Action-Packed Western, May 1958 — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

—_— - ae ——— ee i a ie se » _" 7" 18 ACTION-PACKED WESTERN The leaders, red-eyed and with toss- ing horns, were almost on the camp be- fore the hastily awakened Boxed-W crew realized their peril. Some fired in- effectual shots into the packed mass, others waded into the pools struggling toward the wire fence on the far side; more climbed frantically up the steep slope, clinging to squat mesquite and digging in with their toes as they hauled themselves out of the path of the thundering herd. The stampede hit the camp. A thou- ' sand cloven hooves trampled bedrolls, tarps, guns, cooking utensils, tools into the dirt. With a crash the chuck wagon overturned, spilling flour, sugar, beans. coffee over the ground. Through the dust-shrouded confusion the scream of a man in mortal agony cut like the edge of a jagged knife. ie THREE minutes it was all over. Hundreds of Bar-C steers stood hock-deep in the pools, contentedly sucking the coveted water. Nothing re- mained of the Yarrow camp except a wrecked wagon, one upturned wheel spinning slowly, and fragments of torn soogans, Dripping wet, the shivering Boxed- W waddies who painfully straddled the fence faced Bar-C guns. Pat, at the head of the remainder of his riders, circled, cut the fence and pounded into the smashed camp behind the three Bar-C punchers who had stampeded the thirsty herd. Sheepish Boxed-W riders dropped down from the slopes and broke out of the thick brush back of the spring to confront the levelled barrels of a dozen Winchesters. The shapeless body of the-laggard lay, crushed beyond recognition by the overturned wagon. Yarrow, roaring like an enraged mountain lion, emerged from a nest of rocks. “Goddamn it, Curran,” he raged. “Ill plug yuh fer this!” “You asked for it!” returned: Pat. “Get his gun, Wyoming.” . Yarrow’s hand instinctively went to his holster. He crouched, fingers clos- ing on the butt of his iron. “Pull that gun,” Pat snarled, his Winchester slanting down, “an’ [ll bore yuh, so help me. Stretch!” The deadly menace in his quiet tones checked the cowman’s hand. Slowly, his arms crept up. Ten Boxed-W riders were herded into a sullen, silent group. One .was dead. The night-guard had disap- peared. Covering their prisoners, the Bar-C waddies made a rough circle around them. Two of Pat’s crew were rounding up the Boxed-W ponies, many of which were scarred and bleed- ing from contact with sharp horns. “Get yore boys busy. I want that wire cut an’ rolled,” ordered Pat, rein- ing up beside Yarrow. “T’ll see yuh in hell afore I touch thet fence!” grated the cowman, heavy jaw set. “Suits me,” shrugged Pat indiffer- ently. “If we do th’ work, you jaspers walk home!”’ _“Saay, mister, it’s sixteen miles t’ th’ spread!” ejaculated a fentern- jawed Boxed-W waddy. — “Then cut wire,” shot back the Bie: C boss. Feet shuffled uneasily, ua not a man stepped forward. Two hours passed before ie Bar-C boys finished clipping wire and coiling it around the fence posts. Circled by two alert riders, Sam Yarrow’s men stood frying in the sun, or hunkered disconsolately, watching the Bar-C boys splashing into the pools. The job done, half a dozen of Pat’s punchers hit out for the home spread, Boxed-W ponies in the lead. . Pat rode up to Yarrow and his crew. “Hit th’ trail, boys. Yore ponies’ll be home, tomorrow.” ‘An’ if’n we don’t?” demanded the. truculent old cowman. “Would yuh fancy another stam- pede?” oO answered Pat with a thin smile. COMME DOO