Action-Packed Western Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 2 — page 52: what you’re looking at

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

the keys, then the sheriff’s star, grin- ning delightedly. Fox snapped his watch open and shut. “Guess we might as well let this investigation go over for a day or two, fellows. I have other business that can’t be delayed. I want you to remember what happened to Hannon, Tom. The same for you, Price. From now on, this jail is to be no soit spot with: restaurant meals and attending physicians. And, if a prisoner gets out— well, a sheriff gets out, too. Get that Tom?” Worden grinned crookedly. “Uhb- huh. Needn’t worry none. That waddy gits bread an’ water till court meets nex’ month. He’ll talk, too, when yuh git ready fur ’im to.” “That sounds morc like it,” Fox smiled, then looked at his. watch again. “Well, got to be going. Suppose we step over to Larry’s place and drink luck to the new administration.” At they had gone, Bart lay and did a lot of calm thinking. He knew that he had angered Fox, and that Fox was not the man te forgive an injury easily. Still he could not understand why Fox was so strongly bent on keeping him behind bars. The puncher did a little more than just worry and wonder. He planned. As a sort of that plan, he got the wash- basin, and banged. on the cell door with it till Tom Worden came in scowling and cursing. “Needn’t git ringy,” Bart cut him off. “TI ain’t figgerin’ on buckin’ ag’ them new rules none.” He un- buttoned the flap of a hip pocket and drew out a roll that made the new sheriff's pale little eyes sleam with cupidity. “I’m wantin’ a few things, an’ I’m payin’ cash on th’ barrel-head - for ’em,” Bart told him, replacing the roll and jingling some silver in another “Reckon yuh gotta right to buy what ‘yuh please,’ Wurden agreed. “But ’m_ tellin’ you now that a sheriff ain’t paid = to se all over town for a prizner. My ACTION-PACKED WESTERN time’s valuable. Now what you want?” , “Tell you in a minnit,” Bart told him. “First, though, I gotta ease back to that bunk. Feelin’ kinda wobbly— plumb limber-legged, ywh know.” Clinging to the bars, Bart worked along the partition and dragged himself into the bunk, seemingly with great effort. “Nice little show, but it won’t git = no sympathy,” Wurden assured “Don’t want none. What I want’s cold drinks—beer an’ such. I gotta fever, you know, an’ my_ gullet’s chapped plumb discommodin’.” He rolled to one hip and drew out a dollar which he tossed to the floor. “Take that an’ fetch me a cold pint. Have one yourself an’ keep th’ change. That goes ev'ry two hours till I go broke or tell you diff’rent.” “Fair ‘nuff,’ Worden agreed, eye- ing the dollar avidly. “Awright, all I ask is prompt service. First, though, peel these cussed boots off. Wore ’em two days an’ a night an’ they’re actin’ unfriendly.” Grunting something about “no mon- keybizness,’ Tom entered the cell, six- gun in hand, and did as requested. He started to throw the boots to the floor. “Put ’em on th’ bunk where I kin keep th’ rats off of ’em,”’ Bart request- ed. : Tom. did as he wes then picked up the dollar +4“. Si by the bunk for a time, grinni#: and polishing with his sleeve the new star he had pimned to his vest. “I b’lieve I’m gonna like this here sheriffin’,” he declarec, snnigiy, then shambled out. : ye S plan was complete, but he was executing it slowly, cautiously. He must wait for nightfall, and he must be fully ready, then. Meanwhile, he must work systematically to break _ | down Worden’s suspicion. 50, at early Rink Comic books.