Fifteen Western Tales, March 1954 — page 85: what you’re looking at

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

> * o —e on - — es = = Ie eee Se 3 ee coed HAS WILE “FRAG Bs <o == =r i == = we : one — had given him two years ago when they were just kids, after Dorf had mentioned Nat’s name in a sneering way. The thumb of Dan’s hand started to press back the hammer of the six-shooter. Then the match flame went out, and the darkness seemed thicker than ever. Dan lay there for a while, shaking a little. He had almost taken a shot at Dorf—a bushwhack- er shot, a coward’s shot. He wondered numbly if he was a coward. If he was afraid of the lanky, hard-bitten youngest male member of the Harbisons. “Hell,” called an impatient, half drunken voice from somewhere near, “let’s close on them Wyeths and kill ’em off. I got a bronc tied up at home that'll be needin’ feed an’ water. Close up on them two skunks, boys. No use spendin’ the night here. Be jug’s about empty. So’s my belly. . Dan Wyeth crawled on. Minutes arapued: He made out several saddled horses stand- ing tied to a pinon tree. Nobody guarded them. He untied the one nearest him and cautiously rode away. AN WYETH had never seen a woman _ who had lost her mind. The shock of seeing his mother stare at him, her dark eyes blank, without recognizing him, brought a cold sense of terror to the youngster. He found her sitting in her old armchair in front of the cold fireplace, her hands picking aimlessly at some tiny baby clothes in her lap. . : When Dan finally made certain that his mother’s mind was gone, he had need of every shred and ounce of his grit and strength. Mechanically he went about get- tmg things ready to move. Loading in a light democrat wagon what few belongings he figured she’d want to take along, he put in grub and a camp outfit and helped his mother up onto the seat. She did not seem to realize just what was happen- ing. Dan found a big five-gallon can of kero- sent’ with which he soaked the walls and - to his small gray-green eyes. furniture in the old house. He touched a match to it, and for the last time closed the front door of the house where he had been born. Then he tied the two saddled horses along- side the team and with his carbine across his knee, cartridge belt filled, his father’s six- shooter in its holster at his thigh, set out in the first gray of dawn. He whipped up the team to round the bend in the river and shut from sight the burning house, his heart heavy as a lump of lead. Besides him sat his mother, her black shawl over her head, her hands clutching the little bundle of baby clothes. From a letter Dan found among his moth- er’s effects he discovered that his uncle, the circuit-rider preacher, Luther Gregory, lived at a place called Wagon Wheel, in Montana. And with only this meager but of infor- mation to guide him to the remote place in Montana, hundreds of miles north, with an invalid mother to burden his going and doubtful welcome awaiting him, they set out. At the little cowtown of Pecos, Dan found a wagon train being made up. A tall, raw- boned man in dirty buckskin was in charge. He had sandy hair that came to his shoul-. ders, and a sandy beard that reached almost His high- bridged nose peeled constantly from wind and sun... ¢ Now he was a little drunk and displaying his marksmanship with a pair of long bar- reied six-shooters to a crowd of men and boys back of the stockade corral. Nearby the canvas-covered wagons were drawn up, trail fashion, in a large circle. The target was a battered army cantéen hanging by a rawhide thong from a tree limb. As. his- two heavy guns roared, the lead slugs tore through the canteen. It danced and jerked crazily. And while the firing of the two guns was rapid, and the heavy lead bullets kept the target dancing, Dan reck- oned that only about a third of the bullets was hitting the mark. 7 “That’s Beaver Smith,” a man told Dan. CEOMMEIOOKSnCC)