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Full text of "Western Story v184n02 1940-07-27.Street & Smith (now
c2c) (Darwin-IA)
"
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STREET & SMITH'S
WESTERN STORY
TITLE REGISTERED U. S. PATENT OFFICE
CONTENTS FOR JULY 27, 1940 VOL. CLXXXIV NO. 2
The editorial contents of this magazine have not been published before, are
protected bycopyrightand cannot be reprinted without the publisher's permission.
BOOK-LENGTH NOVEL
DEATH TAKES A TALLY. ^. . « « T.T. Fly . . oe 9
The day that made Mike McBride a wealthy cowman also gave is
a gun-smoke heritage that he was going to spend mighty fast!
SERIAL
DARK FRONTIER. . . e e o o o Frank Richardson Pierce. . 101
Feurth of Five Parts ;
Trapped by Clay Bullock's crew, will Steve and his men find
that nature itself has joined the conspiracy against them?
SHORT STORIES .
DEMON AN' PITHYPUSS. . . « ». S. Omar Barker . . . . 46
Rowdy Ransom's beery-tone ‘and Mac McCorkadale’s whiskey tenor made
a forty-rod duet that had the whole Ganado range bleery-eyed. . . .
ACES AND EIGHTS . . . Ney N. Geer. . e e . 55
Fhe Powder River Kid held a "dead man's 5
hand—for himself or a murdering tinhorn!
SADDLEFUL OF DYNAMITE. . . - . Jim Kjelgaard *. morer OG
Mae Williams knew just where io dab his loop
on a horse worthy of that silver saddle. . . .
SIDEWINDER'S RAIN CHECK. . . . . Wilfred McCormick . . . 74
How to catch a double-crosser in his own trap was
the problem that*confronted Honest John Colter. . . .
WHIPLASH FOR A GUN BUCKO . . . . UH. Fredric Young © .« « 83
Spawn of a renegade, Taw Ringo had one foot on
the owlhoot and the other on Tully Gerault’s neck!
WESTERN STORY FEATURES
IN TONTO TOWN . . . . . ẹ « o HaryR.Keler . . . . 54
A poem of the range. . . .
RANGE SAVVY . . . « . « H. Fredric Young rubo Hm 13
—A weekly feature devoted to cattle country facts and legends.
DEPARTMENTS
THE ROUNDUP .. +. . . è e © o o The Editor . . . « « 5
GUNS AND GUNNERS . . . e e «© . Phil Sharpe . adt. 299
MINES AND MINING . . . . . . . John A. Thompson . . . 95
THE HOLLOW TREE. . + « e o Helen Rivers. . . . . 97
WHERE TO GO AND HOW TO GET THERE .. John North . . . . | 99
COVER BY H. W. SCOTT
All stories in this magazine are fiction. No actual persons are designated
either by name or character.. Any similarity is coincidental.
Publication issued every week by Street & Smith Publications, Incorporated, 79 Seventh Avenue, New
York City. Allen L, Grammer, President; Ormond V. Gould, Vice President; Henry W. Ralston,
Vice President; Gerald H, Smith, Treasurer and Secretary. Copyright, 1940, in U. S. A. and Great
Britain by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Reentered as Second-class Matter, May 15, 1940,
at the Post Office at New York, under Act of Congress of March 3, 1879. Subscriptions to Canada
and Countries in Pan American Union, $5.00 per year; elsewhere, $7.00 per year. We cannot accept
responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork. Any material submitted must include return postage,
Printed in S16 the U. B. A.
STREET & SMITH PUBLICATIONS, INC. @ 79 7th AVE, NEW YORK
The
Roundup
Wiru plans for vacations in the
air we're inclined to be a bit dreamy-
eyed and “away in the mind” these
warm summer days, particularly
when we receive a letter like the one
we reprint here from Harry F. Olm-
Sted, who is taking his annual jaunt
in the Southwest. Harry writes:
"New Mexico is beautiful at this
time of the year—hot days, cool
nights, and the verdure showing the
effects of the winter moisture. The
cactus is in bloom, and some of it
is very beautiful. I brought in one
yesterday to plant at Dean Kirk's
new trading post that had seventy-
. five blood-red blooms.
“Tt has not been a very good year
—little rain and not much snow.
Last year was total drought, and the
Indian corn crop was a failure. The
result is a total lack of seed corn—
and a Navaho will as soon sleep in
a haunted “chindi hogan” as plant
or eat the white man's superior
corn. So, few are planting, but such
as have seed are busy in their fields,
using much the same technique their
forefathers used here as far back as
the year 1300.
"Thunder and lightning today,
with a little rain, and what a dis-
play the southwestern skies put
forth. The Indians will soon start
their rain dances, for the season is
a full month ahead of schedule. A
fascinating country this, one which
goes far to restore me after an
overly long period at the typewriter.”
We know our readers join us in
hoping that Harry enjoys his well-
earned rest and we feel certain that
he'll collect a wealth of material for
future colorful and fascinating yarns
for Western Story.
“And now,” wrote Daniel S. Gage
some time ago, referring to a story
by Tom Roan in our April 20th issue,
“we have another utterly silly and
fool mess of words, GUN GHOSTS
FROM BOOTHILL! Why inflict on us
such nonsense? Stories which picture
real life—which are possible—are
literature—such nonsense as this
story is just drivel.”
Defending ourselves we wrote
friend Gage that this type of story
has become tremendously popular
with our readers, judging from the
fan mail received. The concensus of
opinion seemed to be that not only
was it exciting as well as entertain-
ing, but was something different—a
departure from the usual run-of-the-
mine situations which have been
written about time and again.
We reprint Mr. Gage’s reply here-
with because we consider it highly
6 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
interesting. Mr. Gage has this to
say:
“Your letter in reply to mine
criticizing GUN GHOSTS FROM BOOT-
HILL is at hand. No doubt many
readers like such stories. It takes all
kinds to make a world. But I think
it more likely that those who like
something are apt to tell you so than
those who dislike it. It is not very
agreeable to find fault.
“Reminds me of when Max Brand
first began to write for the Western
magazines. Of all the crazy tales,
his took the cake. Horses galloping
at full speed for hours without rest,
dogs doing utterly impossible stunts,
and men just behaving as if he were
writing a fairy tale. But probably
you recall them. I think in the end
the majority of readers tired of them.
As to whether such a story as GUN
Guosts could have happened, maybe
it could have, in some unheard-of
place. But you must admit it is
utterly improbable. And there is no
good literature which deals in im-
probabilities.
“I have defended the type of story
in the Westerns on the ground that
they do picture life as one can hardly
find it elsewhere. I have often dis-
cussed with our professors of English
here whether they might not have
their classes read some such writings.
Whether these stories could be ex-
pected to rank as literature with
Dickens, Eliot and others is not the
~ question. But the fact is that they
are read widely and they and other
similar writings would be a valuable
study of the mind of many readers.
But the professors rejoin that such a
study might be all right from the
standpoint of sociology, but would
hardly be the kind of literature their
students should spend time upon.
But there is no literature anywhere
to be called by that name that is
improbable. Except, of course, fairy
tales, fables, et cetera. So I do not
like improbable tales in your pages
—much less impossible stories. So if
you print improbabilities, all my ar- .
guments are taken away."
We want to thank Mr. Gage for
his frank opinion and we consider
this reaction far from "finding fault,"
as he puts it. We are always appre-
ciative of our readers’ reactions to
the stories we publish. After all, we
want all of our members of The
Roundup to feel free at any time to
raise their voices whether it be in
praise or censure. We welcome these
letters which reflect the type of en-
tertainment you prefer. And, natu-
rally, it is to our interest to provide
you with this entertainment. So
keep your letters coming, for we'll
take it right kindly to have your
honest opinions of the stories you
find in Western Story.
| Coming next week—
i
: With DARK FRONTIER winding
| up to a smashing conclusion, we're
i glad to announce the beginning of
a new serial by Jay Lucas, the
author of many fine cow-country
| stories. GUNMAN’S PROGRESS, is
the story of young Lon Fallon
and the forces of range hate which
drove him to become a hired gun
| singer. Filled with fast-paced
action, it will, we predict, give you
many a thrill.
L. L. Foreman contributes the
full-length novel, SATAN CALLS A
SHOWDOWN, and we've rounded
up an impressive tally of stories
by Eli Colter, Kenneth Gilbert,
B. Bristow Green, Norman A. Fox
and many other favorites. And,
of course, you'll find all your fa-
vorite departments.
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TEEN-YEAR-OLD BLUES SINGER, WINS
TWO WEEKS" ENGAGEMENT AT MICHAEL
TODD'S DANCING CAMPUS AT WORLD'S
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TAKES A
BY T. T. FLYNN Y
CHAPTER I
GUNFIRE RIDES THE DRAG
Mike McBri was twenty-one
this second day of the beef drive
when the black clouds hung low
from Big Baldy to the Screwjack
Hills far south. And now and then
the clouds dropped marching veils McBride was singing as he spurred
of mist and fine rain into which the the chunky claybank ahead toward .
big Circle 8 steers plodded with Larrupin’ Ed Shaw, who was riding
lowered heads. point.
Twenty-one this day—and under You could feel like singing on a
a down-pulled black hat and gay, day like this. You didn't care
close-woven blanket poncho, Mike whether it was sleeting or snowing,
10 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
raining or sunny when you'd come
twenty-one and half of a beef drive
was your birthday present.
Half of six hundred and twenty-
eight head by the final tally as they
strung off the home ground for the
leisurely two weeks' drive to the
Two Rivers shipping pens. . Prime
steers for the most part, with. a few
old mossy bulls and cows that had
been hazed out of the Salt Creek
breaks.
Concho Walker had promised it
three days ago, before riding to
Salt Fork with the wagon and old
Jump-John Myers.
“You're plenty man already,
Mike, but it 7 be legallike afore
Jump-John an' I meet the drive at
Dripping Springs with the wagon."
Concho's
reached for tobacco and brown pa-
pers as he growled: “Don’t. seem
no time since you was that tough,
"hungry little button that the bliz-
zard blowed in to help me ’n’ Jump- `
"fat meat?"
John save them cattle." .
Mike had grinned reminiscently
as he stood wiry and lean, gray eyes
level with old Concho's faded stare.'
"Seems to me like it was a long
“A heap
time ago," Mike had said.
has happened since.’
Concho twisted the end of his
smoke deliberately and lighted it be-
fore he spoke.
“Uh-huh. A heap. You was just
shadin twelve. I want but a
busted-down old brusher squatter
with a measly beef bunch that
wa’n’t even paid for. Salt Fork was
half a dezen shacks, an’ free grass
laid from the Baldy range to the
Serewjack malpais."
"I mustve brought the rush,"
Mike chuckled. "Look at Salt Fork
now—six saloons, a bank, a sheriff,
an’ a boothill Every time I ride
out I hear someone else has come
into the country.”
` grass an’ clover.
‘done yore share, Mike.
Jump-John an’ me.
gnarled hand had
. “I know what I’m a-doin'!
'Ttold you-all this mornin’, I’m leav-
Concho's seamed old face had
darkened at things he hated.
“Gittin’ so a man cain't roll out
o his soogans an’ stretch without
pokin' some stranger in the eye.
Good thing I got here first an’ took
my pick.”
Then Concho had shrugged.
“Weve done all right, I reckon.
The Circle 8 has got grass an’ wa-
ter, an’ the beef drive this year'll
bring us good cash money to bank.
We've worked hard an’ et old jerky
an’ bad beans long enough. The
hard days is done. We're in the tall
An’ you've more’n
All them
lean years without wages, same as
So I'm gonna
start you out a man with half the
steer money in the Two Rivers
Bank in yore name.’
Mike had flared back quickly.
“Who wants any cash money in
the bank? You think I’ve been
hangin’ around for a big hunk of the
“Shut up!” Concho had snapped.
Aw’ like
ing you men to get the drive under
way while I ride to Salt Fork with
Jump-John an’ the wagon. We'll
meet you at the Springs.”
“The way you cussed Salt Fork
last time you come back,” Mike had
observed, “I wouldn't figure you'd
hone to see it before Two Rivers."
*Don't care if I never see it
again!” Concho had growled. “Just
lookin’ at the place gets me feelin’
‘crowdy. But I got business to do,
an’ I might as well get it over with.
Maybe you an’ me'll ride on from
. Two Rivers after the steers is sold.
It's time a younger feller like you
shoved cash money in his pocket an’
looked around. You been workin’
too hard on the Circle 8 fer years
now.”
DEATH TAKES A TALLY 11
“I been gettin’ out. Last year I
rode to El Paso an' Santa Fe."
*[ ain't askin' where you been!"
Concho had snapped.
you what you'll probly do! You
ain't big enough yet to stand an'
argy with me! I told you—an'
that's how it'll be! Dern that lead
in my shoulder! It's gonna rain!"
ELL, that was old Concho,
: a-snorting and a-bellowing like
a tailed-up bull for fear someone
would find how soft he was inside.
But Mike McBride knew. Even
now, as he spurred his claybank
through a spit of rain, Mike's throat
tightened at the thought of that
birthday present. :
Many a man worked hard all his
life and never laid hands on so much
money. It was wealth for a young
buster just twenty-one. And hard
to believe even now. Mike hadn't
expected it.
Years back, when that hard-
shelled button wearing too-big hand-
me-downs had ridden out of the
storm on a stolen horse, the Circle 8
sod cabin and the gaunt, stooped old
brush buster had meant only
warmth and grub for a few days un-
til the weather faired. Helping hold
the sorry bunch of cows from a dis-
astrous drift had been no more than
even trade for grub. But the “few
days" had stretched into weeks,
months, years. The button and the
Circle 8 had grown together.
Old Concho Walker had been one
of Quantrell's riders, and before and
after that a freighter, gambler, cow-
hand, handy with a gun from the
Mexican settlements in California to
the rip-roaring spot on Cherry
Creek that had turned into the sil-
ver-and-cattle town called Denver.
Concho had come out of it all an
old man with empty pockets, and
lead scattered in his tall gaunt frame
“Tm tellin’ `
to ache when the weather was bad.
But land and cattle of his own
had done something to the old man.
Winter evenings when Concho told
yarns of the past he talked calmly,
as a man might speak of things some
other man had lived through.
But when he talked of the Cir-
cle 8, Concho’s faded, squinty eyes
glowed and his voice grew eager.
“I had to live to be an old fool
afore I dropped my loop.on a good
thing, button. A man ain't a man
until his feet stand hard on his own
land. . The Circle 8 ain't much now,
but she’s a-gettin’ bigger each year.
Like you, button. Ain't no tellin’
what a young un or a good cow
spread’ll grow into if they're han-
dled right. Jest keep yore eye peeled
an' watch."
Staying around to watch the Cir-
cle 8 grow had seemed natural to
Mike McBride. Before a fellow
knew it the Circle 8 was home, the
Circle 8's good luck and bad luck
were part of life.
You sort of forgot that all men
weren't square and generous like old
Concho, that life was wolf eat wolf,
that when you grew up you were
going to outwolf them all because
of those early years when you'd
been kicked around by bigger
wolves.
