Action-Packed Western Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 2 — page 54: what you’re looking at

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

54 his ‘soiled pillow, after taking enly a modest mip. “Nuff far right now,’ Bart said, thrilling from head to foot when he noted that Tom’s. suspicions had been allayed by the fact that both bottles were now out of Bart’s handy reach. The big moment was at hand. “Pay day,” Bart announced in a voice that trembled slightly, despite his desperate effort to keep it steady. Rolling to: his right side te bring his face te the wall, he reached into his left-hand pocket and brought out two dollars. : He rolled back. Werden reached for the money. Bart passed it awkwardly, one of the coins falling to the floor on a line with the edge of the bunk. “Come to papa,’ Worden chertled, stooping. Bart had been groping behind him, getting a grip on the leg of one boot. As Tom’s head reappeared on a level with the bunk, the puncher swung savagely. The heel of the boot thudded home, flattening the crown of Tom’s hat and bringing him to his knees, but not knocking him out, as Bart had hoped. Bellowing with mingled rage and pain, Worden swayed to a stooped position and clawed at his holster. Out of the bunk now, and behind his jailer, Bart raised the boot high and struck two-handedly with all his might. The drawn gun clattered to the floor, as Werden sprawled, face down. Stoop- ing, Bart caught it up and tossed it on the bunk, then tore his blanket into strips with which he bound and gagged the limp sheriff. Then the puncher drew on his boots, tucked the gun inside his shirt and caught up his coat and hat. Going into the corridor, he locked the cell and put the lamp out. Passing throu — the outer door, > locked it also, the threw both keys onto the flat roof the building. : “New. for a hoss—any body’s hoss. The puncher locked along the narrow ACTION-PACKED WESTERN street. A-dozen broncs still were stand- ing before Larry’ s place. A big white — horse was pawing restlessly in front of the bank, a little way beyond. Bart hesitated, a moment, then started for it, uneasy because he must pass. the lighted saloon, though on the opposite side of the street. The puncher knew that Worden was not hurt badly, and would regain his senses shortly; that the gag might slip, allowing him to be heard. Yet the > merely leafed along the walk. e was abreast of the saloon when he saw Hannon emerge from it. Bart’s heart ee to skip a beat, then race madly when the former sheriff ‘stopped and stared curieusly in his direction. There was nothing else to do, now. Bart strolled carelessly along, then angled across toward his intended mount. Keeping pace with him new on the opposite side, Hannon slowed, stopping by the horse just as Bart reached it. _ The puncher felt inside his shirt and 7 gripped the butt of the six. “Better eep outa this, Hannon,” he advised, certain now that he had been recog- nized. “I’m needin’ a cayuse, an’ this one looks like a sod-gouger.” ‘“T’m yrecommendin’ ‘im,” Hannon came back, with a side glance wp and ~ down the deserted street. “An’ I orter | know—he’s mine. Jus’ turn ’im loose when yuh git inta th’ clear. He knows a wey, home. ‘Me, I thought I was goin’ home, myself but Pve changed my mind, Pm goin’ back an’ take on a few more snifters. In *bout an hour th’ saloon’ll close an’ I'll be raisin’ Billy Hell an’ -hollerin’ fur th’ sheriff. Incidentally, will he come?” “Better go git ‘im when yuh really want ’im,” Bart advised, dryly. Phankin’ yuh fer th’ tip, PM pav yuh with another one. Yuh better scallyhoot clean outa th country "fore | : sigs take any long rest.” Gomichbool cS