Action-Packed Western, May 1958 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

16 time preparing his crew for the trouble brewing all around him. Adding to the six men who were out riding range, he still had plenty of men to handle all the trouble the Quito Cats or any oth- er crew might like to try and hand out. Then Beeston broke the bad news. The wiry, acid-tongued ramrod slid into the seat beside Pat. “Yarrow’s moved unto Willow Spring!” he an- nounced curtly. All of a sudden the chatter ceased. Two lines of heads swivelled toward the new boss. Pat looked into eighteen pairs of cool eyes and knew he was be- ing weighed in the balance of their judgment. This was to be his test. The first sign of weakness would damn him and doom the Bar-C. “Ain’t old Yarrow actin’ kinda high- handed?” he commented casually. “Bar-C cows watered at that spring since I was a button.” “He figgers th’ Bar-C is fallin’ apart,” commented the waspy foreman, filling ( his mug with steaming coffee, “an’ he’s grabbin’ while th’ grabbin’s good.” Pat knew Sam Yarrow of old. Yar- row rodded the big Boxed-W spread to the north. John Curran and the big, blustering Yarrow had pioneered the Valley. From the first there had been rivalry between the two spreads. Guns. had roared more than once. In the end, though, the. stubborn, tenacious John Curran had won out and corraled the choicest waterholes and the best ranges. - Now the old man’s strong arm was moved forever; Yarrow was on the rampage. Pat grinned. “Well, I reckon we'll push Sam back to where he b’lor~- an? boot them nesters off our range.’’~His glance ran up and down the twin row of expectant faces. “How orn fancy th’ chore, boys?” ; Leathery faces creased into approv- ing grins. ‘“Goddamn!” cracked Pecos, a bony faced old-timer with long moustachios. “It’s old John a-talkin’!. ACTION-PACKED WESTERN It'll shore be a pleasure t’ back yore play, boss!” JRROM A SCORCHED bhiillside, ringed with worn cowpaths, back of Willow Spring, Pat and his ramrod eyed the invaders. Busy as beavers the Boxed-W crew was fencing the water off from Bar-C cows; A chuck wagon was drawn up beside the pools. Half a dozen waddies were digging post holes and running barbed wire in a straight line from the gulch,. around the pools on the Bar-C side of the border, down into the valley. A like number of men drifted around, Winchesters in their saddle boots, hazing away thirsty, bel- lowing bunches of Bar-C critters, doggedly pressing forward to their ac- customed watering place. Sam Yar- row’s bulky form was plain as he passed among the men directing the stringing of the wire: Pat? s eyes darkened as the bellowing of the thirsty cattle drifted over the heat-scarred hillside. “Th’ doggoned coyote!” he growled. “Looks like his whole damn crew is down there. Let’s ride!” The two men jogged down the slope, broke through the sparse brush at its foot and rode toward the spring. Eyeing them warily, the Boxed-W ~ riders drifted close. Yarrow dropped a post hole digger and strode toward them, on the far side of the wire. A holstered six-gun slapped against his levis. He was a rangy, big- boned man in his sixties, with thinning hair, eroded features and a jaw like a rock. “Howdy, Curran” he boomed. “Test fencin’ off my water. Ain’t enough fer _ both spreads.” Pat swung his leg into the ox-bow stirrup. “Well, I reckon yore mind’s made up, Sam, so it’s no use spillin’ words. So-long!” | Beeston darted a sidelong glance at his young boss as they wheeled, and a roar of derisive laughter left Yarrow’s throat. A grinning Boxed-W puncher (CO MMIELOOOKS (Eo) x cy ~> = 2. ES. , ee ' Se a