Action-Packed Western Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 2 — page 42: what you’re looking at

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

“Tt shore is funny, but I got a strange inclination to call yuh that my- self,” Bart grinned. “Awright, Speck, I believe yuh’re a good feller, but ’m keepin’ you on probation fer a spell vet. Meanwhile, though, I’m follerin’ your orders, implicit.” _ Bart wrapped the rifle and sixgun in Speck’s bedroll and tied a thong around it. Then he took a pull at the bottle, fed Pete sparingly, stacked his own dunnage in the dry, and washed. He was making short trips carrying in wood when Speck called him to the “table.” Bart dropped the small log he _ was carrying and made for the fire on the run. “Didn’t want to carry a handi- cap when I made this rush,” he grinned as Speck set a big pan of steak on a flat rock by the fire and ranged the coffeepot alongside. As he sat down, the puncher smacked his lips appreci- atively. “Yum-yum! Coffee with a good healthy color! Taters that is brown as my first gal’s eyes! An’ real hones’-to-Gawd bakin’ powder biskits! “Watch me forget my manners.” Speck loaded his tin plate and com- menced munching busily. Bart took coffee, potatoes and bread, then trans- ferred a piece of steak from the pan to his plate. Bending over, he inspected it closely, then turned it and looked at the other side. — | “What’s th’ matter—ashes on it, or somethin’?” Speck asked, looking wor- ried. 3 “Nope. I was lookin’ for th’ bill of gale.” The puncher eyed the other man closely from beneath his hatbrim, watcning for signs of guilt. But Speck only picked up his cup and strained coffee noisily through his drooping mustaches, then renewed his hacking at his steak, — | = Bast FOLLOWED his host’s exam- ple, but didn’t drop the subject. “Never ate rustled beef in my life that I know of, but I'd eat anything, right now. It’s your meat though, ain’t it?” “Uh-huh.” a ACTION-PACKED WESTERN “Bully! How many cows do you: own?” : “Don’t own none—ain’t owned none for four-five years.” “But you said it was your meat.” “It is. Don’t you see me chawin’ it?” “Oh, I see—rustled it, eh?” : Speck looked pained. “Naw—pro- moted it. You shore do use rough lang- widge.”’ 3 = | Bart remembered the chase and the shots he had heard and decided that the less he knew about the pedigree of that beef the better off he might be. He ate it though and enjoyed it thoroughly. After supper, Bart washed dishes while Speck wiped. Then, cfter both had taken another pull at Speck’s bot- tle, the puncher rolled and lighted a cigaret and went after the log he had dropped. As he went along the base of the boulder he passed the rock where Pete was licking up the last of his oats. The puncher stopped to pet the little bronc’s neck affectionately. “Pore lit- - tle feller, It’s gonna be kinda rough browsin’ with this dern wet sleet a fa!l- in’. Sorry, OP Timer, but it’s th’ best we kin do, so—” When Pete snorted and drew back, big-eyed, the puncher whirled and ducked. Something hard and heavy glanced off his head and landed on his shoulder with near-paralyzing force. As he strained to regain his balance, ‘he heard a rush of feet. A snarled oath back by the fire told him that Speck was being assailed also. | Bart felt himself being bear hugeed from behind, while a bearded jaw rasped against his cheek. Squirming like a catamount, he recognized Abel- son’s scowling countenance and railed all his strength to throw him off. If Abelson was made of iron, Lyons was made of steel. Stamping, groaning with the effort they put forth, the two pried at each other’s arms as they re- volved slowly toward the fire. And gradually the muscular puncher com- menced getting the upper hand. His. leit arm free, he hooked it around (E(6) Eomicbooks