Times you did think about it you
were confident you'd outwolf them
all when old Concho didn't need you
any more and you finally left the |
Circle 8. You'd grown to handle
guns in à way that made even
Concho grunt with approval. Your
half-starved kid body had grown
fast to stocky, tireless manhood.
ONCHO didn't know about that
saloon trouble in El Paso last
fall that would have ended in gun
trouble if Mike McBride’s fists
hadn’t beaten a border tough help-
12 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
less, and then the tough’s partner,
reeling and dazed before either man
could snatch his gun.
Concho and old Jump-John and:
the newer hands, Larrupin’ Ed
Shaw, Slim Chance, Gus Delight,
Jim Crowder and Sam Parks never
suspected the cold, wolfish delight
that flooded Mike McBride when he
thought of that savage saloon fight
that had left him cock of the walk
and ready for more trouble—gun
trouble if anyone asked for it.
The wolf pup had become a he-
wolf ready for the pack. But now,
as Mike stopped singing and stared
into the misty rain, throat tight at
the thought of those steers that were
his birthday present, he felt less like
a he-wolf than at any time he could
remember.
Concho had given more Min
prime steers, more than money in
the bank, or friendship and hearty
words. A part of the old man had
reached out to something in Mike
MeBride that had been frozen,
aloof; coldly vengeful ever since, as
a terrified kid just coming eight, he
had seen his mother butchered by
renegades masquerading as raiding
Kiowas.
As Mike rode up, Ej Ed
Shaw observed:
“You shore pick purty weather to
bust out singin’ like a canary. Bet-
ter save it for yore night trick in
case we git thunder an’ lightning.
s Them old mossybacks is still mad
an’ boogery an’ layin’ off to lead a
run."
“T’ve got plenty left over," Mike
chuckled. "Ain't you heard this is
a birthday?"
Larrupin’ Ed hunched under his
yellow. slicker, wet hat brim droop-
mg and water trickling off his long
mustache as he grumbled:
“When you git old as I am, you'll
groan on yore birthdays, kid.
Concho knowed what he was about
when he went around by Salt Fork
with the wagon. Bet he’s bellied
up to a dry bar now, swappin’ lies
over a whiskey bottle."
“Concho ain't had a drink in
years," Mike reminded.
Larrupin' Ed shifted in the saddle
and snorted.
* Ain't because he didn't want it.
Concho's been takin' his likker kick
in buildin’ up his cow spread. An’
gettin’ drier every year like a desert
weed in a drought. When it comes
time for rain, Concho’s dry roots is
gonna soak up everything in sight.”
Larrupin’ Ed shook water off his
mustache and chuckled grimly.
.“Tve seen ’em dry out like that
before. An' when they finally git
set under a gentle pour o' whiskey,
they sprout flowers an' green leaves
an’ howl. I hear Concho talkin’
about the hard days bein’ over. If
that ain’t medicine talk to break a
drought, I never heered none. And
I kin spot a sly look in that old
coon’s eye. He had somethin’ on his
mind when he lit out fer Salt Fork.
It weren't grub fer us or dodgin’ a
wet saddle out here with the drive,
either."
“Its. your own tongue that's
hangin’ dry," Mike grinned. “Salt
Fork ain't the place Concho'll go to
do his drinkin’. He ain't liked Salt
Fork since it growed up fast so close
under his nose. If he was in Two
Rivers, now, with the steers sold,
you might be guessin’ right. Con-
cho’s earned a case of likker the
way he’s worked an’ done without.”
“Why’d he have to go to Salt
Fork, then?"
“Had business there.
the new courthouse.”
“Have it yore way,” Larrupin’ Ed
shrugged. We'll know when we meet
Maybe at
DEATH TAKES A TALLY 13
the wagon at Drippin’ Springs to-
morrow night— Say, didja hear
that?”
Two faint gunshots had come sog-
gily through the mist veils hiding
the brushy country through which
the drive had just come.
“Sounded like a signal!” Mike
said, twisting in the saddle and star-
ing back.
Gus Delight cud Sam Parks, rid-
ing swing, were looking back also.
Several moments passed, and then
two more shots rapped unmistak-
ably far back of where Slim Chance
was bringing up the drag.
“Trouble!” Larrupin’ Ed jerked
-out. “An’ a little more of that
shootin’ close in'll send them mossy-
horns hightailin! Better git back
an’ see what’s wrong!”
Mike was already reining hard
back past the noisy, nervous cattle,
past Gus Delight, who was riding
fast to head off an old cow and try-
ing to look back toward the gun-
shots at the same time. Back past
the drags that had started to fan
out from the gunfire behind them.
Slim Chance wasn’t at his post,
keeping them bunched and moving
ahead. Slim might have been shot
off his horse.
But the horse wasn’t in sight, ei-
ther, as two more shots cracked
sharply. Mike galloped all of two
hundred yards on the back trail be-
fore he made out Slim’s riderless
black pony beyond a chaparral
clump. |
Swearing, Mike had his belt gun
out from under the blanket poncho
before he saw Slim getting to his
feet on the other side of the horse.
Beyond the chaparral clump a sec-
ond horse was easily recognizable as
Concho’s pet Gray Star. Then Mike
saw that a man was visible lying at
Slim's feet.
CHAPTER II
BUSHWHACKER'S REWARD
IKE swore again as he raced
close enough to note the
stricken worry on Slim’s angular
face. Concho hurt out here, miles
from Dripping Springs, where he
was to have met the drive!
Mike brought the running horse
up short and hit the muddy ground
before he saw that the prone man
was old Jump-John Myers.
“Plugged in the lungs an’ hip!”
Slim said hoarsely. “Look at him!”
It was there plain enough to see.
Old Jump-John, white-haired, bow-
legged, stooped. He was older than
Concho and not good for much any
more but droll humor and driving a
wagon and helping cook. Old Jump-
John, with his slicker muddy and
blood-smeared, and the crimson
froth of his life bubbling on a slack
mouth as the misty rain patted un-
noticed on his wide, staring eyes.
“He must’ve cut our sign back
there a piece an’ burred on his horse
until he sighted the drag!" Slim said
huskily. “Guess he couldn’t make it
any more an’ dragged his gun an’
shot as he took a Header off the
hoss! He's been tryin’ to tell me
something about Concho, but he
chokes up an’ can't get it out!”
Jump-John was choking again as
Mike knelt in the mud. Rattling
gasps shook the frail, hunched fig-
ure. Strangling on his own weak-
ness and blood, Jump-John was, and
not much could be done about it.
There wasn’t any way to get a doc-
tor, and probably not even enough
time to call back the grub wagon
that was far ahead with the remuda,
and give the dying man shelter.
Mike lifted the old man’s head a
little. It helped. Jump-John got
his throat clear, drew a sobbing
breath and gathered his strength
14 STREET & SMITH'S WESTERN STORY
with visible effort. His harsh whis-
per was clear enough.
*Git to Salt Fork an' stop Con-
cho! He done a little business an’
took a drink an’ was off like a wild
man! Celebratin’ about his son, he
was whoopin’ fer the whole damn
town to drink to the feller who’s a
big cattleman.”
Slim, bending over the spot, heard
him and whistled.
“Concho never mentioned no son!
Always acted like he’d never been
married!”
“I told. him so, an’ he called. me
a ole fool an’ yelled fer me to drink
to the boy!” Jump-John gasped.
“Concho’s throwed his loop on a
hellacious drunk that’s gotta be
stopped!”
“He have a gun fight before you
left?” Mike demanded.
Jump-John rolled his head weakly
in a negative.
“I seen he was set to stay in Salt
Fork an’ likely drink er gamble the
Circle 8 away, so I got his hoss out
o’ the livery stable an’ started to
head you boys off an’ git someone
to stop him afore the tinhorn gam-
blers got at him. An’ just this side
of the Salt Fork crossin’ by the
Black Butte, I was bushwhacked.
Feller plugged me twicet with a rifle
an’ then rode up to make sure I was
a goner.”
UMP-JOHN choked and gasped
again, and when the ` spasm
passed he was vastly weaker. Mike
had to bend low to hear now.
“Never seen the feller before.
Look, near big pine. He should’ve
. kept away.”
"Why'd he shoot you?" Mike
asked.
Why'd he shoot you?"
Jump-John heard, for his head
moved in another negative. But his
gasping whisper was not the reply.
“Can you hear me, John?
“Git Concho afore it’s too late!
Im afeered—”
Jump-John choked again, and
Mike’s eyes were smarting and he
was swearing in husky helplessness
as he watched the old man go quiet
and inert in the circle of his arm.
Larrupin’ Ed came riding up as
Mike lowered his burden to the wet,
yellow slicker and stood up.
“I heered more shots! What the
devil is it?" Larrupin' Ed yelled as
he rode up.
“Jump-John was bushwhacked!
"There's trouble i in Salt Fork! Circle
the cattle an’ get the wagon back
here for a burying!” Mike threw
harshly at the older man, “I’m rid-
in’ to Salt Fork!”
But Larrupin Ed was already
swingmg down.
*Bushwhacked? Who
whacked him?"
*He didn't get it out."
Larrupin' Ed’s long black mus-
tache jerked as he looked down at
Jump-John and began to swear bit-
terly.
*How come someone shot a harm-
less old feller like him? Where's the
wagon? Where's Concho? Aim't
that his horse?"
“Concho’s in Salt Fork on a
drunk," Mike said hoarsely. “Some-
thing to do with a son he never told
us about. Jump-John figgered he'd
better get word to us an' started on
Concho's horse. He was bush-
whacked this side of the Salt Fork
crossing. That’s all we got from
him. Jump-John never carried
; bush-
' money enough to earn a killing, an’
never made trouble!”
“On Concho’s hoss it might be he
was mistook for Concho!” Larrupin’
Ed suggested.
'*Concho' was raising hell in Salt
Fork,” Mike reminded bitterly.
“Why would anybody be at the Salt
Fork crossing looking for him?”
DEATH TAKES A TALLY 15
“Tt must've been a mistake,” Slim
put in heavily. “Concho ner Jump-
John never riled anyone enough to
bring on a killin’ this way.”
“Mistake, hell!’ Mike said vio-
lently. “You don’t make a mistake
down a rifle barrel in daytime! Not
twice! You know damn well who
you're shootin’ an’ why! Jump-
John was killed because he was
With the gun in his back Mike gam-
bled everything on one wild chance!
Jump-John! An’ the reason’s back
there in Salt Fork, where Concho’s
blowed his top over this son that’s
turned up! You men'll have to bury
Jump-John! I’m going to Salt Fork
for the answer!”
Mike was swinging in the saddle
as he finished. Larrupin Ed
plunged over to his stirrup.
*Wait'll we get the drive stopped
an’ the wagon back here an’ I'll side
yuh, Mike!" he urged.
“Stay with the cattle," Mike told
him. “Better push on to the
Springs for the water an’ grass. Tl
bring Concho to the Springs. Might
as well bury Jump-John here. He
was like Concho. Always wanted
to be off alone a heap. Lll get my
rifle and turn the remuda back."
16 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
Before Larrupi Ed could an-
swer, Mike was spurring away. Gus
Delight saw him coming and rode
back to meet him.
Jump-John’s death made Gus
erupt in profane anger. A signal
caught Sam Parks’ attention. Lar-
rupin’ Ed galloped up.. Mike tar-
ried long enough to help start the
big steers circling, and then went on
to get his rifle and turn back the
wagon and remuda.
UMP-JOHN had died late in the
afternoon. Dark had just closed
down, the rain had stopped, and
patches of moonlight were gleaming
through holes in the clouds when the
Black Butte loomed off to Mike’s
right with cloud streamers drifting
past the top like strands of misty.
hair.
Jump-Jobn had said to look near
a big pine. Many pines grew near
Black Butte, and more than one big
pine stood near the trail. The soggy
ground was dark and there was lit-
tle chance to find what Jump-John
had been talking about.
Mike turned ‘off the trail to sev-
eral of the big pines, without much
hope of seeing anything. It was as
good a way as any to spell his horse.
And it was the horse, snorting, shy-
ing from something on the ground,
that located the body Mike would
have missed.
A flaring match showed the man
lying face down on the wet pine nee-
dles, black hat half crushed under
his head. Mike rolled him over.
Another match made clear the thin,
foxlike face with a loose mouth un-
der a neat brown mustache.
A two-gun man. One gun was
still in the hand-stamped leather
holster, the other lay beside the
body. A bullet had struck beside
the left nostril and come out the
back of the head.
This was what Jump-John had
tried to tell about, what Jump-John
had meant when he said the stranger
should have kept away.
Mike stood there in the black
night, picturing old Jump-John gal-
loping. hard from the Salt Fork
crossing while this fox-faced gunman
carefully sighted a rifle and fired the
death: bullet.
Old John must have tried to reach
cover. -The second shot, perhaps,
had knocked him out of the saddle
under the pine. Like a dead man,
old John must have lain here while
the stranger came up to make sure
the job was done right. Then old
John had nailed him square in the
face.
Old-timers like Jump-John and
Concho were rawhide tough. Jump-
John had been tough enough to get
back on his horse and ride on to find
the Circle 8 drive.
The dead man, Mike discovered,
wore a money belt that held several
hundred dollars in gold and a
deputy sheriff’s badge. Mike was
frowning as he put the badge back
and’ shoved the money belt in one
of the saddle pockets. If the dead
man was a deputy, why wasn’t he
wearing his badge? If he wasn’t a
deputy, why was he carrying the
badge in his money belt?
Answers to those questions were
no clearer than old Jump-John’s
murder. The dead man’s horse was
gone: Wandered away, probably,
carrying the rifle that had killed
Jump-John.
Mike was turning back for a final
look at the body when his claybank
nickered loudly. And over to the
left, back in the trees, another horse
nickered.
At the first sound Mike snatched
his belt gun and jumped for the
trailing reins. Then he listened. It
might be the dead man’s horse, still
DEATH TAKES A TALLY 17
tied where the owner had left him
before ambushing Jump-John.
The horses nickered again and
wind shook drops from the trees in
ghostly pattering. Then silence fell
again. The clouds parted and let
silver moonlight drench the spot as
Mike moved to mount and ride to
the other horse.
A sharp, high voice behind the big
pine froze his movement. “Yowre
covered with a rifle! Stand still!”
CHAPTER III
CHALLENGED
NDER his breath, Mike damned
the bright moonlight that made
him a clear target to rifle shots only
a few feet away. His back was to
the gun, too.
Nerves on his neck prickled,
crawled as he thought how he had
stood there striking matches, with a
gun covering him all the time. He
could have been shot down easier
than Jump-John.
“All right," Mike said without
looking around. “Now what?”
“Drop the reins!
your hands in the air!”
Mike took two steps back, grin-
ning mirthlessly. It had been hard
to believe his ears, but now there
was no doubt that a woman held the
gun on him.
“Drop your gun!” she ordered.
Her voice was thin, tight, unsteady.
