Action-Packed Western, May 1958 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

12 ACTION-PACKED WESTERN With a swift glance the rider took the rolls and tossed them into the flames. The edges blackened, they burned slowly with a yellow flame. A curse spluttered on Sexton’s lips. “Wh—what’s the big idea?” - “Blood money, bad luck!” returned Pat laconically. “Next time you prod me, Sexton, I’m a-goin’ t’ bite!” “2= ISING and dipping, over the rolling swales, dotted with grazing cows, Pat Curran rode toward the Bar-C. “Damn it!” he muttered, feasting his eyes on the long grey adobe and. timber ranch , house nestling at the foot of a great mesa, “don’t seem but yesterday when I rode out.” Consumed by a mounting excitement, Pat. spurred the roan into a lope. Through the still air came the steady creak of a lazily-turning windmill, the yippee of a puncher topping off a bronc, the ringing of a hammer in the blacksmith’s shop. Peeling cut of leather at the hitch rail in front of the house, he mounted the gallery steps, pushed open the heavy door and stepped into a wide, dimly lighted living room. Gray dust lay thick on the heavy furniture. Gray ashes choked the massive rock fire- place. Like an empty carcase, bereft of life, the house lay quiet and still. “Anyone around!” yelled Pat. His voice echoed hollowly through the rooms. It was like shouting into an empty drum. Jingling spurs, crossing the gallery, drew him back to the door. A spare, hatchet-faced man in a faded blue shirt, with patched levis tucked into his scuffed riding boots, stepped briskly toward him. The dry, parchment-like skin of the newcomer’s face and neck were criss-crossed by a myriad wrin- kles. A straggling gray moustache cov- ered his tight mouth. Bright and bellig- erent, his eyes darted over Pat as he approached with quick, jerky strides. Bandy Beeston, ramrod of the Bar-C since Pat was a button had been: likened to a rooster. He could peck, too, as many a hard-bitten waddy could resentfully confirm. “Well, if it ain’t Bandy!” ejaculated Pat joyfully. “Howdy, yuh old moss- horn! Kinda lonesome round here!” “You’re tellin’ me,’ snapped the foreman. “Where yuh bin hidin’ out? Yore paw cashed in a month back.” ‘‘Now, don’t pin my ears back,’’ re- turned Pat good-naturedly. “I’ve been south of the Rio Grande. Hit lea‘* >r pronto when I saw the notice. Who plugged Pa?” ‘“Night-Hawks. They bin zunnin’ th’ valley ragged. We wiped out a scad of th’ scorpions, but they got th’ old man —salivated Ike and Bonesvy, too.” ‘So Pa cleaned un on th’ gents?” “Like hell he did!” growled Beeston. ‘“There’s a dozen long-riders poundin’ leather fer every jasper w2 planted. Quito Cats thev calls themselves. Hane out over th’ Border thicker’n flies.” His voice changed. “We need yuh, Pat. Th’ Bar-C’s bin fallin’ anart sinc’t yore Paw cashed in his chips.” HE LISTENER’S lean features sobered at the underlying anxiety in the ramrod’s tone. He hunkered down against the gallery wall, rolled a smoke. “Supposin’ yuh spread th’ hand.” “Yuh kin’ read it plain.” Beeston settled down beside him. ‘‘These Quito Cats bin cuttin’ out our stuff in hunks. When yore old man checked out, th’ boys started t’ drift; ain’t got more’n a dozen left. Then Sam Yarrow’s bin inchin’ in. "Member his snre2d borders us on th’ north? An’ Ike Ely of th’ Terrapin runs more Bar-C calves than ~ Terrapin cows.” — : / EOnnicDooks.conn |