Action-Packed Western Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 2 — page 37: what you’re looking at

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

THE SECRET OF FOX RANGE 37 “Caught a ranny prowiin’ aroun’ out here,” the man at Pete’s head answered. “We're fetchin’ ‘im in.” “Peel that belt off ’im, Bill.” The front door swung open and a porch light winked on, showing one that the -puicher knew at once was the master of the place. He was a big, square-rigged man with an athletic figure that was outlined clearly by a well-fitted dinner jacket. His face was smooth, handsome and might have been termed friendly but for the fixed, cynical smile and the arrogant black eyes. His linen was spot- less, his tie arranged neatly, his wealth of brown hair cut and combed in a way that gave him an almost boyish appearance, despite the glint of grey that showed at the temples. Sleek, polished, he looked as much out of place in the hills country as a man could; yet, nowhere about him was the slightest hint of the tenderfoot or weakling. He stood looking down at the three in the yard for a time; then turned and strolled inside, calling back over his shoulder. “Bring him in and be lively about it.” “You heard ’im,” the man called Abelson prompted, as the puncher sat staring after the owner’s broad back, with such curious interest that he scarcely felt Bill slip his double-hol- stered belt off. : : “Slide down,” Abelson snapped again. “Th’ boss told me to fetch you in, an’ when th’ boss tells you somethin’ Monday evenin’, he don’t mean fur you to wait till th’ next Monday evenin’ to do it.” “Slidin’,’ the puncher announced, commencing to dismount. “Most usual I get kinda ringylike when some geezer tries to tell me where to head in. Right now, though, ’m admittin’ that this house an’ that galoot’s got me kinda buffaloed. I’d admire to find out more about ’em.” “Mebbe you'll find out a hell of a lot more’n yuh’re wantin’ to,” Abelson sug- gested, then handed Pete’s rein to Bill and fell in behind the puncher, who had | started up the broad porch steps. “Well, don’t prod me with that gun barrel that way,” the captive protested. “T4 makes me feel like a steer bein’ punched up a chute into a car. ’Sides that, I was raised a pet, you know, 37 “Gallopin’ lizards! Would you look at that!” 7 | Witt THE alert Abelson tramping at his heels, the traveler had crossed the porch and entered a vesti- bule where an assortment of storm coats and wraps hung on a mirrored hall tree. Directly in line with an inner door was a fireplace where leaping flames licked at a cedar backlog. Leaning against the mantel there, was the person that the puncher had referred to as “that.” She was young, tall, willowy, blonde, supremely attractive in an ivory satin dinner gown that set off the lines of her trim figure, cameolike. She was speak- ing in a low tone, and, near the other end of the mantel a man’s forearm and elbow showed, “Gosh,” the puncher rumbled, admir- ingly as he halted on the threshold of the inner door and removed his hat to shake the light beads of moisture off it by slapping it against his leg. When she Soe her deep violet eyes his way ior a fleeting instant, he fairly trembled at the sheer beauty of her. Then she turned away and left the room by a decor that led toward the rear. In there, he saw a Chinese servant padding noise- lessly about a table that was drape® in damask and a-glitter with silver and crystal. Above, an ornate chandelier cast prismatic rays through dozens of dangling crystals. — Before the girl closed the deor, the puncher saw another woman, also in dinner attire, who was heavy and white haired, but still maintained a poise and carriage that marked her as one accus- — tomed to being admired. 2 “Be with you in a moment,” thé - ‘master called in-f9qther3an he Geen