Action-Packed Western Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 2 — page 39: what you’re looking at

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

THE SECRET OF FOX RANGE — doorway, patted noiselessly in silent applause, then were withdrawn quickly. ‘Bart spoke up. “Yeah, I’m stayin’— gtayin’ till hell freezes over.” “Suit yourself,” the host said, with a bored air. “I’m sure I’m not in the least interested in what you think of here and start him down the trail, _ Abelson. If he makes any trouble, shoot him. Better give his guns back to him. We can handle him easily enough if he gets nasty—which I don’t think he wil, after he thinks things over. “But wait a second.” He turned to Bart. “Hungry?” “Thought I was, but I’ve changed my mind.-I got only a light snack in my saddlebags, an’ th’ trail is dark an’ it’s promisin’ to sleet. But I'l make out some way, Mister. I’d go out an’ browse with th’ wild bunch ‘fore I’d swalier your chuck.” “That’s up to you. If you need oats for your horse, Abelson will see that you're supplied.” “Thanks. But Pete’s a gentleman, too. He’ll nip dead bunch grass an’ browse brush an’ feel respectable.” - The big man by the mantel smiled in a tolerant way. “It’s evident that you don’t think very much of me.” “You're dead wrong, Mister. I think a lot ’hout you. Th’ burden of my thoughts is that you’re an ornery, fence- creepin’ crook—some habitual an’ plumb unredeemable.” ? Again the two white hands appeared in the opening and applauded silently. “Now that you’ve gotten that off your mind,” the host smiled. “My ad- vice is to get off this ranch in a hurry.” “Plumb willin’,” Bart answered, tilt- ing on his hat. “It’s a long way to any- where, but I reckon I’) make it alive.” “You will if you get going right now,’ the other said easily. turned away. | = : —__ “C'mon, Whiskers,” Bart said, strid- ing past the scowling Abelson. “If I | 3 He shrugged his massive shoulders and 39 hang aroun’ here “much longer Pil git peeved. a heap an’ bite that then TP’ die.” — ITH ABELSON following closely, the puncher stalked outside. He ' found Bill holding Pete under the you're going to de.” He glanced at the | : clock again. “Dinner time. Get him out » broad eave of the porch. He turned up the collar of his slicker when a slither- ing sound on the roof told that sandy sleet had displaced the drizzle. “Get our hosses, Bill,” Abelson or- dered. “We gotta haze this long-legged ignoramus outa here ’fore he twists th’ boss’ tail more an’ gets hisself massy- ‘Hfere! Gimme them guns! Th’ boss says to give ’em back to ‘im. I'l do it, when we’re ready to tell ‘im bye-bye. Now ramble over to th’ bunkhouse an’ get our slickers, whilst I git this here public nuisance on th’ leather.” Bill shambled off after the slickers. With Abelson watching him warily, Bart walked around on the opposite side of Pete and picked up the rein. Catching a cheek-strap, he hooked a foot in stirrup as though about to swing up. Instead of doing so, he squeezed Pete’s neck lightly, just forward of his withers. : . Immediately the well-trained little mustang dropped to his knees, then rolled sidewise, bumping Abelson sharply with the saddle before falling on his side. = “T ookout,” Abelson grunted, regain- ing his balance with an effort. “What th’ hell’s th’ matter with that cayuse? Got th’ blind staggers, or somethin’? P geezer, an Git ‘im up, dammit or ’'—Ugh!” __ Abelson had dropped the muzzle of the rifle to prod the fallen horse in the ribs with it. Too late, he braced himself as Lyons’ wiry body left the ground and hurled over the horse toward him. Before he could swing the rifle wp and around, the puncher’s knotted fist smacked solidly against his chin. | The gun clattered to the ground. Abelson reeled, braced. himself momen- tarily, then went dows/jif asta