Action-Packed Western Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 2 — page 75: what you’re looking at

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

distorted, frézen sees of. the dead Pawnee. “Right ear gone,” muttered the ser- geant. “Bard’s. coup stick will be get- ting full!” “The last one he killed with a rifle. _ This one,” Captain Keel motioned to the garroting rawhide, “he strangled. He was dragged by a ‘shod mule. Ser- geant, backtrack those tracks—looks like they came through by that big round rock,” The captain dismounted, wathing his horse in the brittle air, until he ~ . caught the sergeant’s shout. The man galloped his horse back, waving the muddy dispatch letter, “Found ’em in the mud. Bard was on the top of the rock-—that Pawnee never lived long.. _ “Pawnee?” Keel’s voice was star- ted. “Yeah, one of Nerth’s old scouts. He was riding an army mule. North used mules sometimes, then give the Pawnees the critters when they was sent home after the Powder River fight. Bard’s on a crazy-killing spree all right.” “Wounded too, Captain; I found dried blood on top of that rock.” “His direction, you'll note, Sergeant. He’s heading straight into Arapaho lands.” “After Sagsawan?” “Or Bleeding Arm himself.” “Maybe he’ll get in,” grunted the sergeant, “but he’ll never get out!” “Maybe he doesn’t care, Sergeant. Y’see, Jeb Riley was his partner.” Ca RAD BARD knew he was about ‘Tinished. The cords of his neck had tightened, drawing his head almost -. onto his right shoulder. An hour ago, he had retched away the dizziness but it was back and a hot drum beat ec his temple veins. _ ‘His fire gave off little heat as he squatted, fleshing ae ‘stiff scalps until they were as thin as an oll lamp shade, He had two thin willow loops and f its ted the pliable skin over the ] 9. Then, with hands cracked by the cold, daubed red clay liberally over the skin. =e | He added the latest scalp to a willow staff and shook it violently. “Jeb...” his mouth functioned with difficulty... “Jeb, you ain’t sorry you came? Another day—another day. . his words halted. He knew what he wanted to say, but his throbbing, fe- vered brain lost contact with his lips. Bard rose, gripped his coup stick with its reddened scalps, and stumbled out | into the wind. Behind him, his rifle still leaned against a rock, glittering from the vagrant flickers of the dying fire. The cold clear sun was setting as the staggering man crested the knob of a rolling hill. Below, behind a small fire, a war party were gouging holes in the shore ice of a small stream to let their ponies drink. The coldly watchful eyes of a horse- tender stared toward the man. A gut- tural shout left the warrior’s lips and all eyes were lifted. Long seconds passed, then Conrad Bard lifted his coup stick. He pointed the firesharp- ened end, drew his bowie knife and, in a pathetic stumbling travesty of a run, made his charge. Three days later, Conrad Bard opened his eyes. The sun gleamed through the taut skins overhead and he knew he was'in a wigwam. He raised his head, and the pain of his torn neck sent reeling heat through his brain, He brushed out at the blunt hands probing his wound. “Easy.” Captain Keel lifted his hands and watched Bard’s pain filled eyes open again. “Your wound’s got to be cleaned, then the lips of the cut pressed together. Some sort of tendon is cut and we ve got to do — about that. . | ~ “You're Copan 1 Keel?” it was a (S@) Omicbooks