Fifteen Western Tales, January 1953 — page 90: what you’re looking at

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

90 FIFTEEN WESTERN TALES he stood, picked up his rifle. Clint Farley watched him with puzzled eyes. The deputy thrust the rifle barrel between two rocks and glanced at Farley. “This ain’t accordin’ to Hoyle,” tered. how.” A dead shot with rifle or revolver, he squinted along the sights. Seminole’s high- he mut- “But I never did like Seminole, no- crowned white Stetson appeared above the - boulder as the Cross L man scanned the ter- ritory before him. Slowly Fenton tightened the pressure on the trigger. The rifle barked. The white Stetson leaped in a little arc, as though jerked by a string. Clint Farley’s face was a study in amaze- ment as the deputy flipped a fresh shell into | the chamber. Seminole had dropped from sight behind the boulder. Unfortunately for the puncher, the boulder he had selected was not quite large enough to offer complete pro- tection. One boot projected. Again Sam Fenton fired. The boot twitched slightly, disappeared from view. Then, a grim smile curving his lips, the big deputy emptied the magazine in a hail of lead which spattered above the stone sheltering the hapless Seminole. The rock offered protection of a sort. Nothing more. No chance for Seminole to return the fire | without exposing himself to that deadly fusillade. Lead slugs flattened against the rock, kicked up dust along its edges, plucked at bits of clothing shown by the unhappy puncher. The high-walled cliffs sent back rolling echoes of the gun-fire. The magazine was empty. Sam Fenton looked at Blaney. The man was still uncon- scious. Grinning at the puzzled Farley, the big deputy filled the magazine and returned to the bombardment. Spacing his shots, fir- ing with sure accuracy, again he emptied the rifle. In the direness of his oad, Seminole con- trived to make the boulder shelter him. He did not offer to return the fire. He was play- ing dead, wise enough under the circum- stances, for he knew that presently other members of the posse would be coming to his aid. Likewise, Sam Fenton knew it. He turned to Farley. “Slip down the gul- ley, Clint,” he suggested. ‘There’s some brush down there where you can hide. I’m ‘going to make peace with Seminole, and I want you out of sight.” “Sam,” murmured Farley, “this heat has unconscious man. fried your brain. What fool crazy notion—~” “Get outa sight before I take a shot at you,” said Fenton. “I got me a scheme.” Sorrowfully Farley shook his head, but he dropped down the gulley to disappear from sight behind a clump of brush. The deputy watched until he was gone. Then he lifted his voice to a bellow: “Ho, Seminole!” And Seminole answered hoarsely: in hell yuh want?” “IT got him, Seminole,” called Fenton. He stood up, facing the man who still crouched “What -behind the rock. After a moment Seminole came warily to his feet. HE Cross L man’s head was bare. There was a bloody smear across his face where a splinter of rock had torn his cheek. One boot heel had been shot away. He stooped to pick up the white Stetson, then came for- ward, scowling. | “Mister,” he said as he drew near, “I’m right damn’ glad yuh showed. That buzzard made this canyon plenty hot for me. Shot my damn hat off!” He came on, limping slightly, dragging his rifle. He reached the edge of the gulley, so that he could look down into the rocks. Slowly the scowl upon his face was blotted out, and incredulity took its place. “That’s Blaney!” he cried.. “What the hell! Where’s Farley?” | | Sam Fenton shrugged. ‘“That’s Blaney. He's all I bagged so far. Funny, eh? You an’ him blazing away at each other—”’ There was a queer expression on Ed Seminole’s face as he looked down at the “Yuh mean to tell me-~”’ he began angrily. “Yuh mean to say—”’ Sam. Fenton tried to explain. “Shucks!”’ he said soothingly. “He thought you was Farley. “‘An’ you thought he was Farley.” “Hell!” rasped Seminole. ‘He knew damn well I wasn’t Farley! I was behind him! He shot my hat off—an’ Farley never had no hat—”’ “You must be wrong, Seminole.” Sam Fenton’s voice was soft. “That don’t tally up. Why would Blaney shoot at you, if it wasn’t a mistake?” “Why?” Seminole’s face was venomous. “Pll tell yuh why. Because he owes me a thousand dollars, an’ he figgered to pay it off in lead! He thought—” Another voice interrupted. Jim Blaney’s oO cComiclbooks CO