Action-Packed Western Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 2 — page 36: what you’re looking at

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

36 _— ACTION-PACKED WESTERN man ran a cow brute down and shot it, that man was either a meat thief or a hide rustler—or both. The puncher knew that such an oc- currence should be investigated and that every plainsman should be a de- tective, in such a case. But he was hungry and saddle-weary, and night was coming on. A great black cloud - beating down from the northwest promised rain. “’Tain’t my country,” he shrugged, after a little time, then started Pete into the steady, distance- _ eating job that was the wiry Hittle horse’s ordinary traveling gait. As the trail wormed out on the plateau, the brush thinned and curly dun buffalo sod displaced the sparse bunch grass that stood among the brush. A couple of miles across the plain, another green shoreline showed. Still beyond, serried pinnacles glowed with rose and gold as the sun nestled among them. Then the drifting cloud- - bank rolled suddenly across them, cur- . taining off the reflected light, bringing the night and with it a dank chill that seemed to leap up from the dark swales. A minute later, a wind-driven shift of misty rain chilled his face. The _puncher untied his slicker from its strings back of the cantle and donned it. “Kinda blinky night a-comin’,” he grumbled. “No house in sight, yet. C’mon little hoss, yuh’ve done a plenty for one day, but we gotta get some- wheres.” Jaded, but game, the pinto swung into a lope. Ten minutes later, the path curved northward to parellel the timber for a little way, then turned _ sharply to westward into the brush. Then the puncher reined Pete in with a jerk and rubbed his startled eyes and announced that he would “just natural- _ly be damned.” Standing in a rounded bay in the timber to the right of the road was the biggest house | the traveler had ever seen anywhere. It was more than a house; it was a Sand-stone castle of the styis. of the feudal period—a massive, turreted structure, aglow with light. ‘Backgi rounding it, outbuild dings showed indi stinctl y. Among them was a long, low-eaved building which the staring puncher recognized at once a5 a bunkhouse. With the instinct of a true stockman, the puncher noted a certain lack of pro- portion about the place. There was but ene smail corral, and in it not more — than two dozen horses. No cows were in sight. ““Whew-ee! some layout, Pete,” the puncher drawied, starting his horse along the winding path that led up to the broad doorway. “Five chimneys! ‘Bout a hundred windows! ’Lectric lights, or I’m a sheepherder! It shore is lucky we— oa Ss ees W/HERE THE path ran between two big cottonwoods, perhaps a dozen yards from. the house, Pete had snorted and surged back when two men showed suddenly in the gloom, one on each side of the path, they evidently had been waiting behind the trees. Each had a rifle held at a ready, and their attitude was strictly businesslike. “Steady as is, feller,” one of them, a squat, black-bearded man said gruffly, thrusting the muzzle of his gun almost against the puncher’s stemach. ‘Don’t move none till I say when an’ how. Git aroun’ behind ’im, Bill. Shoot ’is ackbone in two if he wiggles even a little bit.” “Nice friendly welcome to this man’s country,” the puncher remarked, dryly. “Shore Vil set steady. I wanta git me a look at th’ damndest span of jugheads I ever laid eyes on. Wish th’ light was a little better so I could—” “Shut up,” the whiskered fellow at Pete’s head snapped. “Now keep your hands away from that hardware an’ start your horse real slow. “Watch ’im close, Bill.” “What's going on out there, Abel- son?” a full, smooth voice called from the house. its three stories . (eo) micioe oOks.co