2 Gun Western, May 1957 — page 73: what you’re looking at

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

SEVEN RODE OUT | 73 white man talk. According to Aubrey, Orfano is a young buck who’s lived at the Reservation only a couple years. When he was a kid, three or four years old, some Mexicans found him after a fight between them and his people... For some loco reason, the Mexes kept the kid and named him E] Huerfano—the Orphan. They were sheepherders, and they drifted into New Mexico, They turned him over to a rancher, so he grew up among white folks and got to be called Orfano.” McSwan paused, spat a stream of tobacco juice at a yucca stalk. “Me, I’d ‘bet my next month’s pay—if I live to collect it—that Orfano won’t be caught. He’s too smart to ride into a trap.” “We'll catch him, Tim.” “Listen who’s talking!” “We'll catch him,” Alec went on, “just because he’s learned to think like a white man, We’ll know how his mind works. Like I said in my book—” “You and your book,’ McSwan growled and spat now to show his contempt. “You know why he jumped the Reservation? Just because he never learned to think like the white folks who raised him. An Apache always turns bronc when he drinks tiswin. That ’Pache corn-beer is might powerful stuff.” “So Orfano arid his band were drunk on tiswin?” “So Aubrey says.” “Well, by now they’ll be sobered up,” Alec argued, “And Orfano will see he made a mistake. I figure we’ll catch him—” He broke off as Sergeant O’Mara looked back and growled, “Quiet, Small—Quiet!” | é tes AFTERNOON wore slowly on, and the heat of hades lay like a weight upon the seven men of the patrol. Sunglare was reflected from cliffs and sandy ground, and made eyes ache. The men sucked at their canteens, and sweated out the mois- ture as fast as they drank. They saw no. hostiles. They grew weary of peering at every pine clump and every jumbled maze of rock that might conceal Orfano’s armed band. But it seemed that they were alone in the world, and Alec had the eerie feeling that the patrol was cut off and lost from all other men. McSwan and some of the others softly cursed the unseen Apaches. But Alec felt neither fear nor hatred for the enemy, and it occurred to him that he had never seen an Indian laugh... Up ahead, now Aubrey was riding closer to the troopers. By four in the afternoon, the little column halted. Aubrey had something on his mind and talked low-voiced to young Lieutenant Macklin. The scout was lanky, as dark as an Indian, while the officer, not long out of West Point, was thick of body and fair-skinned,. Tim McSwan_ eased close to listen, then reported to Alec that Aubrey smelled smoke. “He fig- ures,” McSwan whispered, “that the Apaches are baking mescal some- where not too far ahead.’ The scout Was pointing toward a jagged moun- tain. “Thereabouts,” he told Lieuten- ant Macklin. The officer took out and studied a map, then wrote out a dispatch. He handed the paper to Sergeant O’Mara, and Alec, as O’Mara swung around, looked elsewhere. He didn’t want to be picked as a courier; he wanted to see what lay ahead. O’Mara said, “You, Harmon,” and held out the dispatch. Harmon swung to his mount and started along the back-trail, seeming glad to be gone, The remaining six pressed on through the rock-bound emptiness, Aubrey sniffing of the smoke none of the others smelled. HERE IN a narrow defile, as the sun went down, the patrol came face to face with a part of the Apache band. Colt pistols and Army Spring- fields opened fire first, but Apache Winchesters roared a quick answer. It was more of a melee than a battle, with riders stampeding through roiled up dust and wafting powder smoke, and the din of it rose to a wild crescendo. During those few flaming minutes that seemed an eternity, time stood still for Alec Small. He heard and saw and smelled the fight, but somehow did not feel it. He was strangely numb, and if that was fear, it was not.too. bad. _