Clear, though. Any other time it
might have been a pretty voice.
“S’posin’ I don’t?” Mike said, lis-
tening for sign of a man. But if
there were a man, he would have
done the talking.
“I don’t want to shoot you like a
dog!” She sounded close to tears,
as if nerves were ragged and tight,
and her unsteady finger might press
the trigger any instant. And she
added: “Shooting is too good for
Step back with
you! They’ll know how to settle
you in Salt Fork!”
“Here goes the gun,” Mike said.
The moonlight still flooded on
him. The soft thud of the gun on
the mat of pine needles was audible.
“Now step back away from it!”
Mike stepped back without try-
ing to look around.
“Mind telling me, ma’am, how
come you're out here by Black
Butte this time of evening? It ain't
a place for a woman."
“Tf I hadn't met his horse head-
ing back home and followed up the
back trail, I wouldn't have caught
you robbing his body! The rope
they'll put around your neck will be
too good for you!"
She must have been standing just
beyond the pine trunk all the time
he'd been examining the body, Mike
thought. Not half a dozen steps
away. One easy shot would have
finished him—and she'd been in the
mind to do it.
“Lady,” Mike said over his shoul-
der, *I don't rob dead men. Ain't
you a little hasty about a rape
around my neck?”
The damp pine needles were noise-
less under her movements. The rifle
muzzle was prodding Mike’s back
before he knew she had come out
from behind the pine. Her voice
was bitter, scornful.
“You sneaking thief! I saw you
take his money belt! And you knew
where he was. I saw you come
along the trail looking for him. One
of your friends must have shot him,
and you came back to rob him!”
Mike whistled softly. “So that’s
how you got it figgered? He your
husband?” `
“I haven’t any husband! He’s my
brother!” She jabbed fiercely with
the rifle. “You hear me? My
brother! Shooting’s too good for
18 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
you! Hanging’s too good for a mis-
erable thief like you!”
“Sister, huh?” Mike said, and his
voice hardened as he thought of old
Jump-John. “I mightve known!
Bushwhacking’s more in the family
line, ain’t it?” à:
*What do you mean?" Somehow
a little of the anger was gone as she
put the question.
“You ought to know if you've
growed up a sister to him!" Mike
said harshly. “Don’t tell me you
don’t know he was a skunk! A man
don’t get his age an’ turn bush-
whacker in a day! He's killed his
men and run a dirty trail before, an'
the family must have known it! He
got what was coming to him—an' if
there's any more like him in the
family, they'll probably end up the
same way! Get that gun out of my
back! I don't hurt women!"
HE rifle muzzle stayed hard m
his back. But her voice
changed to huskiness, to something
close to fright. “Who are you?
What are you talking about?”
“I'm Mike McBride, from the
Circle 8. I rode here from our beef
drive to Two Rivers. One of our
men was coming from Salt Fork to
meet us when your brother’ bush-
whacked him here. Old Jump-John
killed him an? managed to find us
an’ tell us before he died! I wasn’t
robbing the body! I took the money
belt to give to the Salt Fork sheriff.
Your brother asked for what he got!
Killing me won’t help! The Circle 8
men know about it!”
“So that’s what happened?”
“That’s what happened!” Mike
‘said harshly.
“I... I believe you.”
“Thanks,” Mike said ironically
over his shoulder.
*D-don't take that belt to the
sheriff!” she pleaded.
“TIl take it if I can get there,
lady!" Mike promised grimly.
*Stand still! Don't try to f-follow
me!” she gulped. She was crying
in soft, racking sobs that she seemed
to be trying to conceal.
Despite the grim memory of
Jump-John, Mike's anger vanished.
'This woman sounded young and
suddenly helpless in grief and hurt.
The gun left his back and she was
gone.
Mike swung around and glimpsed
her running out of the moonlight
into the dark shadows beyond the
pine, back toward the horse that
had nickered. She stumbled slightly
as her foot slipped, and kept on, a
slim, small figure with both hands
still clutching the rifle.
The whispering sound of her sobs
came back for a moment, and then
she was indistinct and vanishing in
the night shadows.
A dead stick cracked, her horse
nickered again, and then the stamp
of hoofs, the crackling of branches,
marked her spurring retreat on the
horse.
Mike stood there alone with the
dead man. He could have followed
her—and perhaps been shot at. A `
woman in her state might do any-
thing.
Helpless and crying, trying only
to get away from him! As if he
were guilty of her hurt! He didn't
know who she was, but he was sure
now that she hadn't realized the
dead man was a killer. And she'd
believed Mike McBride’s angry
words without question. Believed
and fled.
“Didn’t even give me an argu-
ment,” Mike muttered, scowling
down at the dead man.
But the dead couldn’t hear or an-
swer back and the girl was gone.. It
would be hard and maybe dangerous
to try to catch her.
DEATH TAKES A TALLY 19
She must live this side of Salt
Fork. It wouldn’t be hard now to
find out who the dead man was.
And meanwhile, Concho Walker was
in Salt Fork, maybe in trouble.
Mike left the dead man there un-
der the big pine and started on to-
ward Salt Fork. And the bleak,
cold anger at Jump-John’s killer was
grimmer now, and he couldn’t get
his mind off that sobbing, fleeing
girl.
CHAPTER IV
SALT FORK CELEBRATES
ALT FORK was a raw, new town
that had mushroomed at the
fork of Salt Creek and Blue River.
When, years ago, old Concho had
brought his mortgaged cattle onto
the lush grass north of the Screw-
jack Hills, Salt Fork had been only
a few shanties and a trading post.
When the button named Mike
McBride had thrown in with the
Circle 8, the last Indian outbreak
had just been cleaned up to the
west, gold had been discovered in-
the Cohita Mountains, a hundred
and fifty miles farther west, and the
easiest way for the freight was
through Salt Fork. With the Indi-
ans out of the way, cattle were safe
in the Screwjack country and the
settlers had come fast.
Salt Fork had grown as fast and
been made the seat of a new coun-
try. And on his Circle 8 land. Con-
cho had grumbled about the rush of
strangers that put neighbors within
ten or fifteen miles and made Salt
Fork, a bare fifty miles away, a raw,
wide-open cattle town almost under
their noses.
Tt was an hour's fast ride from the
Black Butte to Salt Fork. The clay-
bank was foam-flecked and blowing
hard when Mike dismounted before
the Colorado House, the two-story
WS—2B
adobe hotel where the stages
Stopped.
Wagons and horses were at the
hitch racks along the muddy street.
Windows were lighted, indicating
that Salt Fork was wide awake.
Mike walked stiffly into the hotel
and spoke to a fat, gloomy-looking
clerk who was seated on a high stool
behind the counter making entries
in a ledger.
*Where can I find a gent by the
name of Concho Walker?" Mike de-
manded.
The fat man started and spilled
a drop of ink on the sheet as he
looked up and blinked. “You mean
the old man who owns the Circle 8?”
“That’s him? Is he around?”
*He's been around,” the fat man
said sourly. His pen tip indicated
the long rafters behind Mike. “Peel
your eye up there, bub, an’ you'll
see where he shot hell out o' the ceil-
ing this afternoon. Said he was
goin' to write his son's name up
there so Salt Fork'd never forget it.
He like to shot the shirt tail off a
preacher that had the room up
there."
“I ain’t ‘bub,’ and the preacher
‘ean look after his own shirt tail,"
“What’s . the
That’s the
Mike said coldly.
son's name?"
*Walker, I reckon.
old un's name."
*He have the son with him?"
“Not as I seen.”
“Where’s Walker now?”
“The devil only knows,” the fat
man said sourly. “I only hope he
stays away until he sobers up.”
EVERAL men sitting in chairs
had listened to the conyersation.
One of them said: “He was at the
Gold Rush a couple of hours ago,
going strong. Drinks is free, an’ he
swears hel] have the whole town
drunk tonight.”
20 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
“Why don’t the sheriff lock him
up?” Mike demanded harshly.
“Tf Ban Shelton locked up every-
one that bought drinks fer the
town,” the fat clerk grumbled, “Salt
Fork’d be a hell of a place. Shel-
ton’s got the right idea. He let’s
'em have a good time."
“Specially when they howdy-do as
` how they'll pin a few ears back with
a stud deck as soon as they square
off at a table with any gents who'd
like to learn poker from an expert,”
the other man drawled. “Shelton
ain’t the man to annoy his gambler
friends by lockin’ the sucker up, is
he?”
A queer look came over the clerk’s
fat face.
“That ain’t no way to be talkin’,
Shelton wouldn’t like it.”
“TIl bet not," the speaker agreed
in his lazy drawl.
He was. a clean-shaven, middle-
aged man in a black suit, gray hat
and expensive half boots. His air
of prosperity suggested that he came
from one of the larger towns. Long
slim hands unmarked by hard work
hinted that he might be a gambler.
But his lip had curled with disdain
when he spoke of the sheriff’s gam-
bler friends.
The clerk cleared his throat,
Írowned and started to say some-
thing. Then he pressed his lips to-
gether, dipped the pen into the ink
and hunched back over his ledger.
“Thanks,” Mike said and hurried
out.
At least Concho hadn’t gotten
himself into a gun fight. But old
Jump-John had been right. Concho
was on a "hellacious" drunk that
might lose him the Circle 8 and ev-
erything he had built up in the lean ,
hard years of his old age.
Larrupin’ Ed had called the turn,
too. Concho had dried out too long.
And now the old man was roaring
wild on whiskey, at the mercy of
any crooked gambler who might be
friendly with the sheriff. Mike was
scowling as he looked in a saloon,
saw no customers and crossed the
muddy street toward another saloon.
Ban Shelton, Salt Fork’s sheriff,
had been in office less than a year.
Mike had seen him only once, from
across the street, a tall, stringy man
with a reddish mustache, a fancy,
pearl-handled revolver and a big,
fancy white sombrero.
Shelton was a Texas man. He
was said to be handy with a gun,
and was backed by all the Texicans
who had settled in the south part
of the county. :
The second saloon had only one
customer and he was not Concho.
Mike studied the hitch racks and
building fronts along the street for
signs of the most life, and ended up
at a low adobe building that housed
the Stag Saloon.
HE Stag hitch rack was crowded
with horses. Loud voices, laugh-
ter, fiddle and piano music were au-
dible inside. And as Mike walked-
in, a high-pitched rebel yell keened
over the other sounds.
A burst of laughter followed. The
tall, gaunt bearded man in a bat-
tered black hat and worn buckskin
who had given the yell sighted Mike
and took a step toward him, whoop-
ing: “’Nother stranger! An’ walk-
in’ steady an’ sober er my name, ain't
Jubal Lark! What'll it be, young
feller? Yuh cain’t stay the only so-
ber un in town!” :
Mike grinned as he allowed him-
self to be urged to the bar.
*Whiskey," Mike said. “I hear
Concho Walker’s gettin’ the town
drunk.”
DEATH TAKES A TALLY 21
Jubal Lark whooped again.
“Concho Walker! There's a man
who'll do fer ary partner! Knowed
him on the Picketwire thirty year
age, I did, an’ they wa'n't ary cur-
rycomb made fer him then! We're
a-drinkin’ to Concho's boy, an’ I’m
keepin’ ’er pourin’ while Concho
gits him some rest with a leetle
poker! Barkeep! Everybody’s
drinkin’! I got the dust tuh pay fer
it! Gold's gold in ary place yuh see
hit! An’ I got the gold"
His rebel yell split the noise
again.
“Drink up on Jubal Lark an’ Con-
cho Walker! Hit’s free an’ hit’s here
a-waitin’”!”
Whoops and yells marked the
rush to the already crowded bar.
The erowd was good-naturedly noisy
and drunk.
It must have been going on for.
hours. Mike had never seen any-
thing like it. Concho had likkered
up most of Salt Fork. Half a dozen
men already were lying helplessly
against the walls where they had
been dragged.
“Where'd you say Concho was?"
Mike asked Jubal Lark.
“In the back, havin’ him a few
cyards. Yuh know Concho, young
feller?” 3
Mike nodded.
‘Jubal Lark dropped an arm on
his shoulder and grabbed for his
hand. `
"Im proud to know yuh,
Concho's friends is Jubal Lark's
friends! Git outside that drink an’
Til take you to Concho! He's
a-waitin’ fer you, boy! Concho's
a-waitin’ fer all his: friends! We'll
tote him a bottle an’ bring him luck
with them cyards!”
The drink helped after the wet
_day and hard ride. But Mike was
: manded.
son!
hard-eyed and watchful as he edged
away from the bar after Jubal Lark.
CHAPTER V
SHERIFF ON GUARD
IHE saloon was L-shaped, with
the bar in front and the side of
the L a long, beamed room holding
a dance floor and tables. Jubal
Lark weaved toward a door in a par-
tition at the back.
A man drinking beer at a table
near the door stood up when Mike
and Jubal Lark approached. The
big, white sombrero topping the tall,
stringy figure was familiar before
Mike recognized Ban Shelton, the
sheriff.
Shelton hitched his gun belt up as
he stepped over before the door.
“Where you men headin’?” he de-
“Bringin’ luck an’ a friend to my
ole pard, Concho!” Jubal © Lark
whooped. “Step in with us, sher-
iff, an’ clean out yore guzzle with `
some real drinkin’! Beer ain’t ary
way to be celebratin’ with Concho!”
The sheriff blocked the way.
“Pm drinkin’ what I like, an’ the
boys in there are doin’ what they
like. They don't want to be both-
ered. You men wait at the bar.
They'll be out when they get ready. E
* Ain't a time when Concho wa’n’t
ready to see his old pard Jubal Lark!
He's a-dryin’ an’ a-thirstin’ fer this
bottle we're bringin’ him!”
"You ain't bringin’ him any-
thing!" Shelton snapped with a
quick loss of patience. “I’m keepin’
order around here, an' if the boys
say they don't want to be bothered,
Tl keep it that way for them while
I'm around. Go on back to the bar
like I’m tellin’ you. I don't want
to lock you up!”
*Ain't anybody gonna lock Jubal
22 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
Lark up fer tryin’ to see an old pard-
ner!”
Ban Shelton’s weathered, reddish
face was long and angular, with a
small, tight mouth. And the mouth
was hard now as he bit out: “PI
lock you up so damn quick you
won't know what happened, old-
timer! Don't crowd me, even if you
are feelin’ good!" ù
“Wait a minute,” Mike said, el-
bowing Jubal aside. “Nobodys
breakin’ any law by walkin’ in on a
card game to speak to a man. Since
Mike was almost clear
of Salt Fork when
guns opened up across
the street and the
claybank went down.
when did the Salt Fork sheriff start
watchin’ the door for a poker
game?”
Ban Shelton’s angular face red-
dened.
“Lippy young squirt, ain’t you?
Who'n hell are you?" P
*McBride's the name. I work for
the Circle 8 brand. I rode here to
DEATH TAKES A TALLY 23
see Concho Walker, and I aim to
see him. Anything in your law book
that says I can’t see him?”
