Action-Packed Western Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 2 — page 57: what you’re looking at

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

THE SECRET OF FOX RANGE =e be cold meat in three jerks of a calf’s i | After Speck had disappeared in the fringe of brush that paralleled the branch, Bart crossed where rock-bot- tom would take no sign, and kept along ~ the left-hand side. As he proceeded, the land rose and the brush grew more dense, cedar and scrub pine thicken- ing with every yard of his advance. He explored the two minor washes, exam- ining the sandy floor of each closely without finding track of horse or man. The main branch was _ hoof-cupped heavily, as it had been all the way up from where the trail crossed it. There was nothing particularly sug- estive about that as grazing stock, go- ing to and from water in a rough coun- try often use the level creek floors as thoroughfares. But when the puncher reached- the third lateral channel, and all of the horse tracks turned into it, he grew in- terested, and intensified his caution. Keeping well back from the bank, but for an occasional approach to inspect it, he worked along its now heavily- timbered side, stopping frequently to look and listen. After going a mile, and negotiating a sharp curve to the leit, - he was puzzled and temporarily baffled when he peered down into the wash and discovered that its sandy floor was practically barren of sign. A few cow- tracks showed, leading nowhere in par- ticular, No horsetracks were there. Backtrailing, more cautiously than ever, Bart kept near the bank and watched every inch. Finally, he smoked three ruminative cigarets while digest- ing the fact that the horse rails had ended where the branch widened and rocky footing on each bank forbade trailing. “Somebody’s hell bent on - hidin’ sign from here on,” he mused, as he snapped away the third butt and rose. “’Course th’ hard land would keep tracks from showin’, but they’d ___be more or less droppin’s from all them hosses that’s been up here. Somebody’s even gone to th’ trouble of sweepin’ ‘em up an’ carryin’ ’em away or— “Wait a second. That ain’t it, either, IT got ’er, now. This is as far as any- body comes a-hossback. Furthermore, some of them stock is mules. “Wait till I make me another look- see. "Pears like I’m trailin’ an idea, but I can’t get a rope on it.” He worked back a little way, then crossed and examined the far side close- ly. Then the floor of the wash came in for an inch-by-inch inspection that caused him to smile in a satisfied way when he had finished. “Puzzle’s worked, ” he chuckled as he scrambled out and back into the brush. “That is part of it is. Th’ rest’ll prove itself, sooner or quicker. “Wish Speck was here to help figure this thing out. Bein’ he ain’t, I gotta—” The puncher took a quick sidestep and pinned his body to the hole of a blasted pine, peering around it into the jumble of alders and sagebrush. Some- where out there a dried twig had snapped. As he listened, rigid, gravel grated lightly under what he knew must be a bootheel, and a little brown rabbit scurried past him, running low and fast. Bart worked a gun out and waited. There was nothing else to do. He was in a little horseshoe of the bank, and escape was possible only by crossing it or by passing near whoever was com- ing. He must either put up a fight or state a hold-up—perhaps both. That light, grating tread sounded again, and parted brush slithered against passing clothing. Then the peak of a felt’ hat showed momentarily, dropped below his vision, and reap- peared, yards nearer. — The hat remained stationary for a time, one side of the felt brim tilted into view, showing that the skulker was listening—waiting for him to move. Again the crown of the hat disap- peared as its wearer came warily on, so close now that Bart could glimpse a bent, brown-clad figure worming through the thinning green screen, and now less than a rod cusiii) @ 900s) 4d co m