Action-Packed Western, May 1958 — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

FEUDIN’ GUNS 11 Sexton nodded. “They couldn’t hit a barn.” “Out for loot,” replied Pat indiffer- ently. “Th’ border’s lousy with th’ cov- otes.” He eased the cinch on his. roan. slipped off the bridle and led it to the svring flowing cool and silent out of the rocky debris at the base of the towering pile. “Lemme have yore coffee pot,” said Sexton, “mine’s sprung a leak, mebbe we'll git some supper now th’ ruckus is over.” ees over, the two sat propped against their saddles, smoking brown-papered quirlies. Piecing to- gether the few sparse fragments of in- formation Sexton let fall, Pat gathered he was a wandering puncher with a yen for prospecting. This was not un- usual; bearded men, with patient plodding Jennies, had wandered around the Tortulas and through the desert as long as he could remember. But something told Pat that this Sil- ent Sexton was no prospector. He was too alert, too masterful. His leather vest and twin hide-butted guns struck a false note. Yet there was a pick and shovel leanifig against the packed kaks by his spooled bedroll. The object of his thoughts crushed a butt beneath his boot. “So you’re one of John Curran’s bovs. Heard about yuh. Bin moseyin’ around the Valley, found color in th’ Tortulas. Reckon yuh know yore old man stooped a slug—rustlers.” Pat’s head jerked up. “Did they get th’ swine?” Sexton shrugged his broad shoul- ders. ‘Guess not.” “Was Larry around?” “Nope. Ride far?” Pat’s eyes hardened. Silent Sexton had a habit of abruptly changing the subject, and he asked a lot of ques- tions for a silent man. “South of the Rio Grande.” “Ah—ever run across Mike Mc- Grew an’ his hellions? They hang out around there, been raisin’ Cain on th’ border fer years.” “Seems like,’ admitted Pat slowly. “Cleaned an outfit I rode fer down t? th’ last calf,” said Sexton, watching the other through half- closed eyes. “I knocked th’ hoss from under one hair- pin, but he crawled away in th’ brush.” The dark-faced stranger paused for a minute. Psi was a dead ringer fer you!” Pat Curran sprang to his feet like an unleashed steel spring. His right | hand snaked down to the worn butt of his hogleg, his eyes glinting angrily in the firelight, fastened on the other man’s unperturbed features. “Meanin’ what?” The stranger looked up lazily, his deep voice placating. “Yuh don’t have t? take it personal, pard. I’m right careless with words. Every time I open my big mouth I put my hoof in it. I recoll ct now that this jasper had a scar.’ Slowly, Pat relaxed, sinking slowly down beside the fire again, but his eyes, still suspicious, were fastened on the other’s face. He rolled another quirly. They sat on in a strained silence for some time. Sexton broke the strain. “Reckon I’ll hit th’ sack,” he grunted. ‘When Pat nodded silently he rolled out his blankets. “See yuh at sunup.” At dawn, Pat sluiced his head and shoulders in the cool water of the spring. Sexton’s hobbled ponies.moved through the chaparral, but the dark- featured man had disappeared. As Pat » kindled a fire, the tall man appeared, threading through the mesquite growths. Two rifles were bunched un- der one arm, six-guns and knives dan- gled from the other. With a nod he dumped the weapons beside the fire. His sinewy fingers circled two rolls of notes. With a silent laugh and @ subtle mockery in his hard eyes he extended the currency toward Pat. “Loot. I reckon yuh got first claim.” CORNICoooks co