AN SHELTON’S eyes were set
close and mean-looking when
you watched them narrowing and
flaming in dislike, as they did now.
|: “My law book says you're too
damn smart for your age!” he said
harshly. “It’s got six pages, a han-
dle, an’ a steel barrel! An’ Ill bend
it over that swelled young head if
you don’t get back to the bar with
this man an’ stop disturbin’ the
peace! That’s final warnin’!”
Mike was grinning. He’d grinned
like this before, and felt like this in-
side when the wild fracas had
started in the El Paso saloon. It
was a hot and surging feeling inside,
like fire suddenly roaring up against :
irouble.
“Workin’ with the tinhorn gam- `
blers, are you?" he said, still grin-
ning. “Get them hands up!
around! Open that door!"
Ban Shelton's look had turned
venomous as the first words came
out. His hand had slapped down
toward the fancy,
gun, but it stopped when he saw
the fast outflip of Mikes old
wooden-handled .45. ;
The sheriffs jaw stayed loose in
amazement as Mike bit out the or-
ders with the same cold grin. Slowly
Shelton turned and reached for the
doorknob. - Mike jerked the pearl-
handled six-gun from the holster.
Jubal Lark had sobered into quick
uneasiness.
“Wait a minute, young feller,” he
protested. “They ain’t no use stick-
in’ up the sheriff! Trouble ain't
Concho’s idee today!”
“Pick out a spot of floor an’ guz-
zle yourself .blind" Mike said
through his teeth. “I’m handlin’
this! You, sheriff, hurry up! Lemme
‘see Concho Walker!
Turn |
pearl-handled :
cards.
Im in a
hurry!"
“There'll be hell to pay for this!"
Ban Shelton threatened thickly as
he stepped through the doorway
into a dim passage beyond.
“Ask for it and you'll get it!"
Mike said. “Open up that card
game an’ show me Concho!”
The edges of the second door on
the right oozed light and murmur-
ing voices. Then the bright-yellow
lamp light glowed into the passage
and the voices went silent as Shel-
ton opened the door and stood there
with his hands up.
“What the hell?” a nasal voice ex-
claimed. .
pst the sheriff’s shoulder, Mike
saw a bottle, glasses, and cards
on a table under a hanging brass
lamp that was wreathed in bluish
tobacco smoke.
A stud game by the lay of the
cards. Four players. Concho had
his back to the door. The nasal-
voiced man was across the table,
facing the door. Under the down-
pulled brim of his hat, a lean, fur-
rowed face eyed the sheriff fixedly.
On the right side of the table a
burly, red-faced man with his vest
,open and his sleeves rolled up on
big hairy arms had been dealing
He put the deck down slowly
as his head turned on a thick, pow-
erful neck. Under bushy black
brows, his eyes narrowed at the
doorway.
The fourth man, on the left side
of the table, was small, lean and
young. Behind a scanty blond mus-
tàche his rather handsome face was
suddenly nervous as he leaned for-
ward and saw the sheriff. A stack
of chips clattered softly as he
dropped them on the table. He slid
lower in the chair, as if shrinking
from trouble.
24 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
“Get up, Concho!” Mike said
sharply. “I’ve come for you!”
“Eh?” Concho’s voice was thick.
His chair scraped back and he stag-
gered as he started to get up. “Who
is it?”
“A damn stranger lookin’ for trou-
ble on account of the old man!”
Shelton said harshly. “He drawed a
gun on me!”
“Shut up!” Mike said. “Concho,
come out o’ there!”
Concho caught at the*chair to
steady himself and lurched around
into the doorway, peering to see what
was happening. His stooped, spare
frame hid the rest of the room for
the moment. And back of Concho
there was no warning as a gunshot
blasted out the overhead light.
Mike couldn’t shoot the sheriff in
the back, but any tenderfoot would
have recognized this as a mess of
trouble for Mike McBride and Con-
cho Walker.
“Damn your dirty tricks!” Mike
swore as he jerked up the .45 to pis-
tol-whip the sheriff out of the way.
The blow glanced eff a shoulder.
Shelton had nimbly dodged aside in
the sudden dark as the pressure of
the gun left his back.
“Duck, Concho!” Mike yelled. A
second blasting shot in the card room
drowned the words. Then there was
a third shot.
A man lurched out of the doorway
into Mike and would have fallen if
Mike hadn’t thrown out a support-
ing arm. It was Concho, reeking of
whiskey and now worse than drunk.
Mike jumped back with Concho’s
sagging weight full on his arm. He
fired past Concho at a gun flash in-
side the card-room doorway.
Concho was muttering something,
but the words were lost as other
guns hammered a hail of lead out
the card-room doorway. Bullets
that would have riddled them both
if Mike hadn’t moved fast.
There was no time now to hear
what Concho-was saying. Concho
was badly hit. He'd be killed and
Mike McBride, too, if those poker
Sharks had their way.
CHAPTER VI
GUN-SMOKE INHERITANCE
Mae bumped into Jubal Lark
X as he backed with Concho's
stumbling weight. He was throwing
shots past Concho at the doorway
where red gun flashes searched after |.
them. The sheriff had disappeared
back in the dark hallway.
“Get outta the way!" Mike yelled,
crowding back past Jubal Lark with
his burden.
The numbing slam of a bullet fur-
rowed his left arm, the arm that was
holding up Concho. Maybe it
meant another wound for Concho.
The old man had been hit more than
once. His weight was getting
heavier.
Mike was raging with wild anger.
This was like the killing of old
Jump-John. This was cold murder
a second time, without any excuse
or reason that a man could see.
Murder backed by Ban Shelton, the
sheriff.
xe was stumbling badly,
ready to fall. "There wasn't a chance
to duck for cover and make a stand.
Mike's shoulder hit the side of the
doorway. He staggered back out of
the passage, found the open door
with a sweep of his arm and
slammed it shut.
Beside him, Jubal Lark grumbled:
*Why'd yuh have to start trouble
thataway, young un? What’s the
matter with Concho?"
Concho's knees buckled and a
great groan wrenched from him.
“Can’t make it any more, Mike!”
DEATH TAKES A TALLY 25
“Lemme down an’ run
Here outside the passage there
was dim light from the front of the
saloon. Light that showed Concho’s
weathered, wrinkled face contorted
with pain.
Bleed was spreading over Con-
cho’s shoulder. A great red blotch
was widening on the front of his
shirt. Mike swallowed a groan as
he saw that a bullet had gone in
Concho's back and torn out big in
the front. Concho didn't have a
chance.
Concho knew it. His look had
cleared and steadied. Concho was
a sober man now, calling on the last
of his strength as he tried to push
Mike away.
“Jubal!” Concho gasped.
“Here, pardner!”
“Help the boy git away! He's my
boy! My son! Don’t let "em git
him!”
* Hell's blazes! Whyn't somebody
say so?" Jubal Lark blurted. “He
never told me! Shore Ill watch
him!”
Jubal Lark whirled menacingly
toward the crowd that was cau-
tiously moving out from the bar
into the other end of the L-shaped
room.
"Git back there!” Jubal Lark
yelled. “Keep out o' this! I'll plug
p
the first snake that gits in our way!
ONCHO was sitting on the floor
now, supporting himself with a
hand as Mike finished reloading the
45 and cocked the sheriff's fancy re-
volver in the other hand.
“Where’s your real son?” Mike
asked huskily. “TI get to him if I
can an’ tell him!”
“Always wanted a son!” Concho
wrenched out. “Been aimin’ fer it
since you throwed in with me, Mike.
I come here to Salt Fork this trip
an’ made it legal! Lawyer Sanders
drawed up the papers so you'll git
the Circle 8 an’ all I own. I took
me a drink to celebrate—an’
couldn't stop the celebratin’.”
Concho gulped and smiled faintly.
* Ain't every day a old hardshell like
me gits a. bang-up son he's so proud
about!"
Mike's throat was suddenly tight,
so that it was hard to speak. His
eyes were moistening strangely as
he knelt there on the rough floor
with cocked.six-guns and looked at
Concho's lean, writikled face and
bowed shoulders.
Concho’s faded frosty eyes were
clouding now, and yet they were
bright, too, with a pride and satis-
faction Mike had never before seen.
“You needn’t have done it!” Mike
gulped. You've been bettern a
father!"
“Might ’a’ whaled you a few dius
when I didn't," Concho said thickly,
and managed. to smile as he bowed
there with a hand over the torn hole
in his stomach and blood creeping
out over the gnarled fingers.
A spasm passed over Concho’s
face. He fought it away and
gasped:
“Listen while I c'n talk. It’s the
only chance I'll get to talk to a real
son. You've growed up now. I
want you tuh keep growin’. Don't
wait hke me till yo're busted down
an' wore out afore you git yore roots
in an’ start growin’, Yo’re young.
You can go.a long way with the
start you got. Savvy?"
“Sure, Concho!” -
“Savvy this, then,” Concho
gasped. “I aim fer you to keep
growin' head an' shoulders over ary
man you ever knowed. Listen, boy!
Tm dyin’! I can’t be with you like
I counted on. I aim fer you to end
up a king cowman that men'll talk
about from St. Louie to Frisco! I
26 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
aim fer you to do all the things I
should’ve done an’ be all the things
I might’ve been! You listenin’,
son?”
Jubal Lark was stamping back
and forth beside them, warning the
saloon crowd away. The sheriff and
gamblers hadn’t appeared. They
might any second. Concho’s eyes
were clouding fast. Mike didn’t
know where he was getting the
strength to hold himself up and pour
out the dry, feverish words.
Kneeling there with the two .45s
cocked and ready for the gun fight
that might resume any second, Mike
nodded again, unashamed tears in
his eyes.
‘Tm listening, Concho!
forget!”
“Yo’re young enough to make it,”
Concho said. "It'll mean your heart
. an’ yore head'll have to keep growin’
with yore bank account. Jealous
men'l try to cut you down. Sofne
that seem friends’ll try t? double-
cross yuh. You'll have to be hard
an’ soft at the right time an’ sharp
all the time. Yore feet’ll have to
stay hard on the ground while yo're
lookin' up above where you're climb-
in’. An’ when you get there, son,
I want you to be proud an' big, with
no shame behind you. Savvy?"
“I savvy, Concho—all of it!”
Concho was looking at him, but
the faded eyes had a faraway look,
as if Concho already were leaving
and straining back for a last look.
Concho’s voice was fading away,
too.
“No matter where you bury me,
son, I'll be lookin’ when you git up
there to the top. Tl be proud I
pointed you right—proud of ol
Concho Walker's son—" .
“Concho!” Mike caught the col-
lapsing figure and eased it to the
floor.
I won't
Concho was gasping. His eyes
had closed. He was past hearing
now, past caring what happened to
Concho Walker. He had gone far
on that trail all men travel alone,
and was going faster, farther each
moment.
“He’s dying!” Mike gulped.
“Like he wanted to,” Jubal Lark
jerked out. “Concho use to say he'd
like to git it with his boots on an’
guns smokin’ close. Ain't no more
we cn do, boy. Our skins is next.
Let's get out o' here!”
IKE stood up, blinking, grip-
.ping the two cocked six-guns.
'There was no time now to think it
all out. There at his feet, Concho
was dying. One of the gamblers
had shot Concho in the back. And
savagely Mike knew what had to be
done.
“Ride your trail" Mike threw at
Jubal Lark as he turned toward the
passage door. i
“What yuh doin’?”
‘Tm gettin’ the dirty son that
killed Concho!”
“No, yuh don’t!” Jubal Lark said
decisively. “Yo’re Concho’s boy! I
told him I'd git yuh out o' here!
That sheriffll be back to even up
the way yuh handled him!”
But Mike elbowed past the older
man, jerked open the door, plunged
into the passage taut and ready to
meet triggered guns.
But the dark passage was quiet,
deserted. The .card room held no
sign of life. On to the back Mike
ran, guns cocked for any movement
ahead. Then suddenly through an-
other door he came out back of the
building into the open night.
Jubal Lark was at his heels, pro-
testing.
“They hightailed to a hole some-
’eres! Yuh won't find ’em if yuh
hunt all night! Git out o' town,
DEATH TAKES A TALLY 27
boy! That sheriffll have help by
now. Yuh cain't gun-fight him an'
his friends all alone an’ come out
with yore hair! Where's yore hoss?”
“In front of the hotel," Mike mut-
tered, peering about, listening.
Jubal Lark caught his arm and
spoke with hoarse urgency.
“My hoss i is at the feed barn! Til
git him an’ meet yuh out o' town
on the Drippin’ Springs trail! We'll
jine yore outfit an' talk things over!
Yuh'll do a heap more with friends
at yore back an' plans made than
a-chargin' around in another man's
town at night askin' for trouble.
Yuh go an’ kill two-three o° them
an’ there’ll be a dozen more to git
yuh! That ain't what Concho fig-
gered!”
It was only words strung together,
words that had no meaning for Mike
McBride. Anger, grief at Concho’s
death had brought that cold, sav-
. mage, wolfish feeling. ‘They wanted
gun fighting. poe get gun fight-
ing!
“Go get your hoss!” Mike said. `
' suit and expensive boots who had
.spoken up in'the hotel lobby.
"man was leaning against the build-
p
"Don't worry about me!
Jubal Lark held onto his arm.
“Still want trouble, don’t yuh?
Cain’t ride away an’ leave hit to an-
other day. You young hotheads is
all the same. Listen! Yo're Con-
cho’s boy! Yuh made Concho a
dyin’ promise!. Are yuh gonna keep
it?”
The harsh reminder struck Mike
like cold water. It was as though
Concho were standing there in the
dark with the weight of his gnarled
hand beside Jubal Lark’s hand.
Mike wavered, surrendered.
meet you out on the trail."
“Good boy! Keep offn the street
till yuh get to the hotel an’ then
ride like hell! That blasted sheriff
“Til
is wantin’ yuh! He ain't forgot how `
yuh handled him.”
.., drawled without moving.
hurt?”
' drawled,
UBAL LARK vanished in the
night. Startled, Mike tried to
follow the buckskin-clad man’s re-
treat. He heard nothing, saw noth-
ing. Jubal Lark had gone like a
ghost. With a grunt of approval,
` Mike went the other way, cutting
back behind the store buildings.
The crowd in the Stag Saloon was
boiling out into the street. The gun-
play, the dead man, the threat of
more to come had silenced all but
the noisiest ones.
Mike heard a few uncertain yells
as he ran toward the hotel. He met
no one back there in the dark behind
the store buildings. Everything
seemed quiet in front of the hotel.
The claybank drooped at the hitch
rail.
But as Mike holstered his gun and
stepped out to the rack, a quiet
voice said, “Trouble down the street
` there?”
Mike spun toward the voice.
Then he shoved his six-gun back in
' the holster as he recognized the
clean-shaven stranger in the black
The
ing front now, smoking a cigarette.
“T met the sheriff an’ his friends,”
Mike said briefly as he turned back
to the claybank and unwrapped the
reins.
“Figured you might,” the stranger
“Who got
“The man I was looking for,"
Mike answered harshly as he
reached to the saddle. “Murdered!
