Action-Packed Western, May 1958 — page 14: what you’re looking at

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

14 ACTION-PACKED WESTERN idly in Spanish to the nearest man, who strolled across to the stairways, his big spurs tinkling. A YELL CUT through the mumble of conversation and hit Pat’s ears. Descending the stairs three at a time and hitting the floor with a resounding bang, Larry Curran hurried across the room toward his brother, kicking tables and chairs out of his path, “Hello, yuh damned ol’ curley wolf! Where yuh bin all my life?” He grabbed Pat’s ex- tended hand, pushed him down again in his chair. “Hey, Miguel!” he shout- ed . “A bottle of red-eye, the best in th’ house!” - The brothers were strikingly alike, even to their grey shirts and plain bat- wing chaps, except that the mouth of the younger man was looser and his voice louder. The observant Pat no- ticed the pouched skin beneath Larry’s reckless eyes, the lingering smell of bad whisky on his breath. He noted, too, two guns thronged low. Larry filled two glasses brim high from the bottle.. “You’re a sight fer sore eyes,” he chuckled. “Howcome yuh t’ drift in?” 7 “How come yuh t’ locate in a hell- hole, with a dandy spread no more’n a day’ s ride?” countered his brother, eye- ing him levelly. Larry. gulped a mouthful. “Hell, who wants t’ nurse cows?” “Yuh know th’ old man cashed in?” “Shore!” There was a tenseness in the other’s voice that brought an in- quiring gleam to Pat’s eyes. “Know who plugged him?” “F’r God’s sake quit askin’ ques- tions,” grunted the other irritably. “I pulled outa there more’n two years tack!” - “No need t’ get riled,” answered Pat smoothly. ‘What yuh doin’ with your- self these days?” | “None of yore business!” The grin that accompanied the words took the sting from them, “Quita Cats?” queried his brother softly, watching the smoke curl from the cigaret between his fingers. “Yuh hit th’ target!” Larry’s eyes were challenging. “You're one hell of a Curran mixin’ with that pack!” The other blushed at the cold con- tempt in the clipped words. “Guess I kin ride my own trail,” he growled. Pat leaned back in his chair, watch- ing his brother’s dissipated features with hard eyes. “How about th’ spread?” he asked. ‘‘There’s four, may- be five thousand cow-critters grazin’ in th’ Valley. Pa built it up; ain’t we got th’ guts t’ hold it? An’ there’s forty-fif- ty thousand dollars in th’ bank. That ain’t peanuts!” “Sell, an’ split fifty-fifty,’ Larry said casually. — : “Tt ain’t ours t’ sell. Judge Walsh in Apache Valley, holds th’ will.” “Grab th’ blasted cows. There’s buy- ers aplenty on this side of th’ border,” Larry answered carelessly. “An’ t’ hell with Judge Walsh.” “You’re runnin’ off plenty at th’ mouth,” Pat told him coldly, “but yuh ain’t saying a damn thing. I reckon th’ will leaves us th’ spread. If you want t’ pull out, we’ll make a dicker, but we got t’ see Judge Walsh.” . “Tf’n yuh say so,” said Larry indif- ferently, refilling his-glass. “Like yuh say, fifty thousand cart-wheels ain’t peanuts.” UTSIDE the double doors of the Cattlemen’s Bank they tied up, ducked under the hitch-rail and sloped up the outside stairway that led to the second floor where Daniel Walsh, “Judge” by couteay, had his law of- fice. At their entry the lawyer pivoted round in his swivel chair from his yel- - lowed oak roll-top desk. Like the town of Apache, Dan Walsh had worn well, decided Pat, appraising him with shrewd eyes. The same old bald pate ¥ . i os =e le Eomichooks.com = tie oe