Action-Packed Western, May 1958 — page 23: what you’re looking at

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

FEUDIN’ GUNS blue. Swiftly, the foreman grabbed the - upraised wrist. A brief struggle and he twisted the weapon out of the girl’s clenched fist and thrust it into his waistband. “Vore crazy!” he. snapped. “Pat didn’t blast Sam. He’s bin down at An- telope Creek all mornin’.” Pat spoke for the first time. ‘““You’re shore barkin’ up the wrong tree, Stella. I’m no bushwhacker. What if Sam an’ me did have an argument?” “You can’t fool me,” she retorted heatedly, hands clenching and un-— clenching in the intensity of her emo- tion. “You'll swing for this, Patrick Curran!” Abruptly turning, she went for her pony with quick, jerky steps, swung into leather and pounded away. Bandy heaved a deep sigh of relief. “What d’yuh make ef th’ mess?” Pat ran his fingers through his hair in perplexity. “It beats me. Can’t blame Stella for goin’ on th’ prod, but why pick on me?” He jerked his head toward the corral. ‘“Tom’s a first-rate tracker. Maybe he can pick up some sign. Let’s hit for th’ Spring.” fl leg SUN was dropping toward the west when the three men rode up the gulch in the tracks of the ‘thirst crazed herd that had flattened the Boxed-W camp a few days before. Among the jack pines two ponies, a flea-bitten grey and a big sorrel, were tethered. “Hank’s around,” growled Bandy. “Guess Sam must’ve been plugged hereabouts.” Suddenly, Sheriff Hank Taylor’s. sharp voice hailed them from beyond the chaparral. “Stay hitched you jas- pers. We’re casting around f’r signs.” Pat finished a cigaret before the Sheriff, followed by his deputy, broke through the brush and tramped toward them. “Git a line on th’ varmint what downed Sam?” inquired Bandy, as they hunched around the Sheriff. . 23 “Nope,” said Taylor. His eyes probed Pat. “Stella claims it was a neighbor.” “Meanin’ me,” returned Pat tightly. “T was on Antelope Creek when he was plugged, Hank.” “How d’yuh know when he was plugged?” drawled Taylor. “Stella claims after sunup.” “Ride alone t’ Antelope Creek?” “Vep. Called on some nesters. Hilton by name.” “Vuh had a little trouble with Sam?” Taylor nodded toward the fence posts still standing with the wire coiled around them. | “Sam moved in an’ we booted him off,” said Pat tensely. ‘“Reckon he didn’t take t’ it kindly,” commented the Sheriff. ‘““Mebbe he threatened t’ smoke yuh up,” Pat shrugged his shoulders. “That don’t mean nuthin’, Th’ two spreads _ been feudin’ since I was a button.” Taylor nodded, fumbled for his makings. ‘Got a smoke?”’ Rolling a smoke from Pat’s tobacco he sauntered toward the Bar-C ponies. “Nice piece of horseflesh, Pat,” he commented, eyeing the roan, “I gamble he’s a stepper.” “They don’t come better,” said Pat. ‘Where did they find Sam?” _ “Right where yore standin’. Th’ slug took him from th’ rear under th’ left shoulder. Guess th’ bushwhacker stalked him from th’ brush.” Taylor pointed across the gulch. “Can Tom take a look see? He reads signs like an Apache.” “Go ahead,” invited Taylor. “We been nosin’ around a mite ourselves.” Pat turned to the breed who stood impassively by, opaque black. eyes ex- pressionless above high, cheekbones. The pair crossed the gulch, threaded through the manzanita and sharp- thorned cat’s claw. ‘Look for th’ hoss,” directed Pat. “He musta tied up some- where around.” The breed nodded. “Me find um!” | Gomichboo S (S@)