Action-Packed Western, May 1958 — page 17: what you’re looking at

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

FEUDIN’ GUNS reined up across Pat’s front, compell- ing him to circle. As he cleared the Box-W pony, Pat swiftly kicked free of the stirrup. His leg shot out and his rowel raked the length of the animal’s flank. Galvanized into lightning action by the raking steel, the pony leapt for- ward, almost dislocating the neck of its grinning rider. Bumping all over the saddle, he strove frantically to bring his bounding, kicking, twisting mount under control. Pat rode serenely ahead, Beeston tight-lipped and silent beside him. “That dogblasted lobo shore gave us th’ horselaugh,” burst out the foreman finally. “Kinda riles yuh, don’t it, Bandy?” chuckled Pat. ‘Well, Sam won't laugh so loud tomorrow. Listen!” The fore- man’s thin face creased slowly into a grin as Pat outlined his plan. Back at the Bar-C Pat hunkered down beside Pecos, Scarface and Wyo- ming, three of his father’s old-time rid- ers. As he gave his orders, he drew a rough diagram in the dirt with his fin- OHS : I’m bankin’ on you boys t handle this right,” hé concluded. “Gather up the cows this side of th’ wire, haze them down t’ th’ flats. I reckon you can gather four-five hun- dred head. Don’t let them Boxed-W rannies git yuh nanny. Let them laugh; it won’t be so danged funny after sun- up. Yarrow will figure that you're roundin’ up th’ critters for a drive t’ Antelope Creek or Coyote Spring. Just before sunup, drift them easy toward th’ Spring. When yuh hear a shot, lay into them. Is that straight?” Pecos shifted his chaw and nodded. “We'll pour ’em in, Pat!” ‘We'll split th’ breeze,” said the Bar- C boss rising, “an’ don’t forget, no trouble! I want them Boxed-W ran- nies t’ sleep sound tonight.” JX THE COLD, grey light of dawn a dozen riders "wound woriieies the 17 foothills, Pat in the lead. Bunched on the hillside beside Willow Spring, as si- lent as dark shadows, save for the rest- less champing of the ponies on their bit-bars, they watched the pool of darkness that was Willow Gulch. Suddenly the silence was shattered by the harsh clang of an alarm clock, set in an upturned bucket. A soogan- swathed figure beside it stretched out a lazy arm and switched it off. Several - of the outstretched forms stirred un- easily. “Thet’s th’ cook,” breathed Beeston hoarsely. “They'll be movin’ pronto.” His lean form rigid in the saddle, Pat’s attention focused on the scene below. At his foreman’s words he turned and swung his arm in a wide circle. The compact bunch of riders broke up, stringing out in a long spaced line. Pat drew his Colt, thumbed back the ham- mer, pulled the trigger. Reverberating from hill to hill, the thunder of the report awoke the echoes and transformed the sleeping camp into a hive of activity. The night guard jerked into wakefulness. Holding his bucking pony with one hand, he loosed slugs wildly with the other. Men threw their soogans aside and dashed around, clutching six-guns and Winchesters, vainly searching for the unseen enemy. Yarrow’s bull voice reached the silent horsemen on the hillside as he bellowed at the guard. Then from lower down the gulch came the answering boom of six-guns, the yipping of riders, the deep thunder of a stampeding herd. Every moment the thunder grew. The growing light revealed a panicky, thirst-crazed stream of cows, madly galloping with clacking horns and up- raised tails, toward ihe pool beside the camp. The charging, bellowing brutes flooded the gulch, crashing through the © brush in an irresistible, blind stampede. On one side they were held by Yarrow’s fence; on the other by the steep slope of the gully, GOmile DOOKS (C@)