense of urgency and merciless haste in the pounding run of the horse and a thousand wild, frantic fears flashed through Clinton’s mind. Then he was out of bed and pulling on his trousers and his boots. The horse came to a halt now and there was only the sound of its labored breathing just outside the door. Clinton opened the portal and looked out. A full moon was riding high and Clinton in- stantly discerned the slumped figure on the ground. “Valverde!” Clinton cried. The sound strangled in his throat. “Valverde!” The man’s head lifted as Clinton reached him. He was trying to struggle to his feet and Clinton reaching down, grabbed him un- der the armpits, and experienced the sicken- ing feel of blood-soaked cloth under his fingers. Valverde could not help himself to any extent. Clinton dragged the man inside and boosted him up on his bunk. Then Clinton lighted the lantern. In its feeble light, Val- verde’s face looked drawn and gray. LINTON stood there, staring down at Valverde. Some of the smoke from the lantern must have got into his eyes for they began to sting. Valverde lay quietly, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling. The blood from the wound in his back was al- ready soaking the blankets. “What happened, Valverde?” asked Clin- ton. A spasm ripped a small moan out of Val- verde’s clenched teeth. Then he seemed to relax. “That damn Bedford,” he muttered. ‘Was it Duke who shot you?” asked Clin- ton. ~“Duke’s skipped the country,” said Val- verde, eyes still closed, “but before he left, he sold us out. Aderhold and Partridge and I don’t know how many others were there waiting for us. They strung five of us up, son. I was the only one who got away.” His eyes opened now and fixed on Clinton. “T had to get away.” “You’re safe now, Valverde.” Valverde’s mouth curved briefly in a gen- tle smile. It was the first time Clinton had ever seen anything like this on the man’s face. Then the smile died and a look of anxiety came into Valverde’s eyes. ‘They'll be here after me,” he said, reach- ing up a hand and digging the fingers into Clinton’s arm. “You’ve got to run for it, son.”’ . “T can’t leave you, Valverde.” ‘Don’t start anything like that, son,” Valverde said in his old, hard way. “Ader- hold and his friends are in a hanging mood tenight. They’re out to put an end to hide- rustling for good. They find you here with me, they’ll string you up.” “But I’m clean, Valverde. You know I never was in it!” “Try telling that to Aderhold,” said Val- verde. His Singers dug with a fierce urgency into Clinton’s flesh. ‘Look, son. I know Duke Bedford and Ill bet anything that when he sold us out he told Aderhold you were one of us. That’s why I ran for it. I cConiiclboooks.c© inn