Shot in the back! Might help you
to remember that! In the back!"
“My memory,’ the stranger
“is good.” His cigarette
end was glowing red as Mike reined
the claybank out into the street.
Back at the Stag Saloon there
was more noise now as the drunken
28 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
crowd spread along the street. Back
there, too, was Concho Walker and
a score that Mike McBride would
settle before he again slept easy at
night.
The bitter bite of it was in his
throat as he settled in the saddle to
ride, and the drumming crash of
gunshots across the street was the
first warning that he was not getting
out of Salt Fork without more trou-
ble. The next instant the claybank
was screaming, rearing high.
CHAPTER VII
UNDER ARREST
ALF a dozen guns, at least, were
spurting fire. The claybank
was badly hit. High it reared—and
came down loosely, pitching forward
into the muddy street.
Mike kicked out of the stirrups,
threw himself clear of the saddle, hit
the ground staggering and sprawled
in the mud. The six-gun he had
drawn went deep into the mud,
clogging the barrel.
Mike hurled the gun away as he
scrambled up and clawed out the
sheriff's gun that was thrust inside
his belt. The shots had stopped as
the horse went down; now they
started again as Mike came up in
the street.
A trip-hammer blow seemed to
tear off the top of his head, and he
felt himself falling into blackness
that had no bottom.
Then lamplight was in ‘his eyes
and men were about him. He was
on his back. his shirt off. Someone
was working on his arm.
The first words he heard sounded
far away. His clearing head brought
the voice suddenly just above him,
speaking in a mild drawl.
“He was lucky. An eighth of an
inch lower would have split his skull
like a meat ax. This arm won’t
bother him much. It gouged out a
little muscle and he lost some blood.
But he’s young and husky enough
to stand it.”
*He'd be better off if he'd leaked
all his blood!" an angry voice broke
in. “Because I'm gonna hang him
an' laugh while the rope stretches
his dirty neck! Id have killed him
back there in the street if Pd known
about him then!"
“He’s your prisoner now. Better
not lose your head," the mild voice
advised. “After all, there might be
a mistake.”
“Mistake, hell! Witnesses seen
him shoot old man Walker! That
money belt in his saddlebag is one
I give my brother! He had to kill
Jake to get it! You tryin’ to tell me
he ain’t a dirty killer?”
‘Tm not trying to tell you he’s
anything,” the mild voice said. “A
jury will do that. But dead brother
or not, Shelton, you'll do well to
make sure he faces a jury. I’m tell-
ing you now that he'll be all right
in a little while. I suggest you keep
him that way."
“PH ask for your advice when I
want it!” Shelton snapped. “Too
damn many folks tonight are tellin’
me how I ought to act as a sheriff!"
'The mild voice said, *I voted for
you, Shelton. It was my under-
standing Salt Fork wanted a sheriff,
not a judge, jury and public execu-
tionist as you see fit. You'd have
killed this man instead of arresting
him as he lay there in the street if
that stranger hadn't stopped you."
“A damned lone-wolf gambler
buttin into something that was
none of his business! He's another'n
that’ll learn to mind his own busi
ness!” :
"Shelton," the mild-voiced man
said, “I’m a voter, a taxpayer and
the only medical man in three days’
DEATH TAKES A TALLY 29
Mike heard the sheriff com-
ing, but he had the lawyer
by the throat before the
sheriff could get to the cell.
You might remember that.
A sheriff can always be replaced.. A
doctor can’t.”
ride.
HE sheriff growled something as
Mike opened his eyes. The doc-
tor was putting on his black hat.
Barely past thirty. by his looks,
clean-shaven, with a thin, likable
face.
Ban Shelton was there and an- .
other man, and behind them. were
jail bars. Mike lifted his head. He
was on a cell cot. Half a dozen men
beyond the bars had been watching
the doctor work.
One of them UT “Looks
like you was right, doc. He’ S a-rear-
in’ up.”
“PII handle him,” Ban Shelton
grunted. His red face was ugly as
he said, “Wheres Jake’s body?
Speak up or ll] choke it out of
you". .
“Ask your sister,” Mike said with
an effort.
“What’s Judy got to do with it?”
“She found the body. She'll tell
30 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
you I took the money belt to bring
to the sheriff. Not knowin’ you
were brother to a man who'd bush-
whacked an old man in cold blood.”
“I don't know what in blazes
you're talking about, McBride! It's
a lie, whatever it is! Judy don’t
know Jake’s dead or she’d have sent
word! If you brought Jake’s belt
to the sheriff, why’n hell didn’t you
give it to me at the Stag instead of
pulling a gun when I wasn’t looking
and crowdin’ past to shoot that old
soak you’ve been workin’ for?”
Sitting on the cot edge, Mike was
dizzy, sick with the hammering pain
inside his bandaged head. The men
outside the bars were watching for
his reply. The doctor’s look was
thoughtful. Half an eye could see
that even the doctor. thought he’d
shot Concho in the back.
Mike tried to stand up, protest-
ing. “That’s a lie! One of those
gamblers shot Concho! One of your
friends!"
Shelton pushed him violently
back on the cot.
“That talk ain't helpin’ you!
There was witnesses. I saw it my-
self! We'll put you before a jury
an' let them hang you! Now every-
body clear out! I’ve got him safe
and I'll keep him safe!"
* Just a moment," the doctor said.
“What’s this, Shelton, about your
brother killing someone?"
“Tf this feller's got any kind of a
likely story he can tell it in court!"
“Doc,” Mike said, looking at the
physician, “I need a lawyer. Tell
Lawyer Sanders to get over here.
The sheriff can't keep him out.”
""That's right," the young. doctor
agreed. “TIl get Sanders at once."
“I don't hold a man from his legal
rights," Shelton growled. “All right,
men, move on."
The sheriff locked the cell door.
Alone, Mike hunched on the cot,
holding his throbbing head.
Concho dead! Ban Shelton's
brother dead! He, Mike McBride, s:
charged with both killings! The
money belt pinning one murder on
him. Shelton and the gamblers
swearing the other murder on him.
Shelton knew it was a lie, knew
who killed Concho.
Thinking back, it was easy to be-
lieve that Shelton must have known
Concho didn’t have a chance. And
just now Shelton had stopped all
questions about his brother, hustled
witnesses out of the way. There
was more to this than a card game
and a killing, if a man could read
the sign right.
Facts were plain. Concho had
started his roaring drunk. Old
Jump-John had taken Concho’s
horse and ridden to meet the Cir-
cle 8 drive.
Jake Shelton, the sheriff’s brother,
had shot Jump-John at the Black
Butte. Shelton must have followed
Jump-John out of Salt Fork to stop
him. And had almost done so. Al-
most left Concho drunk, helpless in
the hands of the gamblers and Ban
Shelton.
They couldn’t have planned to
kill Concho and lay the murder on
Mike McBride, because they hadn’t
known Mike McBride was coming.
But while Concho was dying, Ban
Shelton had made no attempt to re-
enter the Stag Saloon and arrest the
men he was now charging with the
killing. * Shelton had gone for
friends, had opened fire without
warning as his man was riding away.
By the doctor’s word, Mike Mc-
Bride would have been killed there
in the muddy street if a stranger
hadn’t stepped in.
All that had happened before Ban
Shelton had found his brother's
money belt in Mike McBride’s sad-
DEATH TAKES A TALLY 31
dle bag. Before Shelton knew that
his brother was dead. For some rea-
son Shelton had wanted Mike Mc-
Bride as quickly dead as Concho.
You could bet. good gold that
Shelton still felt the same way, and
not because of his brother. And
then you could wonder why.
“The gir'd know," Mike mut-
tered to himself. “She said not to
take the belt to the sheriff. She
knew damned well her brother Jake ©
got what was comin’ to him. Knew ©
her sheriff brother was up to some-
thing snaky."
CHAPTER VIII
DOUBLE-CROSSING LAWYER
D. SHELTON stepped back
into the cell alone. The fancy
pearl-handled six-gun was in his hol-
ster once more. He was scowling as
he spoke through the bars. “So
Jake’s dead?”
“Shot by the man he rode out of
town to kill,” Mike said.
"You're claiming another man
killed Jake?”
“Tt was Jump-John Myers, who
rode in here to Salt Fork with Con-
cho. Maybe you wouldn’t be know-
ing that.”
“Where’s this Myers now?” Shel-
ton demanded.
“Like to have a try at shuttin’
his mouth, wouldn't you? Go talk.
to your sister. She found your
brother's body before I did. She
heard me say I was bringin’ the
money belt in to the sheriff.”
“What did Judy say?”
“Ask her!”
Shelton’s blustering anger was
under control now. His mouth was
tight and hard, eyes sharp, wary.
He stared through the bars as if try-
ing to read the prisoner’s face. A
slow grin twisted his mouth. ` `
“You brought Judy into this. If
take all night.
youre lucky enough to get into
court, she'll help hang you."
*Wouldn't surprise me," Mike
agreed. “It must run in the family.”
Someone entered the front office,
and Shelton turned away.
Mike heard voices murmuring for
several moments, then Shelton
brought in a smiling, roly poly little
man in a black frock coat, black hat
and red cardboard note case under
an arm.
*Here's your lawyer," Shelton
said curtly as he unlocked the cell
door. “Hes a killer, Sanders, and
it'll take a better man than you to
get him out."
The lawyer chuckled, bringing lit-
tle creases over his smooth pink
cheeks. He looked plump, jolly,
sure of himself.
“We'll let the law settle that,
sheriff. Lock the door and leave us
alone.”
“You bet P'll lock it. An’ don't
Im leavin’ with a
posse to find Jake’s body. I want
you out o' here before I’m gone.”
“According to the law—"
Shelton cut him off brusquely.
“Damn the law! I’m running the
_jail tonight, Sanders, an’ I'm in a
hurry.”
WEEN they were alone in the
cell, Mike indicated the other
_end_ of the cot for the lawyer to sit
on and spoke grimly.
“Shelton seems to be the sheriff
an’ the law both around Salt Fork.”
“Talk. Only talk,” the pink-
cheeked little man said cheerfully as
he sat down. “Now, then, young
man, can you pay for a good law-
yer?” ©
"Worried about the money al-
ready?"
*Làwyers have to live," Sanders
reminded shrewdly.
$2 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
*T reckon I can pay. Maybe you
didn't get the name. I'm Mike Mc-
Bride."
Sanders nodded. “Work for the
Circle 8, I understand.”
“I reckon I own it now."
*Hm-m-m. Didn’t this Concho
Walker own the Circle 8?”
“Concho signed papers making me
his legal son! Said so in the Stag
tonight just before he died. He told
me to see you about it.”
“You don’t have to worry, then,”
Sanders said with returning cheer-
fulness. “Where are the papers?”
“You made ’em out,” Mike said.
“Where are they?”
“Eh?”
“Concho signed 'em."
: "cs stood up, smiling regret-
u
“Walker did say something about
drawing up some papers before he
left town. Perhaps tomorrow. He
didn’t sign anything. If that’s all
the title you have to the ranch,
young man, you haven’t anything.”
The little good-humored crinkles
in the plump, smooth face were still
there, but Mike suddenly realized
that the smile held no friendliness.
It was a tricky smile.
“Youre lying!" Mike charged.
“Concho did sign them papers!”
“T didn’t come here to be called a
liar, young man. If you're going to
get—”
“Concho trusted you an’ you
turned snake soon as he was dead!”
Sanders yelled with fright, tried to
dodge in the cramped, narrow little
cell as Mike came off the cot. Mike
caught him by the throat, slammed
him against the back wall, sinking
fingers deep into the puffy neck.
The lawyer’s face mottled as he
clawed at the corded wrists. Eyes
began to bulge.
“Concho’s dead, but I'll get the
truth out o' you!" Mike panted.
“What happened to those papers?
Whatd you do with them?"
Then, outside the cell, Ban Shel-
ton was shouting: “What’s the mat-
ter here? Leggo him, McBride!
Leggo before I gut-shoot yuh!”
Mike yanked the struggling little
lawyer around for a shield.
“Lead’s what he needs! Shoot
the hell out of him!”
Cursing, Ban Shelton unlocked
the door and plunged in with his
gun. Mike hurled the half-throttled
little lawyer across the cell at him.
“Drag the little buzzard out of
here before I break his neck! Tell
him he ain’t heard the last of this
if I’m hung on every gallows from
here to the border! I ain't the only
friend Concho Walker had! It'll
take more than a greasy little law-
yer to work the trick he’s trying!”
Shelton pulled the stumbling,
choking man outside the cell,
slammed the door and locked it.
“You get a lawyer an’ then try
to kill him as soon as my back's
turned! It^ 1 take a lynching to set-
tle you, an’ the quicker the better!
Come on, Sanders. I reckon you’re
through here.”
Coughing, feeling his neck, San-
ders scurried into the sheriff's office
without looking back.
REATHING heavily Mike
dropped back on the cot. The
bullet-furrowed arm was hurting.
Phe head felt worse. Inside, too.
For the first time he felt like a
trapped animal, He swore thickly
as he rolled a cigarette with un-
steady fingers.
This afternoon he'd been Mike
-McBride, twenty-one, owning half
of a prosperous beef drive. Tonight,
for a little while, he'd been Mike
McBride, Concho’s adopted ‘son,
owning all the beef drive and the
Circle 8, too. Now, here in the Salt
DEATH TAKES A TALLY 33
E
Fork jail cell, he was Mike Mc-
Bride, Circle 8 cowhand, pockets al-
most empty and a hang rope staring
him in the face.
Mike swore again. Concho had
signed that paper. Drunk or sober,
Concho had told the truth before he
died. Which made sign that any
man could read.
Concho had come to Salt Fork,
left his business with a crooked law-
yer and let whiskey make him a tar-
get for every sharper in town:
They’d worked fast. They'd gone
after Concho’s ranch and cattle.
They’d shot Concho-out of the pic-
ture. Now they had Mike McBride
locked up and were ready to hang
him. They’d have killed him to-
night in front of the hotel if the
stranger hadn’t stopped them.
Mike paced the cell like a caged
wild cat. Activity was audible in the
sheriff’s office. Finally it stopped.
A lanky man with a drooping mus-
tache and a deputy’s star pinned on
his vest stepped back to the cell and
peered through the bars.
“Ban’s rode out o' town, an’ I’m
in charge. Y'all set for the night?"
“Coffee’d help my head."
The deputy shifted chewing to-
bacco into the other cheek and
grinned loosely.
“This ain't a hotel. Yuh'l get
coffee with breakfast if yuh ain't
lynched by then. Uh-huh, lynched.
Heap of folks in these parts thought
well of Jake Shelton. Us Texans
stays next to one another.”
“That lawyer, Sanders,
Texas, too?”
“Shore is.”
“Can’t all of you be from Texas.”
The deputy grinned again. “The
ol’ Lone Star’s a big un.”
“Ain’t big enough to hold all the
crooks, skunks and snakes I’ve run
into tonight," Mike said. “That
from
goes for you, too. Get out so I can
rest my eyes."
