Action-Packed Western Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 2 — page 71: what you’re looking at

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

THE SECRET OF FOX RANGE : might call one lucky sheriff! “Here you got a nice little bunch of genteel-mannered prisoners. Most of ’em’s slightly damaged, but who cares? “Th’ pretty part of it is that this here strongitouse is th’ best jail I ever seen. Soon’s we’ve dumped them guns outside, we can lock that big padlock an’ take our time “bout arrangin’ to trail-herd this big-eyes bunch into towh. | “Whilst you fellers is moppin’ up an’ kinda sortin’ them geezers over to see how many of ’em is worth savin’ for a day or two, Jil lope over to th’ big house an’ see what’s goin’ on ’mongst them wimmin.” Ge CHINESE still sat by the stove, stoically indifferent to the turmoil, when Bart passed through the kitchen. Going down the hall, he turned to the right where a spiraling stairway led up to the second floor, where he found himself in another hallway. A strip of light showed beneath the door of the north-west room, and Bart heard a soft rustling sound inside as he approached it and rapped. Silence! Then another soft rustle and a few: whispered words. Bart knuckled the door lightly again, more than a little worried. _ “Stay back,” the girl’s tremulogs voice fluted out. “Stay back, or I'll certainly shoot!” “Awright, Miss,” Bart acquiesced, amiably, grinning with relief at the sound of her voice. “Far be it from me to deny a lady her pleasures. “But, if you’re dead set on gunnin’ me some, mebbe you better open th’ door so’s you git a better bead.” “Oh,” she trilled, “is it really you?” “Reckon it’s me, if I know myst, ds he answered. Open th’ door, an’ meb- be you can help to identyfy me.’ door and the key grated. Bart opened — $lippered feet click-clocked to the the door and stopped on the threshold to remove his hat and bow politely. _ “Evenin’, Miss. “Cuttin? off a. few raillion questions, I’m tellin’ yuh that you’re plumb safé, ev’ ty which way.” “And Fox?” “Fex is— Well, le’s just forgit hint. Call ’im a bad dream, an’ let ‘im go at : that.” A gasping sound from the other end of the room caused Bart to take his aze off the girl for the first time. echning in a cushioned rocker, ob- viously in a half-swoon, the white- haired woman looked at him through half-closed lids. ‘‘Fox-is-just-a-bad- dream,” she repeated as scarce com- prehending. Bart crossed the room and lifted one of her hands and patted it reassur- ingly. “Ev’ry little thing is gonna be awright, Ma’am. It’s been a bad night, but th’ sun’s gonna come up in th’ mornin’ Ev’rything else is gonna be- just like that.” The girl still was holding a toylike pistol. She tossed it on the bed and fairly raced across the rug to stand beside the puncher and turn her cool, deep eyes directly on his. “Bart Lyons, you’re something that I never en- countered before. ‘“Vou’re one great big real man!” When she locked her fingers impul- sively around his arm, Bart felt his cheeks burn. “Hey, Bart!” Speck’s thin nasal voice called from the lower hall. ‘Where in th’ humped-up, hee-lary-ous hell have yuh holed in?” Here, ” Bart called back. “C’mon up an’ tell these wimminfolks I ain’t lyin’ to ’em!” Heavy steps chugged up the steps and Speck came grinning in, followed by Stanley—a bearded viking in a soiled undershirt and trousers. He car- ried a black satchel, which he set on a small table by the bed. “Some bends in there that I reckon b’longs to you, Ma’am.” E LOOKED at Bart, and when he BEADS, the puncher noted for the eeu <. 2) COmICDOOKS co