Action-Packed Western, May 1957 — page 76: what you’re looking at

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

76 There was a sense of urgency in their measured tread, a growing feel- ing that these rites had better be finished quick. Burying a neighbor was usually a lingering affair—a chance to gather and exchange recollections of the past, or to talk of the drought. Women would speak softly of new babies; but.today, there were no wom- en or children, no talk among the crowd about the church. The reason lay in the fact that Jeb Martin’s body was heavy with slugs. The bloody bubbles that still stained his stringy mustaches hid the mouth that had cursed his killers. Some of the mourners had heard those curses, even while their rifles still smoked from the ejected jackets of the lethal shells. Martin’s two sons were missing from the burial. Ray, a usually-jovial lad, and his brother Herb. The tight-lipped Herb had lived by the gun, had battled his way deep into the sorties of the grass wars, fence cuttings, and the sheep feuds. He had returned at his father’s wish and, for the last several years, remained on the Martin Ranch and let his past die behind him. A man suddenly lifted the curled lip of his black hat and stared out into the setting sun at two horsemen. He swore softly then dragged the hat down over his eyes and nudged his neighbor. ‘Here comes hell on roaring hooves!” “Damn...! muttered man. “This thing should’a been over an’ done with.” The pallbearers had halted. They set the casket down, ten feet from the new grave, and stepped back to watch the approach of the two riders. Ray Martin’s horse splayed gravel as Ray left the running horse and lit flatly on both feet. Herb reined in and quieted his mount, looking over the ranchers as he edged the horse around until his back was covered by the church wall. “Who done this?” The tanned cheeks were white under the anger in Ray Martin’s voice. “I said—who killed my father?” the other . ACTION-PACKED WESTERN “Don’t ask them ...” the cool words came from the man on the horse. “Them that gunned Pa, ain’t goin’ to tell you they was gutty enough to gun him—especially when it took ten or twelve to—” “Herb Martin!” The minister strode fight forward. “Don’t on church ground. Don’t...” IS WORDS were lost in the ex- plosion of a barking sixgun. Herb Martin had coiled one denim clad knee over the pommel and his smoking gun blasted gravel around the feet of the startled group. A slug ricocheted off a stone and sang out into the waste. The coffin slid off the round rock, as though the dead man was fighting his way out in order to help his sons in their mission of vengeance. Several men broke from the crowd and ran, Will Thatcher weaved toward the horses behind the church then Gomichboo Ss Eo