Fifteen Western Tales, January 1953 — page 86: what you’re looking at

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

~86 FIFTEEN WESTERN TALES theater rimmed with stone. No man willing- ly would flee into such a place. But for Farley, afoot, with a posse thundering close behind, there had been no choice. ~ Sheriff Leonard, lean and melancholy, with drooping sandy moustache, pointed out the obvious fact to the members of his posse. Standing by the Three S hoarse, dead with a bullet through the brain, the sheriff looked down at ground marked by various little signs which were like so many printed words. “Hoss broke its leg,” he drawled. “So ‘Clint piled up in that clump 0’ sagebrush yonder. Clint must have killed the hoss, and headed up Rawhide afoot. jolted some by the fall. stopped to get his hat.” The hat, a battered black sombrero, was half hidden by the brush. Sunlight gleamed on metal, and the sheriff stooped and picked a silver dollar from the dirt. He held it in his hand. “Clint won’t be needin’ this,” he mused, and put the dollar in his pocket. “He won’t need anything—after today,” said Jim Blaney slowly. The old sheriff’s glence caught momentar- ily on the lean, dark face of the big Cross L man. Jim Blaney and Jess McCaulley had been partners in the ownership of the Cross L spread. Clint Farley, hiding now some- where within the canyon, had been con- vinced and sentenced to life in the pen for the murder of Jess McCaulley. Blaney had been chief witness for the state at the trial. From Blaney, the sheriff’s gaze went slow- ly over the faces of those other men caught up in the hasty loop with which he had gath- ered his posse. Hugh Miller, proprietor of the livery stable in town, small, slightly built, known for courage. Anse Larson of the Box M, crabby, cantankerous, incor- ruptible. Larson’s lean-flanked son, Art. Ed Siminole, rider for the Cross L, who had ‘been’ another witness at Farley’s trial. Riley -Hatch, square-faced square-bodied bronco twister. And so at last the sheriff’s eves came to rest on the grim face of Sam Fen- ‘ton, his deputy. Parana then, the sheriff was remember- ing that Fenton and Clint Farley had once ‘been close friends. Perhaps he was won- dering how the deputy felt about this job of ‘hunting down a man who had been his part- ner, for his eyes dwelt long on Fenton’s face; but he turned at last to study the frowning ‘walls of the canyon. Sheriff Leonard, Musta been He never -even ranch together, “You gents all knew Clint Farley,” he said slowly. “You know, having gone this far, Clint’s likely to go all the way. He’s seme- where in the canyon and I aim to get him. ~ Ten to one Clint will elect to shoot it out.” He waited; no man spoke. They knew Clint Farley—all of them. They knew the recklessness of the man they trailed, the devil-may-care quality of his courage; and every man there knew that Farley would fight until the end and go out smiling, if it so suited him. ‘He heaved up the crick bed,” continued “which doesn’t mean a thing. He’s smart enough to quit the crick without a track -and he’s nervy enough to double back an’ steal] our horses for a get- away. We'll leave Anse with the horses. He can watch the opening in case Clint tries to double back. The rest of us will-go on in~ afoot. dark.”’ That was true enough, and — and there a head nodded at the sheriff's wisdom. On the sheer cliffs which rim Rawhide Canyon are seams by which a man willing to gamble his neck might reach the top. By daylight, this opportunity was denied the fugitive, for the trap would be long and slow, and would leave him exposed to rifle fire from any point within the canyon. But if Clint Farley could keep hidden until dark, or if he could hold the posse off. . We've got to round him up before AM FENTON, big shouldered, —raw- boned deputy, listened with half an ear to the careful last instructions of the sheriff. They would spread out in a line to sweep the canyon, three men to one side of the dry creek bed, three men to the other. They would move on slowly, keeping in touch when possible; they would watch for tracks . and then Sam Fenton’s thoughts strayed off, and the dry voice of the sheriff was no more than a blur. It was queer. Clint Farley was a con- victed murderer, and he, Sam Fenton, was a deputy sheriff tracking the escaped man down so that the state might exact full pay- ment for the crime. Yet once they had been — friends, and partners; they had owned a and the beginnings, of a brand. But three years of hard luck had left them broke, and other things had broken their friendship. There had been an ugly fist ight, and for two years or longer he had MICLOOOK CO in