Action-Packed Western Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 2 — page 47: what you’re looking at

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

THE SECRET OF FOX RANGE — - “Like I told you, Vil get out. But : “Hoh! You ain’t got no more chanct to break fence right now than a yearlin’ slick-ear in a blizzard. They’Il—” _ Speck broke off suddenly and his hairy, freckled ears appeared to fan toward the door. “Somebody’s comin’. Sounds like a bunch of ’em. Gonna ex- amine our minds, maybe.” _ He bent over thé bunk, his freckled face serious, and dropped his voice toa hoarse whisper: “Listen, Son, you don’t know me much an’ I don’t know you much. But I gotta hunch we can work neck-roped t’gether. I want you t’ back my play, no matter if what I say sounds loco. Do. it?” __ “Shore: will. Th’ whole thing’s loco, for that matter. I can’t lose my teamin’ up with you.” “Bully, Then— S-s-s-h! They’re comin’ in. | © Yourre plumb limber, see? Still plenty sick an’ weak an’ down-hearted. Jus’ lay low an’ listen to a master tell lies. Remember, though, you’re t’ yes th’ hell outa ev’ry damn Ke I tell.” fhe OUTER lock grated, Hannon came in, followed by Tom. Behind the two officers strutted a pompous Jittle man in a shabby Prince Albert. ‘His shirt was not entirely white, and his black string tie was frayed at the ends. He carried a sheaf of blank paper _ ‘and a pen and ink, which he deposited on a table in the corridor, When he turned toward the cells, Bart saw that he was deeply wrinkled. He looked the _ prisoners over for a time, then drew a chair to the table and sat ‘down, saying importantly to Hannon: “Bring them out, one at a time, Sheriff.” “Mebbe you better say one a day,” Hannon remarked jocularly, as ‘Tom 3 unlocked the cell. “That geezer on th’ _ bunk don’t ’ — abe to shuck aroun’ : — much. a “You other feller, ole out are ” eck obeyed, while Lyens lay on | : bis back with his eyes partly closed, | nounced 47 pretending not to be much interested. “TI am James B. Price, district attor- ney here,” the man at the table an- importantly when Speck shambled over to drop into a chair opposite him. Fulton dipped his pen, then held it suspended as he went on, impressively. “Sheriff Hannon charges you with cattle theft upon complaint of one Raymond Fox. It is my duty to warn you that anything you say mav be used against you.” The pen dropped nearer to the paper. “Are you guilty or — not guilty?” Speck appeared to give the question deep thought. “That depends,” he said cautiously, after a time. Price looked puzzled. “Depends on what?” : “On what th’ ev’dence against me is. If you have got plenty ev’dence, I’m guilty; if you haven’t, I ain’t.” “Nonsense,” Price snapped. “You may as well come clean. You two were eating fresh beef just before you were caught, and the remainder of the car- cass. was in your camp. Are you telling me that you owned that beef?” “Yeah.” “Wha-a-t? You mean to sit there and say that the steer or cow belonged to you?” | ‘Nio.” Price jerked to his feet and pounded on the table. “Trifling with me, eh?’ “Now ll give you just one more chance to confess, and, stand a chance to come off lightly. Answer my apes tions, ‘yes’ or ‘no’.” — “Which one of ’em?” Price’s face purpled. “Hither of them —both of them,” he roared. “Wal, I didn’t own cow nor steer, but I did own that beef—in a way.” Price mauled the table again. “In just what way?” “Wal, I was eatin’ it, wasn’t = The attorney glared at his wooden- trolled himself and shifted his line of questioning. “Where did you put the. hide when you =o mu books faced prisoner for a moment, then con- — Xo) HH @