Action-Packed Western Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 2 — page 38: what you’re looking at

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

33 closed behind the girl. Then he cane and deliberately looked his guest over, from the crown of his yellow head to — the spurred heels of his boots. There was something so deliberately contemp- tuous in the man’s cool inspection, that the cowboy felt his cheeks flush with resentment. “Real plains hat, batwing chans, hairy cowskin vest, picturated cuffs,” the other invoiced, coolly. “Lone stars on the cuffs of his gauntlets and those conchas on his belt and hatband must have been beaten cut of Mexican pesos. | “Hum-m! Certainly a southwestern- er—probabiy a Texan. What’s your name, waady?” The puncher felt his face flame hot- ter. “Down Amarilla way where I drift- ed from, we get our gun about half un- dressed before we call a man a ‘waddy’, Mister. That means a prairie tramp— all aroun’ nogood jasper, you know.” The host tilted his handsome head back and chuckled delightedly. “That’s the reason I called you that—just to find cut where you came from. “But, I asked you your name.” He ceased chuckling and barked impatient- ly, “Well, I’m listening.” “Name’s Lyons—Bart Lyons.” He looked the other over with a reflection of his host’s cool impudence, then said, “That’s one-half of a interduction, — Mister.” Again the host laughed lightly. Again he ceased abruptly to frown and snap out another question: “What were you oing around here?” “Nothin’—just nothin’ a-tall,”> Bart answered. “I’m just in this country on my way out of it. That is, I was in- tendin’ to ooze right on up into th’ Black Hills. But now, I dunno. You got me kinda spinnin’, you know, an’ I may decide to graze here-abouts till I git a line on th’ country. “You see. I’ve heard about Dakoty ever since I was a kid, but I never knowed before that th’ ranchers out 7 cre lived in story-beok houses an’ ___ Stripped for chuck—dinner, I mean— ACTION-PACKED WESTERN an’ wore silk braid on their pants an’ —” “Never mind all that,” the other cut in. “We'll assume that there’s a lot that you don’t know. For instance, ‘perhaps you didn’t know that no one is allowed to come on this place except by my invitation.” | “I shore didn’t. Just was joggin’ along a trail an’ hit this. I’m plumb glad I come, though. I’ve seen strange Sights here—plumb enlightenin’, yuh know.” : The master of the house looked Bart Over again, then glanced at the clock on the mantel and turned to nod to Abelson, who was standing by the coor, his rifle at a ready. “It’s about dinner time, and the ladies mustn’t be kept waiting. = “Guess he’s all right. Take him out on the trail and start him back in the direction from which he came. I don’t believe he belongs in this country.” Bart’s simmering rage boiled over. “Don’t think I belong in this country. eh? Well, Jet me tell yuh this, Mister. I belong wherever I take a damn good notion to stay. Get that?” The host. locked slightly bored. “I get it, but it doesn’t mean anything. Nobody stays in this section unless I say so.” “Yeah?” “Yes. I mean just that.” Mad through and through, Bart still was puzzled at the other’s adamant attitude and cool assurance. He was conscious that the door to the dining room had inched cpen a little way and he saw the girl indistinctly through the harrow opening. “Well, we may not agree, feller,” he declared. “As I said a bit ago, I was intendin’ to slide right on out of this man’s country.” He fixed his eyes impudently on the spot where he knew the girl stood, and added speculatively: “But now I may decide to stay right on this range permanent.” Despite his rage, Bart could not for-_ bear grinning appreciatively when two white hands showed in the partly-open__ eb