Action-Packed Western Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 2 — page 40: what you’re looking at

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

40 ACTION-PACKED WESTERN heap when the puncher put all he had into another smashing right that raked skin from his own knuckles when it found that bearded jaw again. Bart spoke quietly to Pete, whe scrambled to his feet, obediently. Buck- ling on his belt, the puncher swung up. But instead of taking to the bridiepath, he turned the little horse and trotted him around the corner of the house, close to it, where an uncurtained _ ‘window gave him a view of the dining room. The master of the place was seated at the head of the table, conversing smilingly with the women. Already angry through and through, Bart grew almost suffocated with rage at the sight. Jerking out a gun, he lined it on the man who had belittled him so thorough- ly. Then the puncher shook his head. “Can’t do it, Pete. Just can’t convert a heathen like him ’thout givin’ ’im a break.” The puncher started to return the gun to its holster. Instead, he jerked out the other, when the master of the place threw back his handsome head and laughed delightedly at something the older woman had said. “Chuckle, you ornery split-faced store-dummy, ou,” the puncher rasped, disgustedly. ‘I can’t kill you,” though I know I or- ter. I kin make you quit laffin’ an’ feel just a little like I do, though.” The leveled guns blazed a double-roll across the sill drilling the pane into a cloud of flying glass. The pendants on the chandelier clinked, and the majority of them clattered down on the table and floor. “See you later, Mister—an’ try to see you first,” Bart bawled through the shattered glass, then whirled Pete and gave him his head. The door of the “bunkhouse flew open and a half dozen men poured through it, buckling on~ their belts as they came. “C’mon; little hoss, we’re goin’ some- _ -wheres,” Bart chortled. “Durned if I _ don’t feel half ways like a man again now that I've expressed my injured feelin’s.” PETE WAS tired, but willing. Re-— sponding to his rider’s urging, he _ pounded back to the front of the house. As he circled the porch, the front door _ - banged open and the owner appeared, roaring inquiries to Abelson and cursing luridly. Sighting Lyons, he drew a heavy six-gun from his armpit and sent a stream of lead hissing at the retreat- ing figure. His own gun empty, Bart bent low over the horn and spurred the straining pinto lightly. Wet brush slap- ping him from either side told that Pete was in the narrow trail. As he passed out of the circle of light cast by the porch lamp, the men racing from the bunkhouse joined in the fusillade. A half minute later, hoofbeats sounding in his rear told that several saddled horses had been at hand, and that the jaded pinto had work to do. Wrapping the reins around the horn as Pete swung out on the open plateau, Bart reloaded his sixes, and let the little horse have his head. There was nothing else to do, as the plain was shrouded in darkness. He knew that, unless otherwise directed, a saddle horse returns the way he came. The pinto ran well, but the pursuers gained steadily, as their mounts were fresh. A few of them were close up and had renewed their fire when Pete struck the slope and left the level for the broken ground. Seconds later the little horse slid into the sand of the dry branch only yards ahead of the fore- most pursuers. Bart jerked him to the right, rammed him through a fringe of alders and halted him there while the chase swept past. Then he started him on at a walk, riding at random through rock rubble and scattered brush. Now and then when branches overhead whipped him and-sprayed him with avoiding tree trunks. | Meanwhile, the pursuing riders had sleety water, he knew that Pete was n (e() discovered that they had overrun their