Action-Packed Western Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 2 — page 58: what you’re looking at

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

53 slightly to the left to avoid a stubby box-alder, then bore directly for the pine. When the bent figure. was within two yards of him, Bart stepped around the tree, gun at a level. “Straighten up, Mister,’ he ordered, crisply, “an’ th’ - first thing I wanta see come up is y’ur hands. Reach plenty high, at that, an’ be dead shore them hands is empty. “That’s it—er—What th’—Wait a secont till IT see—er— “Fell! I mean my goodness!” First to appear above the green level were two fringed gauntiets neatly fitted to a pair of small and exquisitely formed hands, below which showed the neatly ironed sleeves of @ cord. shirt. Next, the hat rose, its flat brim roof- ing a mass of sun-tinted amber hair. Two deep violet eyes looked steadily into his. The girl he had seen in Fox’s house stood before him her oval face pale, her brow creased in vexation. Bart felt his face flame as his gun- hand dropped instinctively and he stood shuffling his feet awkwardly and .at- tempting to stutter out an apology. “Beg pardon, Miss...Shore do... Didn’t mean to crack dewn on no wom- n. . .you see, I—” “Then you’re not one of Fox’s men?” “No, dammit—er—I mean hell no —I don’t mean that, either. What I mean. is—well, I just ‘ain't. “But drop them hands, please Miss. Honest, I feel plumb skunky drawin’ a gun on a pretty little thing like you.” The blood flooded back into her face and she smiled faintly as she dropped her hands and stepped nearer. “Some- thing of a relief,” she said, composed- ly. “I’m not a particularly nervous per- son, but I confess that the sudden sight of that pistol—” HE CEASED speaking to lean for- ward and examine him with impolite interest. “But, aren’t you the man who was up at the house the other night— the one that sprinkled powdered glass all over our dining table?’ “Yes, Miss, ’m th’ feller. Sorry I ‘ACTION-PACKED WESTERN lost my head an’ scared you. An’ now ‘I’ve gone an’ done it again. Seems like ——— She smiled, and the perfectly ador- able dimple that showed on her cheek caused the gaping puncher to tremble from head to toe. ‘“You’re forgiven. Anyway, I wasn’t a bit firghtene ed. the other night. Something told me that I was periectly safe. “I confess that, just now, though, I was startled and—well; I shouldn’t like to be caught spying on Fox’s men.” “Nor me,” Bart grinned, parting the brush before her as she emerged and stood a trim, slender figure in a tan corduroy riding skirt and blouse. ‘‘Fact is,’ he apologized again, “when yuh come cat-walkin’ through that brush, I thought yuh was somebody that. was gettin’ set to gun me a little.” “Oh dear no,” she laughed. “I never carry a gun. I was watching that ridge on the opposite side, and saw you over there, a little while ago. I came through the brush to get a nearer view, not knowing that you had crossed, mean- while. “Tt is I who should apologize for creeping up.on you.” “Not any,” Bart disputed vigorously. “Not a mite of harm did, ’cept that I made a—er—fool of myself. ‘You got my free permission to jus’ keep right on.creepin’ up on me_for th’ rest of your life,” he added, brazenly. She laughed lightly again, “Thanks, but I prefer walking erect, under or- dinary conditions. Also, I hope you don’t think that it’s my custom to ap- proach strange men—” “Which reminds me,” Bart cut. in. “We are strangers, in a way, yet.” He took off his hat and bowed profoundly. “The name is Bart Lyons—rovin’ puncher from Amarilla, Texas. I'll be twenty-four in April, ’m a democrat. My folks is Methodists. Right now, | I’m a beef-rustlin’ outlaw, but—” “Perhaps we needn’t make the biog- raphy quite so extended,” she suggest- — ed, setting Bart a-tremble hy books (E(8)