Action-Packed Western Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 2 — page 53: what you’re looking at

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

THESECRETOFFOXRANGE 53 brought his third bottle, Bart felt that he had made a little progress. For, when Tom had brought the first and ‘second drinks, he had held a gun on his prisoner all the time he was in the cells now he relaxed his caution to the extent that he left his six in the leather, _ but kept a hand near it. The puncher drank only a little part of the beer, then let his head sink back on the bunk. “Gittin’ kinda wet up, but keep ’em comin’,” he said wearily. “Fetch me a pint of red-eye with th’ nex’ cold one. Mebbe it'll brace me some.” : “That'll cost yuh a extry buck.” “Cheap ’nuff, at that. Needn’t fetch it till ten o'clock. Then, if th’ spirit moves yuh, we kin have a little night- cap t ‘gether. I always was a sociable cuss, an’ drinkin’ alone is a hull lot like Kissin’ yourself.” After Tom had gone, Bart paced to and fro in his narrow cell for a-time, taking an inventory of his physical members. His legs had grown steadier and his head felt almost normal. Satis- fied, he returned to his bunk to coii- serve his sigength for the life and death struggle he had decided to make. By way of preparation, he moved the boots nearer to the head of the bunk and placed his hat and coat where he could get his hands on them without delay. The hours dragged slowly by. Gradu- ally the light faded and the bustling activity about the little town subsided. As the day sounds lessened, click of pool balls could be heard from Larry’s place across the street. The dim voice of an unoiled windmill somewhere north _ of the jail grew in volume. Occasionally a rancher or puncher clattered by on “his homeward way, or a merchant stamped along the walk, after closing his place. Bart had ridden through Sand City on his way up country, and he found that he could remember the lay of the town fairly well, and the angle he must : _ take from the vicinity of the a in recorked the bottlecyai\| order to skirt the town and hit the western trail. The puncher knew well that he was taking a desperate chance. He was going to jump Tom Worden, and he — knew Tom was cautious, suspicious, craity, in a ratlike way. He knew, too, that if he struck and failed, Tom would not hesitate to kill him, knowing that Fox would heartily approve the act.. Lying there in complete darkness, Bart was nervous, chafing under inac- tion, when every fiber of him was keyed for a fight. Still, when he heard Wor- den’s heavy, measured tread on the walk and a key grated in the lock, he managed to assume a fully relaxed posture on the bunk, and there was a drowsy note in his voice as he greeted his jailer: “’Lo, I see yuh got here.” “Veh.” Bart could hear Worden feeling his way along the wall of the corridor. A match flared and Worden lighted the smoky-globed bracket lamp above the table. He turned the reflector to throw the light fully into the cell, then unlocked the door. When he en- tered, he had the whiskey bottle in one . hand, the beer in the other. Cautious as ever, he stepped a yard from the bunk and set the w miskey on the floor, then uncapped the beer and held it out at arm’s length as he stepped nearer. His heart beating like a trip-hammer Bart tried successfully to keep his voice even as he said, “Take a snort of th’ red-eye — y'urself, while I’m spreadin’ myself aroun’ this. Hit it as hard as yuh want. . When this is gone, Larry’ s got plenty more.’ Rolling to one hip, Bart drank his | : beer, aware that Tom kept his pale little eyes on him, even as he tilted the whisky bottle up and drank gurglingly, He watched narrowly when Bart fin- ished the drink and extended the bot- tle—a possible weapon, of course. He watched as narrowly when his prisoner -accepted the whiskey bottle. “Thought yuh was honin’ fur red- | eye,” Worden commented, when Bart icbooks.com: