Action-Packed Western, May 1958 — page 10: what you’re looking at

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

a ee ae é 10 ACTION-PACKED WESTERN of the fight with his ears. At least four guns were blazing. A hoarse yell, abruptly cut short, floated through the still air. “One tagged!” muttered Pat grimly. Gradually the firing slackened, be- came slow and steadv as though the unseen marksmen had hit ground and were picking their marks with care. Now he could glimpse the winking gun flashes, booming and dying in the dark. Swinging out of leather, he loaned the reins of his pony round the limb ‘of a squat mesquite and jerked his Winchester out of its scabbard. With a soft click he levered the shell into the breach and slid forward through the desert growth. | An outcropping ledge of lava pro- truded from the baked earth and slanted into the air. Stretched flat against the broad, serrated edge he worked slowly upwards. Reaching the top, he lay on his chest, head uplifted, searching the night. TS INVISIBLE marksman below “~ fired again and again, each time creeping closer to the glowing fire. Pat’s dark eyes followed the play; the two attackers were steadily closing in. ~ “That hombre in the Wells is shore in a hot spot,” he murmured. “Mebbe I can cut down th’ odds, even though those jaspers got him in a crossfire.” - He cuddled his cheek against the smooth rifle stock and waited patient- ly, With the next flash—not a hun- dred yards ahead, the Winchester Spanged—twice. A heavy body threshed around awhile in the brush, then there was silence. Swinging his smoking barrel toward the left, Pat waited for the other at- tacker to give his position away, but the firing had ceased. A shout reached his ears, then the snapping and crack- ling of brush as a man fought blindly through the undergrowth, finally the rapid tatoo of a pony’s hooves dying away in the eternal silence of the des- ert. Curran inched his way down to ground level and returned to his pony. Mounting, he walked the animal to- ward the Wells, searching for a sign of the man he had hit. In the faint Starlight he sighted a body behind a boulder. Features contorted, a swar- thy-faced Mexican sprawled on his back. sightless eyes staring into infin- ity. His bie steeple-peaked sombrero lay in the cholla. The smouldering campfire blazed high as the hooves of Pat’s pony clat- tered over the rocky approach to the spring. He walked the roan into the flickering circle of light. A tall figure. Winchester at the ready, emerged from the shadows. From long habit, Pat sized up his man with a searching glance. The stranger topped six feet, was clad in a checked shirt and fad- ed levis. Open to the waist, his shirt revealed a broad, hairy chest. The firelight accentuated his strong jaw- line, with a stubble of black beard. Above a high-arched nose, two pene- trating eyes were set deep in dark fea- tures. Plenty tough, thought Pat. Back in the chaparral he glimpsed two hob- bled ponies. . “Guess you’re the jasper what broke up th’ party,” commented the Stranger in deep, even tones. His white teeth showed in a _ mirthless grin. ‘“What’s th’ trouble,” asked Pat, dismounting. The tall man shook his head. ‘‘Who knows? I was cookin’ supper when. they jumped me. First slug knocked the coffee pot outa my hand. If’n them jaspers could shoot I’d be cold meat by now. My handle’s Sexton, they call me Silent. Reckon I talk too much.” Again that silent mirthless laugh. He eyed Pat enquiringly and the rider noted he hadn’t dropped his gun. we tagged one apiece.” “Pat Curran,” he returned. “Reckon Eomichooks.com