The deputy snarled back through
the bars. “Yuh won't be so damned
talky ifn they get a lynch rope on
yore neck! An' I ain't got no help
to stop ’em if they're minded. Ease
yore damn head with that!"
He stamped out. Mike started
pacing again. Three steps one way,
three the other.
Both Shelton and his deputy had
spoken about a lynching. Miss out
on killing a man when you arrested
him, and a lynch rope would settle
everything before he walked into
court to tell his side.
Mike stopped as something
tapped faintly on the window glass:
It was the end of a branch tapping
the glass. By standing on his toes,
Mike could push the window up
part way and reach through the
bars.
*Yuh in there, boy?"
'That would be Jubal Lark, out-
side under the window, speaking
guardedly.
CHAPTER IX
JAILBREAK .
IKE moved the cot over under
VL the window and stood on it.
“Get me a gun!" he called in a low
voice.
“Comin’ up already, son!”
Jubal Lark had cut and trimmed
a small tree branch. The heavier
end poked up through the bars bear-
ing a .45 tied on by a whang string.
With the gun was a leather pouch
holding extra, cartridges.
“Soon as I heered the shootin’ I
knowed that. polecat sheriff'd found
yuh," Jubal Lark's hoarse whisper
came up. “Time I got near the spot
they had yuh an’ was askin’ where
I was. I had tuh keep out o’ sight.
Ain’t a chance fer me to git in there.
34
an’ git yuh. There’s a crowd out
front.”
“Workin’ up to a lynchin'?" Mike
‘whispered back through the bars.
*Yuh might as well know hit,"
Jubal Lark agreed. “The fools is
drunk an’ believin’ yuh walked right
in an' holed Concho in the back.
Them gamblers an' the sheriff swore
yuh did! They're all fer lynchin’
the hombre who kilt the feller that .
was buyin' 'em drinks. Come morn-
in’ they'l git some sense. Tonight
there ain't no reasonin' with 'em."
“An’ by mornin’ I'll be lynched.”
“Leoks bad if yuh don't git out
o’ there, boy. . The sheriff rode out
o° town. ` Ain't nobody to stop ‘em.
A friend o' yourn named Monte Hill
has tried to talk sense to 'em an'
didn't git nowhere. He's bringin’ a
hoss: back o' the jail here fer: yuh.
If yuh can bust out, we'll side yuh
out o' town."
Jubal spat audibly. “If yuh
cain’t, we'll take a hand an’ try to
git yuh out. They won’t string yuh
up, boy, whilst Jubal Lark c'n work
a gun. I done promised Concho.
How's yore head?" S
“Goqd enough,’ Mike said.
“Who’s this Monte Hill?” :
“Friend o' yourn. He run out
from the hotel an' made sure yuh
wasn't kilt when they had yuh down
in the street. Backed 'em cold by
swearin' he'd take on ary man who
stopped a doctor from gittin' to yuh.
Sent for the doc hisself.”
“PIL be out to thank him,” said
Mike. “And I'll have to leave town
fast. They're charging me with
double murder. The lawyer says
Concho didn't sign any papers to-
day. They're after the Circle 8, too.
Somebody’ll have papers saying that
Concho gambled away everything."
“So that's how it is!"
“The lawyer's a fatty little man
named Sanders," Mike continued.
STREET & SMITH'S WESTERN STORY
“Might be if I could talk to him out
of town there'd be a. different story"
“Fatty little lawyer: named. San-
ders,” Jubal Lark repeated out of
the darkness under the jail window.
“Yuh ride out the Drippin’ Springs
trail an’ find yore beef drive, boy.
I’ve toted in slicker game than fatty
little lawyers. Yuh'll git yore talk
with him. Jubal Lark’s a-promisin’
hit. An’ don’t waste yore time in
there. Them drunken fools is
a-gatherin’ an’ a-inchin’ up to a
lynchin’. I’m wishin’ yuh luck.”
“Thanks.” < UN : :
Jubal Lark evidently vanished
quickly again, for he did not reply:
All chambers in the six-gun he
had brought were loaded. Mike
shoved it under his belt, closed the
window and moved the cot back.
Then he pulled on his muddy coat
and buttoned it over the gun. His
hat had evidently been left- in the
muddy street.
The left arm was stiff and pain-
ful, but usable: His head was feel-
ing better. From the moment the
gun came through the window,
strength and hope had come flood-
ing back. One friend outside had
been all he needed. He had two.
Three, if you counted the young
doctor. Mike McBride had a
chance now.
OR a moment Mike had the feel-
ing that old Concho was close, -
watching, waiting for Mike McBride
to fight out of this trouble and start
for those heights which Concho had
planned.
Men might die. Concho might be
avenged. But there was more to it
than that. More than a jail cell :
More than revenge for Concho and
smooth trickery. This was the first
testing of Mike McBride, who one
day had.to be all those things that
Concho Walker: might have been.
DEATH TAKES A TALLY 35
It had been.a promise to a dying
man. 2
Voices had. been
front.: Now, with the window closed,
there were still. snatches- of ‘sound,
as ominous’ and. distant as thunder
warning of a: storm to. come.
The deputy. had put up a window
and was parlaying not very: vigor-
ously:with someone. ` His office door
opened, closed, and he talked to
someone who had joined: him.
Get several more men in the of-
fice and there wouldn't be much
chance to get out past them. Mike
called until the deputy came back
into the little cell corridor. :
"Going to let them lynch, mer
Mike demanded:
“TIl stop "em if I can.”
“More likely you'll follow along
to pull on the rope!”
The deputy's loose-lipped grin ad-
mitted it as he suggested, “Maybe
you could talk ’em out of it from
the front window. [I'll iron yore
wrists an’ give you the chance if
you want it. They ain't listenin’ to
me.”
“A sight of me will start 'em off,"
Mike reminded. “I'll be there in the
office, ironed and cold meat to grab
and drag outside.”
“It’s yore only chance, McBride.
Tl give ary prisoner his chance."
Mike grinned, too. He had. that
wolfish, savage feeling again.
“You and Ban Shelton,”
“TH try it.”
The deputy was chuckling as he
stepped back into the office, chuck-
ling when he returned with wrist
irons and the cell keys.
“Stick out yore wrists an’ oil up
your tongue. They're waitin’ to
hear yuh, an' there's company in
the office to swear yuh got a fair
deal."
The office door had swung shut.
Mike was grinning, too, as s he pu
WS—3B
he said.
audible out
his left hand through the bars.
"Might be you'll have the same
chanee you're giving me,” he said.
"Cain't tell, young feller,’ the
deputy grinned. >
Both his. hands were bringing the
iron to the wrist'when Mike caught
him and yanked him close to the
45 muzzle that the other hand had
flipped out from under the coat.
“Quiet! Here’s your chance now!”
The deputy read death in the thin
smile and gasped through the ‘sud-
den terror on his face.
“Get the key in that lock!”
The arm Mike held was trem-
bling. ` The deputy was: swallowing
as if his throat had clogged. -His
shaking hand. missed. the ‘keyhole
twice -before he unlocked the cell
door.
Mike stepped - out. “Want a
chance to: draw?” he invited.
*No,:no! T ain’t—”
"Shut-up, then.”
A moment later the deputy was
ironed by a wrist to one of the cell
bars. While he watched the office
door and swiftly buckled on the
deputy’s gun belt Mike warned:
“Keep quiet while I go out. Tell
Shelton I’m saving you „both the
same chance you gave me.’
The deputy nodded dumbly.
Mike inspected both guns, thumbed
the hammers, jerked open the office
door and stepped in. “Reach high
and quiet!” he said curtly.
Then he gasped. ‘The office held
only a startled girl who jumped up `
from a chair. She wore riding skirt
and jacket, a silk handkerchief
around her throat, and her yellow
hair looked soft and wind-blown
about her thin, startled face.
“I... I was looking for a man,”
Mike said lamely. “Keep quiet an’
you'll be all right.”
Beyond drawn window shades,
voices outside the jail were plainer,
36 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
And the girls reply was steadier
than he expected.
“You're the one they want," she
guessed swiftly.
She was small and slim, and her
eyes were unhappy. And Mike
would have known that clear note
in her voice anywhere.
“You're Judy Shelton!”
She nodded.
“Got here in a hurry to help hang
me, didn’t you? Must run in the
family.”
HAT brought a blaze into her
eyes.. He'd thought her young,
but not so young. Not younger
than himself, Looking now, it was
hard to believe she'd held him up by
the Black Butte as coolly as a man.
"[ believed you about Jake's
money belt," she said scornfully.
“And you rode into town and killed
the man who was hiring you."
"You know the straight of it!"
Mike threw at her. “You knew the
truth out there tonight! Ban Shel-
ton and his gambler friends did the
killing tonight. Pity you ain't a
third brother. I'd start on you.
They voted for a sheriff last year
an’ got a buzzard. He made the
law gun law." Mike lifted the .45.
“Tm raising him with six-guns. Him
an' his friends an' any more of the
Shelton breed that's running a loop
on this range."
A drunken yell split the night out-
side. "Whatre we waitin’ for?
Let’s git him!”
Mike grinned mirthlessly. “That
would sound good to your brother,
Ban. Better get in the back room.
The gambler’s foot caught in
the stirrup as he left the sad-
dle and he plunged under the
hoofs of the maddened horse.
DEATH TAKES A TALLY 97
'These windows won't stop lead."
He turned the light out as he spoke.
And through the swift blackness
that fell between them, Judy Shel-
ton cried in protest, "They'l kill
you! Brazos Jones is leading them!
. I saw him when I came in!
‘There must be some other way! I
. II help you!”
“Never heard of Brazos Jones.
And the Sheltons,” Mike answered
her bitterly, “have helped me
enough! Get back out o' the way!
Hell’ll be popping in a minute!”
Mike opened the door. He was
in blackness. Cloudy moonlight
brushed shadowy pallor over the
muddy street outside the jail.
Enough light to see the gathering
crowd, twoscore or more. Some
hanging back beyond the hitch rack
and spreading to right and left along
the slippery plank walk. Most of
them liquored up, by the noise they
were making. And the leaders al-
ready close to the jail steps, bunch-
ing up behind a broad-shouldered,
powerful man who had drawn a gun
and shouted as the door opened:
"That's right, Tomkins! Open
up! All we want is that young
killer! Come out with yore hands
up an’ you won’t have any trouble!”
One quick look ‘placed the men.
There was enough light-to mark the
big fellow shouting at the doorway.
He must be Brazos Jones. He was
the burly, red-faced gambler with
the bushy black brows and hairy
arms who had been sitting at Con-
cho’s right hand in the back of the
Stag Saloon. One of the men who'd
murdered Concho.
Mike could have opened fire from
the dark doorway and riddled Bra-
zos Jones and some of the drunken
men behind Jones. Dropped them
before they broke into the jail.
Scattered them in panic for a few
moments. But if he did that, in
‘a fool and maybe not.
years to come the dead men would
haunt Mike McBride. Many of the
drunks were convinced that the pris-
oner was a killer. Sober, they’d look
at the dead who hadn’t fired a shot,
and swear that all charges against
Mike McBride must be true.
Mike made an instant choice be-
fore he moved—and took the greater
risk.
“Stand back! Don’t shoot!” he
yelled as he dived out of the dark
doorway.
CHAPTER X
CIRCLE 8 TALKS WAR
NCERTAINTY stopped even
Brazos Jones while a man
might count four. In that time
Mike dodged to the right along the
front of the jail, cocked guns silent,
the hell of gunfire and death hang-
ing by a thread.
Then a bawl of anger came from
Jones. "That's McBride! Get him!”
The big gambler’s gun crashed
furiously at the shadowy figure
plunging to the corner of the build-
ing. Three shots came almost as
one while Mike gambled with death
to reach that jail corner without
killing a man. And maybe he was
Concho
would know.
A foot slipped on the rain-soft
ground as he ducked around the cor-
ner. He stumbled, found footing
and raced toward the back of the
jail. Other guns had opened up.
The lynch crowd was milling in ex-
citement and uncertainty, some of
them not sure yet what was happen-
ing.
Brazos Jones dashed around to
the side of the jail. -Mike spun
around, saw the big figure, the red-
spurting gun muzzle. The smile
that bared his teeth was cold and
hard as the two big .45s blasted and
38 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
roared in his hands. The gambler
and a man or two bolder than the
rest were leading the wolf pack to
kill.: For years Mike McBride had
been growing up for this moment.
Music and a wild, surging excite-
ment were in the six-guns that
blasted and bucked in his hands.
Head and wounded arm were for-
gotten. Screaming lead fanned
death about him, and he had no
thought for it as he triggered at the
gambler’s shadowy figure at the
front of the building.
The men behind Brazos Jones
and others on the plank. walk out
front dashed back and aside from
the red gun muzzles that had sud-
denly turned on them.
Brazos Jones jumped into the
shadows beside the jail building—
and then lurched out, staggering a
step or two as he fell.
“There he is, Concho!” Mike
yelled. “Maybe he’s the one!"
Excitement had him now like
whiskey running fire in his blood.
Gun law they wanted, and gun law
they'd get! The man behind the
jail must have yelled several times
before Mike heard him.
*McBride, you fool! Fork this
horse!”
HEN Mike realized he'd been
standing there shouting for Bra-
zos Jones and the others to come
and get him. They'd given him
open space clear out into the street,
and Brazos Jones was huddled on
the muddy ground where he had
fallen.
The man behind the jail was in
the saddle and leading another sad-
dled horse. Mike made a flying
jump, clawed into the saddle, found
the stirrups and grabbed for the
reins as the man spurred away, yell-
ing, “This way!”
Jubal Lark wasn’t there. As he
followed, Mike recognized the gray
hat and black suit. of the man he’d
last seen in front of the hotel.
“Are you. Monte Hill?" Mike
called as he spurred alongside.
“Shut up and ride! They'll be
after us! This way!”
Monte Hill galloped through an
open lot away from the main street..
Dogs ran barking at them. They
passed lighted windows and staring
figures in open doorways. Then
they were past the last houses and
corrals, racing into the south.
“The old fellow said you'd go to
Dripping Springs" Monte Hill
called.
“Our herd won't get that far to-
night! Thanks for the help! Til
make it all right now!"
“Tm siding you! Pour it en!”
Miles out of town, east of the
stage road, they reined up a second
time. They were alone in the vast
night.
“Lost 'em," Monte: Hill decided.
“This makes a second favor I owe
you," Mike said. “Are you sure Ju-
bal Lark didn't get hurt?"
*He had some business that'd
keep him a while," said Monte Hill.
“He'll be all right.”
Miles farther on they crossed the
Dripping Springs trail, Mike guid-
ing, and rode south and east for the
Salt Fork Crossing and Black Butte.
Mike's thoughts turned ‘back to
Judy Shelton, young and anguished
as she had again abruptly sided with
him.
“Shelton’s sister was at the jail,”
Mike said aloud.
Monte Hill nodded. “I saw her
ride by the livery barn. By the
looks of her horse, she’d come fast.
Must have heard about her brother
Jake.”
