Fifteen Western Tales, January 1953 — page 87: what you’re looking at

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

not spoken a single word to Clint Farley. But Sam Fenton could find no joy in the _ task which faced him now. 7 The sheriff’s voice, cut. through the thick shell of his thoughts. “Fenton, you and Blaney and Seminole can take the north slope. Art Larson and Riley and me will take the other. Mind what I say—go easy. I liked Clint Farley once, and I’d rather take him in alive, but he’s on the wrong side. in this deal. him.” They started. They moved forward in a ragged skirmish line that would sweep the canyon clean from end to end. No chance for Farley to slip past that outspread line; no chance for him to evade discovery. Sam Fenton moved mechanically along the steep slope, a carbine in his hand. Below, a hun- dred feet or so, was Blaney. Above, an equal distance, was Ed Seminole. Creeping for- ward slowly, taking advantage of every bit of cover which lined the hillside, closing in on a desperate, dangerous man. Crossing gulleys torn by spring freshets, swinging around rocks, crouching to study the wooded slope ahead, ‘to listen for the chance sound which might betray the fugitive. Then, moving again.... Fenton shook his head. He and Clint Farley had been partners once, and now he was creeping in to slip a noose about Far- ley’s neck. A deputy sheriff, sworn to up- hold the law. And yet, before Farley had ever gone to trial, he had tried to mend the breach between them. He had gone to Far- ley, offering help—and Farley had told him curtly to go to hell! The sun beat down out of a sky that was like a brazen bowl. The rocks were hot beneath the big deputy’s hands as he moved forward, keeping in position in that slowly advancing line. Below, Blaney had been Don’t take no chances with swallowed up by the thick growth of the. hillside. He caught a glimpse of Seminole, sliding shadow-swift between clumps of scrub oak. A third of the big box canyons had been covered. He dropped into a gulley, circling a tumbled mass of rock where a great chunk of stone had once crashed from the wall of the cliff. And a voice spoke softly, close beside him. “Hold it, Fenton! Reach for the sky!” Not six feet away, in a bellow in the rocks, with a ten-foot high cut-bank at his back, squatted Farley. There was a sneer on Farley’s lips. In his left hand was a rifle, in his right a six-gun which hung level in line with big Sam Fenton’s chest. “Collecting some blood money, Fenton?” The deputy came erect. Standing there, right hand still gripping his carbine, he studied out of pitying eyes the man who had been his partner. The man had aged, changed; he was like a savage animal at bay. His hat was gone; one cheek was scratched; and his face was streaked with blood and dirt. His bloodshot eyes glared. “Clint,” said Fenton slowly. “You better drop that gun and come on back with me.” “Not in a million years!” rasped Clint Farley. “Go to the pen! For something I didn’t do—” And suddenly, standing there, the deputy was glad ‘that the thing had turned this way. He was glad that Farley had the drop on him, that positions were not reversed. He had not planned it so, but, for facing that desperate, driven man, Sam Fenton knew he did not want to be the one to take Clint Farley back to jail. Now the responsibility had been lifted from him. In the face of that levelled gun he was helpless. Yet there was duty— “Clint,” he pointed out. “You haven’t got a chance. This canyon’s full of men. They’ll get you, certain sure.” Farley grinned mirthlessly. they won't! the pen.” For a moment, Sam Fenton forgot the gun that was pointing at his breast. His mind flashed back to remembered facts in the case which had ended with Clint Far- ley’s conviction on a murder charge. Convinced of Farley’s guilt, the big dep- uty had been glad when a job in the lower county had kept him from the trial, but he was acquainted with the evidence which had gone to convict the man. Damning enough, in all truth, that evidence had been. Jess McCaulley, half-owner of the Cross L, had been found dead at the gate leading “Not alive, And it’s better than going to ‘in his ranch-house. His gun had been in hol- ster, so that it seemed that McCaulley must have been shot down in cold blood. Beneath the dead man’s hand the name “Farley” had been: spelled out in the soft dust of the road. _ Because of the enmity which had existed be- tween the two, and because Farley was the last man known to have seen McCaulley alive, the name written in the dust had been COmMiICLoOokks.cO