“She found his body,” Mike said.
*[ met her there when I got the
money belt to bring to the sheriff.”
DEATH TAKES A TALLY — : 39
“That the way you got it?”
Mike told him what had hap-
pened, from Jump-John’s death to
the lawyer’s visit to the jail.
“I had an idea Shelton’s story was
wrong,’ Monte Hill said coolly.
“Good riddance to Jake. So Dude
Ringold, Parson Pitts and Shelton
are aiter your ranch?”
“Those first two names are new.”
“Gamblers,” Monte Hill said.
“Dude Ringold’s good-looking, with
a light mustache. He'd rob his own
mother. I hear that Parson Pitts
was in the poker game, too. He’s
worse. They were friends of Shel-
ton back in Texas.”
“Know plenty about them, don’t
you?”
Monte Hill shrugged. “I’ve been
through Texas. What do you aim
to do now?” :
“Maybe Ill have an. idea by
morning.”
"You'd better," Monte Hill re-
marked. “Because Ban Shelton will
have ideas tonight.”
S gov were pushing the horses.
By Monte Hill's watch it was
past one thirty when they forded
the Salt Fork, miles south of Black
Butte. By three they sighted the
wan glow of the Circle 8 wagon fire
and hailed Gus Delight, riding night
trick on the bedded steers.
Jump-John had been buried and
the cattle thrown on a bed ground a
mile or so away. Gus Delight was
profane with dismayed anger as he
rode with them to the sleeping men
near the fire.
"Crawl out! Concho’s dead! Git
out, all of yuh, an’ hear trouble!”
They came awake—Jim Crowder,
Slim Chance, Sam Parks, Larrupin’
Ed Shaw, Dozy, the cook, and
Guaymas Red, the part Mexican
wrangler with red hair who'd rather
use a knife than a gun.
And as fresh, damp wood sizzled
on the fire, Guaymas Red was as
bitter as the rest when Mike told
what had happened.
Larrupin’ Ed Shaw spoke the vio-
lent thought of every man.
“We'll ride in on them snakes!
Damn, if I’d only gone along!”
Monte Hill spoke coolly. “Ban
Shelton's not there tonight. Half
the town's still drunk enough to
think McBride killed your boss.
Better wait." :
“You tink we do nothing for
thees?" Guaymas Red said angrily.
"Im. waiting for this man Jubal
Lark," Mike said. "We'll want good
horses ready, Red. Dozy, how
about some coffee? The rest of you
better sleep it out till daybreak.”
But there was no sleeping. Gun
belts and rifles were brought to the
fire and checked. Hot coffee warmed
them and questions were volleyed at
Mike until all details were known.
“Tf that damned lawyer gets here,
hell talk!” Larrupin’ Ed harshly
promised.
“He'll talk!” Mike agreed, and ne-
ticed Monte Hill watching him re-
flectively. The man was younger
than he’d seemed at first. And more
of a mystery than ever.
The steers grazed out as the false
dawn gave way to the first faint
gray. Monte Hill had wrapped him-
self in a borrowed blanket and tarp
and slept near the fire. Mike moved
stiffly about, thinking. Even now it
was hard to believe that Concho was
dead, that he himself was on his
own now.
Jubal Lark hadn’t appeared by
the time Dozy called grub. The
clouds were thinning. A scarlet sun-
rise colored the east. Monte Hill
rolled out of his blanket and joined
Mike.
“Time enough for that old fellow
to be here.”
40 $ STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
“I don't like it," Mike admitted.
“T should have stayed.”
“They'd have hunted you down."
“That lawyer," said Mike, “was
my only chance to show crooked
work. I’m outlawed. Shelton'll
make sure I’m hunted.” Mike spoke
savagely. “Killing Ban Shelton
might make it worse. I’m through
on this range, no matter what I do.”
“Going to quit and run.”
“What’s it to you?" Mike said
curtly.
Monte Hill was silent for a mo-
ment before he drawled:
“Judy Shelton helped her broth-
ers take out from stock detectives
who were ready to send them to the
pen. One of the detectives had been
fool enough to tell her, hoping she'd
understand what he had to do. She
didn’t tell her brothers he wasn’t the
gambler they thought he was. But
after they were safely gone, Judy
told the man she was through with
him. She’d never marry anyone
who might take her brothers to
court. She’d never marry anyway
and disgrace a husband with her
brothers, she said. She was young
and broken up, and she meant it.
He had to leave. And a year later
he came back. Judy’s mother was
dead of heartbreak, they said, and
Judy had gone west to the Screw-
jack country. He came after her
and found she’d joined her brothers
and hadn’t changed her mind. So
he stayed around to see if the broth-
ers wouldn’t hang themselves by
their own cussedness after folks
found them out.”
“And you're hoping this will do
it," Mike guessed.
*Hoping like hell" Monte Hill
drawled, “since I'm hogtied and
helpless because of Judy" .
“I wondered about you," Mike
admitted. “Maybe we'll both have
luck."
They were eating when Dozy
called from the grub wagon: Who's
a-comin’?” È :
Riders had topped the slope to
the west—four riders loping toward
the wagon. One man wore a white
sombrero that brought Mike to his
feet.
“That’s Shelton,
Mike said grimly.
the sheriff!"
CHAPTER XI
GUN TALK
ARRUPIN’ ED picked up his
rifle. “Sit tight, Mike. They
ain’t gonna get you.”
Mike grinned coldly. “Meet him
on the other side of the wagon. I'll
keep out of sight for a minute.”
Monte Hill joined Mike behind
the wagon. “He’s fast with a gun,”
he warned. “There’s only three men
with him, but he rode out of Salt
Fork with nine or ten last night.”
Mike looked past the wagon seat.
“Ain’t that the card sharp, Parson
Pitts, with him?”
“And Lafe Cantwell and Montana
Jack,” said Monte Hill, looking.
“They’re killers.”
Standing there behind the wagon,
they heard Larrupin’ Ed greet the
newcomers.
“Howdy, gents.”
“Im Sheriff Shelton. Mr. Pitts,
here, took over the Circle 8 last
night. I’ve seen the papers Walker
gave, and you can deal with Pitts
from now on.”
“Concho Walker’ll tell us that."
The gambler’s nasal voice said,
“Walker’s dead. Shot by one of his
own men named McBride. The
sheriff’s got McBride locked up in
Salt Fork for trial. Walker lost his
ranch in a card game before he was
killed. You men can have your pay
and move on this morning.”
DEATH TAKES A TALLY n
Gus Delight's voice exploded high
and angrily.
*No tinhorn gambler that oughta
got what this Jake Shelton got fires
me from anywhere while I got a
bawglaig tuh talk—"
A gunshot blotted out the rest
of his defiance, and Gus slid to the
ground in an inert heap.
"Larrupin' Ed shouted:
men murdered him, sheriff!"
*He pulled a gun on a deputy!"
Ban Shelton rasped back. “Throw
down them guns and step back
while we take over! Who's that be-
hind the wagon?"
“That
IKE thumbed both guns as he
dived for the end of the wagon.
No time now to plan further. Gus
Delight's foolish outburst had set off
a killer’s gun and hell had started.
Hell that would leave Ban Shelton
running the Salt Fork country or
stop him here in the scarlet dawn.
Shelton was waiting. His gun
blasted as Mike plunged into the
open behind the wagon.
The big smoke-blackened coffee-
pot flew off the tailboard and show-
ered Mike with hot coffee. And as
a second shot roared on the heels of
the first, Shelton recognized the
bandaged head that should have
been back in Salt Fork in jail or on
the end of a lynch rope.
Shelton yelled and missed the sec-
ond shot clean. The drive ‘of his
spurs sent his horse bolting, with
Circle 8 men between him’ and
Mike's guns.
Mike fired over their heads and
missed the running horse and
crouching figure. The slam of a bul-
Jet in his left arm, already wounded,
knocked him half around.
That lead came from the gunman
that Monte Hill had pointed out as
Montana Jack. The numbing shock
left the arm useless as Mike got his
other gun up again.
Montana Jack had fired hastily as
he reined his horse away. Now he
was spurring away after the others.
Mike stumbled past Sam Parks
and Jim Crowder and aimed care-
fully as he emptied the old wooden-
handled 45. Montana Jack lurched
in the saddle, grabbed the horn and
rode on, wounded but burring tight
to the saddle.
Around Mike, guns were crashing,
but the targets were moving fast
out of range, scattering as they
went.
Monte Hill ran past Mike with a
rifle and took careful aim. He fired
once and missed, coolly levered an-
other cartridge in and aimed again.
His target was the gaunt Parson
Pitts, who was riding in a crouch,
black coat tails flapping in the wind.
Monte Hills rifle cracked a sec-
ond time—and a second time he
seemed to miss. His angry exclama-
tion was audible as he hastily re-
loaded.
Then a wild Indian yell came
from Guaymas Red. The flapping
black coat tails were leaving the sad-
dle. Parson Pitts was sliding over,
clawing weakly at the saddlehorn.
Then he seemed to stiffen as he
pitched from the saddle.
“Look!” Slim Chance shouted.
The gambler’s head and shoulders
had hit the damp ground and
bounced. And bounced again and
again.
The shooting had stopped.
Around Mike the men stood frozen
as the gambler's foot stayed caught
in the stirrup and he dragged under
the driving hoofs of the maddened
horse.
Mike thought he heard a thin, far,
horrible scream from under the run-
ning horse. He wasn’t sure. It
came no more. The dragging body
42 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
was limp now, and the coat tails had
dropped down over the head and
were flapping grotesquely as flying
hoofs shredded cloth and flesh and
bone.
“Shoot the
hoarsely.
Monte Hill already had the rifle
up. He took his time before squeez-
ing the trigger. And dropped the
horse, kicking and helpless, near the
top of the slope. The inert body
was pinned underneath.
*He come askin' for it!" Larrup-
im Ed said harshly. “But damned
if I wish any man that!”
Shelton and the other two men
were out of sight now. There'd been
no time to look to Gus Delight, who
had dragged himself over against the
hind wheel of the wagon.
Mike could feel the warm blood
over his arm as he stooped by Gus
Delight’s round, drawn face.
“How bad is it, Gus?”
Gus Delight tried to grin. “Busted
up a rib an’ missed the lung, I think.
I don't feel no blood in my throat.
We showed 'em where to get off,
didn't we? Ain't that blood on yore
arm, Mike?"
“Nothing to think about. Get
flat on the ground and let's have a
look." And Mike called over his
shoulder. “Get the horses. "There's
something funny about that sheriff
only bringing three men. I don't —"
He broke off, demanding, “What’s
that?"
Guaymas Red was nearest the
back of the wagon, and he, too, had
heard the sudden rolling stamp of
hoofs, the high, alarmed bellow of
startled cattle. Then a fusillade of
shots before Guaymas Red could
speak.
“Stampede!” Guaymas
yelled, bolting for his horse.
horse" Mike cried
Red
CHAPTER XII
SIX-GUN STAMPEDE
(ee the wagon, Mike caught
a glimpse of the cattle coming
in a senseless wave of rushing bod-
ies and clashing horns. They’d been
started and pointed by a thin line
of riders who had come down on
them from the east.
Now it was plain why Ban Shel-
ton had come with only three men,
why the Circle 8 men had been told
to get their time, why Shelton
hadn’t stood his ground to fight.
Shelton had parlayed while other
riders had circled around to get set
for surprise-and trouble.
‘The wagon offered some shelter,
but the stampede would carry away
their horses. They’d be afoot and
helpless around the wagon, cold tar-
gets for hidden men whose rifles
could pick them off one by one.
“Ride it out!” Mike shouted.
“Take your guns!”
There was still Gus Delight, help-
less on the ground, and for the mo-
ment all but forgotten. Mike
jumped toward him. Monte Hill
got there first, shouting as he lifted
Gus Delight’s chunky figure.
“Hit the saddle, McBride! PI do
this!”
Mike lingered to make sure while
the bawling tornado of frightened
steers bore down on the spot. The
saddled horses that had © stayed
ground-tied near the wagon through
the shooting were catching the
panic, too, and starting to move as
the Circle 8 men plunged to them.
Monte Hill all but threw Gus De-
light into the front of the wagon.
Rough treatment, but Gus would
have to take it. Mike ran for his
horse and it bolted. Then Slim
Chance came spurring, stooped far
over, caught the dragging reins and
yanked the horse over to Mike.
DEATH TAKES A TALLY 43
Larrupin’ Ed Shaw had seen how
things were with Monte Hill and
had gotten his horse and was bring-
ing it at a run.
Mike’s arm was still numb to the
shoulder.
saddle one-handed. He saw blood
running over the wrist and fingers
as his feet found the stirrups and
his good hand took the slack out of
the reins. . Then the first of the
bawling, thundering stampede was
on them and the horse needed no
spurring as it raced away.
Over his shoulder, Mike saw
Monte Hill’s horse stumble as a big
steer brushed it, and then settle into
stride. There was no dust. Ban
Shelton’s men were plain at the rear
of the stampede. Nine or ten of
them, at least, shooting forward
over the cattle.
They had failed to put the Cir-
cle 8 men afoot. Now they were
trying to gun them from their
horses.
WILD yell over to the right
dragged Mike’s look. He
cursed helplessly: as he saw Jim
Crowder pitching out of the saddle.
Jim’s horse kept on. Jim stayed
under the torrent of running steers.
Ban Shelton wanted it this way
for anyone who stood in the way of
his law. Gun law. Shelton law,
that could wipe out an old man like
Concho Walker, and all who tried
to stand up to him.
Mike cut over toward Larrupin’
Ed and Slim Chance, who were fol-
lowing Guaymas Red and Monte
Hill to the west flank of the stam-
pede. Dozy and Sam Parks were
coming, also.
They were outnumbered. If they
scattered now they’d stay scattered.
The Circle 8 land and cattle would
be in other hands.
Looking back, Mike could see the
He had to get into the *
gunmen bunching up to follow them.
Ban Shelton and the two men with
him evidently hadn't circled fast
enough to swing in behind the stam-
pede.
Monte Hill rode close. “Looks
like Shelton pulled a trick that'll be
hard to beat!”
They were plunging over a brushy
ridge now, with the stampede swerv-
ing off over the lower ground. The
Shelton men were following up the
slope, shooting as Mike called:
“Aint a chance to whip that
bunch! Scatter the boys an’ keep
riding! Shelton’s men’ll give up
after a few miles!”
Monte Hill nodded. His look was
regretful, disappointed. Mike Mc-
Bride was quitting after all his talk
of blocking Shelton.
They topped the ridge and raced
down through the brush, hidden for
a little from the guns behind. Mike
lagged, swinging to the left. Monte
Hill caught up with Larrupin’ Ed
and the others, urging them ahead.
Dozy and Sam Parks passed on
as Mike pulled his horse hard over
along the ridge, paralleling the top.
Brush and low trees closed in behind
him. When he'd ridden a hundred
and fifty yards and pulled up, the
others were out of sight, crashing on
down the slope.
Mike dismounted behind low
bushes as the Shelton men topped
the ridge in a bunch, quirting, spur-
ring after the fleeing riders ahead.
They swept on down the slope with-
out looking toward the brush where
Mike waited. i
Blood covered Mike’s left hand,
and the throbbing hurt went up into
the shoulder.. But he could use the
hand a little and reload both six-
guns. His rifle was back in Salt
Fork.
He was in the saddle again when
he heard another coming. The man
44
cut the ridge and took the slope.
His hat was black; he showed in the
clear for an instant, and he was the
gunman deputy that Monte Hill
had called Lafe Cantwell.
Ragged. bursts of gunfire marked
the running fight moving off into
the west. No one followed Cantwell
as Mike put his horse into a run
south along the ridge.
Minutes later the distant gunfire
in the west seemed to double in in-
tensity, as if the Circle 8 men had
been caught and had turned to
fight. Mike fought down the urge
to head that way fast. His grim
face was lined with strain as he kept
on.
The grub wagon was out there on
the sun-drenched flat. Parson
Pitts’ horse was dead and had been
rolled off the body. Two saddled
horses stood restlessly nearby, and
the two men near the body were
talking with some heat.
Dude Ringold, handsome, well-
dressed, had a neck sling supporting
his left arm. His voice was angrily
clear as Mike stepped behind a small
tree and listened.
OU'"RE talkin’ a lot, but it don't
change me, Shelton! I shot that
damn lamp out last night and put
the lead in the old coot’s back and
got a bullet in my arm for it! I’ve
earned the Parson’s share, and I
want it for the time PI] be laid up
from gambling!”
“The idea was mine and the Par-
son’s in the first place!” Shelton
rasped. “There ain't too much to
go around as it is, with that lawyer
cuttin’ in for his share.”
“You can’t claim the Circle 8,
Shelton. There’ll be enough talk as
it is. That greasy little lawyer ain’t
to be trusted, an’ Brazos hasn’t got
the head or tongue for this. You’ve
got to have me to handle the Cir-
STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
cle 8. Ill have my price for it or
nobody cashes in.. Savvy?"
“Brazos don't think fast, but he'll
do what he's told," Ban Shelton
sneered. “Dude, you've growed a
big head for a young fellow.” |
Dude Ringold jumped back, grab-
bing under his coat. Then the vom-
iting six-gun in Ban Shelton’s hand
slammed him against the earth and
‘the stayed there, trying weakly to
get his gun out.
Ban Shelton tore the gun from
him, threw it away and grinned
down at the dying man.
"That's your cut, Dude. -The
Parson an' me was savin' it for
you." Shelton was not a hundred
yards away, back partly turned to
the crest of the slope as Mike
stepped out toward him.
“TIl take your money belt. You
won't need it," Shelton said as he
knelt by the young gambler. He
had jerked the money belt out and
was getting to his feet when Mike
spoke.
“Tve brought your cut, Shelton!
Ban Shelton whirled around—and
for an instant his angular face was
stunned, unbelieving. Then he
hurled the belt aside and his pearl
handled. gun streaked from the hol-
ster, blasting as it came out.
Mike's gun met shot for shot,
handicapped by the sun into which
he was facing. A bullet nicked his
ear. Shelton staggered as lead tore
into his leg. His gun emptied as he
reached for Dude Ringold’s gun, and
he made a lurching dive and caught
up the gambler's gun.
One-handed, Mike ‘dropped his
empty gun and caught the other
from under his belt without stopping
his advance.
That broke Ban Shelton's nerve.
He made a limping break for his
horse, which jumped .back nerv-
ously.
p
DEATH TAKES A TALLY 45
Mike ran forward. He had three
shots left and no time to reload if
Shelton started riding. Shelton got
the reins and cursed the horse wildly
as he caught the saddle and swung
awkwardly up.
For an instant he was silhouetted
against the blazing morning sun.
Mike stopped, steadied, and emptied
the second gun in a roaring roll of
shots that hurled Ban Shelton out
of the saddle in a sprawling fall as
the horse bolted away.
Mike stood grimly by the man as
he died. He had had the feeling,
when he sighted Shelton a few min-
utes back, that it would end this
way.
Shelton died first, with Dude Rin-
gold lying on his side, staring at the
sight with a thin, fixed grin.
Mike looked around. His voice
was husky. “Concho, I didn’t aim
to make the start this way. You
figure it out.”
He went. back for his horse and
rode to the wagon. Gus Delight
was still alive. He'd keep on living.
Gus was on the ground again, with
his shirt off, when the first of a
straggling line of riders swept down
on them.
Larrupin Ed and Monte Hill
were leading. Close behind them
galloped the buckskin-clad figure of
old Jubal Lark.
DAR know what happened, but
it looks good,” Mike said to
Gus Delight. The riders were
around them a few moments later.
Strange faces riding up. Smiling
faces that gathered around while
Jubal Lark leaped down, brandish-
ing an old rifle and whooping:
"How's this fer fixin yore busi-
ness, boy? I cotched that snaky lit-
tle law talker in his office as he was
a-fixin’ to ride to Shelton's ranch.
Sawed a knife agin' his throat an'
he talked an' give me the papers
Concho signed an' left with him.
He squealed as how them gamblers
an’ a sheriff's posse was comin’ to
get yore cattle at daybreak, all legal
an' nice."
Jubal spat again and continued:
“T taken him to the young doc to
tell his story. Shelton's sister was
there, a-talkin’ already. They stud-
ied the papers Concho signed an’
heered the lawyer talk again, an’
the doc run out to see men he said'd
like to know all this. Took some
time to get 'em all together an' stop
at a ranch er two fer more men afore
we come a-ridin' hard to meet the
sheriff at his dirty work. An' we
met a runnin’ gun fight an’ heered
the news! How bad yuh hurt, boy?”
“Not bad," Mike said. “The
sheriff's dead. He killed Dude Rin-
gold and shot it out with me."
“When I got a good look back
and saw that Shelton wasn't with
his men," Monte Hill said, *I had
an idea maybe you still had him on
your mind after all. We headed this
way as quick as possible." And he
said slowly: “So Ban’s dead at last!”
“Come help haze them steers
back, mister,” Jubal Lark urged
Monte Hill. *An' then well git to
Salt Fork an’ celebrate.”
“Wasn’t there some business you
had to see about quick in Salt Fork
this morning?” Mike said to Monte
Hill. “Some Texas business you
never finished?”
“TI help here first, McBride.”
“Steers can wait, and my business
is mostly settled," Mike said, grin-
ning faintly. “Not knowing about
such things, l'd say your business
has waited long enough. I’m obliged
for everything—and good luck in
Salt Fork.”
THE END.
DEMON AN’
PITHYPUSS
BY S. OMAR BARKER
You might doubt that a duck can
swim, that a skunk.sucks eggs, or
that hawg fat will sizzle in Hades,
but on the.Shoe Bar Ranch there
was one thing considered as sure and
undoubtable as cockleburs in a coy-
ote's tail. Even Pinch-pocket Pat-
terson had been to town and bet
twenty dollars on it, and Pinch was
a man who wouldn't 've put up half
that many cents on tomorrow's sun-
rise. The rest of the boys, as far
as they could find takers, had done
dug deep and laid it on the line.
Duff Moser, the ramrod, ex-
pressed the unànimous views of all
Shoe Bar hands—and many others
—in the statement he give Editor
Strawn for The Ganado Gazette.
“In this here forthcomin' Range
Reunion and Rodeo," he said, "I
ain't claimin' my boys will top the
pile in all events. The bronc ridin’,
the bulldoggin', the steer straddlin',
the calf ropin', even this here cow-
boy-singin' contest—it's liable to be
nip, tuck and tickle who takes ’em.
But in the team-steer ropin’, you
can print it right out on the front
page that the Shoe Bar team of Ran-
som and McCorkadale ain’t been,
can’t be, and won’t be beat. The
way they work together, it’s a won-
der they ain’t twins!”
“Pals, are they?” inquired Editor
Strawn.
“Well,” said Duff Moser, “I’ve no-
ticed one of 'em can’t even itch
without the other un starts scratch-
inw.”
“Like Damon and Pythias, eh?”
“I don’t know about that,"
shrugged the Shoe Bar ramrod, “for
Ive never seen this Demon and
Pithypuss perform, but if- they're
aimin' to rope in this contest they
just as well git their mouths fixed
for a dose of bitters, because—"
“I doubt if Damon and Pythias
will be entered," Editor Strawn re-
assured him. “But I hear the Box L
has a couple of new boys that rate
pretty high their ownselves. Bud
Ross and Sam Hicks, I believe their
names are."
“Ringers!” snorted Duff Moser,
disdainful as a pup pretending he
hasn't noticed the old tomeat spit-
tin’ at him. “Rodeo professionals!
Arena roosters! Big-time tuckahoos
-dragged in by the heels an' signed
on as ranch hands jest to qualify for
this rodeo because the Box L ain't
got no ropers amongst their regular
hands that stands a Chinaman’s
chance. Well, they still ain’t!. Not
agin’ Rowdy Ransom an’ Mac. Mc-
Corkadale! You got any bettin’
money itchin’ you, Strawn, jest take
my word where to lay it!”
“Here, have a drink," smiled
Strawn, fudging a half-empty bot-
tle out of his desk. “Maybe I will!”
yer take a pack of coon dogs,
and theres always some
amongst 'em that’ll bristle up over
who gits to the tree first. This is
known in the dictionary as a uni-
versal human habit called “rivalry”
or *who treed the coon?"
Same way with cow outfits, and
in the Ganado country the Shoe Bar
and the Box L was the main pair
of rivals. That's why it made the
Shoe Bar boys so happy to know
that their steer-tyin’ team was un-
47
“You sniffle-snooted, wabble-tailed of
coot, I made up that ballard," Ab Bunker
yelled—and Nick Shortridge jumped him.
) dm.
D
Ze
beatable, even by this pair of rodeo
ringers.
That’s how it was a few evenin's
before the Ganado Range Reunion
and Rodeo, when they gathered in
the bunkhouse to practice up some
on their cowboy singin’. The Gan-
ado Ladies’ Social, Literary and
Business Society had hatched out
the idee of a Buckaroo Ballard-Bell-
erin’ Contest in connection with the
rodeo, and as they was in the habit
of doing everything else together,
Rowdy Ransom and Mac McCork-
adale was entered for a duet.
Rowdy’s voice was a beery-tone,
Mac’s a whiskey tenor and the piece
they choose to sing was that sad
and sentimental old ballard called
“The Trail to Mexico.”
When Mac come in that evenin’,
Rowdy was already singin’:
“I made up my mind to change my way,
An' quit my crowd that was so gay.
.To leave my nay-ay-ay-tive home for a
while,
An’ travel west for—”.
“Wup a minute, Rowdy,”
Mac, reaching for the guitar
says
with
48 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
a hand big enough to choke an ele-
phant. “You got the tune all right,
but the words goes like this:
"I made up my mind in an early day,
That I'd leave my gal—she was too gay.
That I'd leave my home an’ roam for a
while
An’ travel west for many a mile.”
. “Now then,” he goes on, whang-
Ing more or less of a chord on the
guitar and fixing his number "leven
mouth like he was about to spit out
a prune seed, “let’s try it together.”
Rowdy Ransom had got his nick-
name for being just the opposite of
what it labeled him. It’s not an
unfrequent custom amongst the cow-
boys. You take a feller so skinny
that he has to hire help to throw a
shadow and they’re liable to name
him Fat. I knowed a waddy once
that outbellered a bull every time
he flapped his tonsils, and they called
him Whisper. So Rowdy wasn’t
really no rowdy. He was a mild-
eyed, quiet-spoken little man, but
shoulder-built like a bull yearling
and plenty able in the muscles.
“All right,” he says. “We. gonna
sing it your way or mine?”
“Why, the right way,.o’ course!
O. K. Let's hit 'er!",
They hit the first five words to-
gether all night, then it begun to
jangle, for while Rowdy was bravely
beery-toning “to change my way,”
Mac made melody on. “in an early
day.” They stayed with it through
the second line anyhow, then ol’
Mac slapped his big paw acrost the
guitar’s belly all of a sudden and
give a snort.
“Dammit, Rowdy,” he says. “Do
you know the words to this here
song or don’t yuh?”
“Why, sure," says Rowdy, mild
as a muslin mitten. “It goes—”
"It don't no suchuva!” busts in
McCorkadale. “This here’s the bal-
lard of a buckaroo that took to the
lonesome trail on account of a fe-
male woman that was cuttin’ up too
gay with other fellers—like it says
in the second line: ‘That I’d leave
my gal—she was too gay.’ Did you
ever hear of a cowboy runnin’ off
to a life of sin, sorrow an’ shootin’
on account of a whole crowd bein’
too gay for him?”
“Why, sure,” says Rowdy. “In
this song I did.”
“You're crazy as a locoed—"
“Hold on here a minute, boys,”
interposes Duff Moser soothingly.
“As I recollect it, this here ballard
has got plenty verses. If you can’t
git together on the first un, why not
jest spare it an’ start off with the
second?”
“Why, sure," agrees Rowdy, and-
lets in to sing: :
“Twas in the merry month of May;
"When I started for Texas far away.
Ileft my darling gal behind;
She said her heart was only mine!"
“Rowdy!” exclaims Mac. “I’ve
been knowin’ this song ever since
hell caught afire, an’ there ain’t no
suchuva- verse in it! The second
stanzer goes like this: Hs
* "Twas in the year eighty-three
That A. J. Stinson hired me.
He says, ‘Young feller I want you to' go
An’ feller my herd down to Mexico. ”
As Mac brung his tender tenor
to a double demi-semi-quaverin'
conclusion, Rowdy Ransom was seen
to shake his head, and kinder of a
saw-tooth edge begun to creep into
that quiet way he had of speaking.
“Right’s right an’ wrong's wrong,"
Mac ‘he says, “even in a song.
That there’s the third verse—only
you got it plumb wrong. Here's
the rightful way it goes:
* "Twas in the spring of eighty-three
That ol' Jim Stinson said to me:
"Young man, how would you like to .go
With a herd of steers to New Mexico? ”
DEMON AN’ PITHYPUSS 49
For a mild little mgp with only
one upper lip, Rowdy sure bellered
it big and bold, bearing down per-
tickerly hard on the words that was
different from ol’ Mac’s.
“There, Brother Ballard Buster,”
he says when he’s finished. “Tf them
oversize ears of yours ain’t too fuzzy
with jackass hair, now you know
how it goes!”
“Jackass ears, huh?” snorts Mc-
Corkadale, slamming down the gui-
tar. “Well, at least I got something
besides jackass brains between ’em!”
“Yeah,” grunts Rowdy Ransom,
“mostly bone.”
“Bone, huh?” McCorkadale flares
up like somebody had lit a match to
him and his voice gits plumb con-
temptuous. “Why, you little sawed-
off sonuva short-horn—”
Right there was where Rowdy
Ransom hit him—between the
“sonuva” and the “short-horn.”
McCorkadale never even took time
to look surprised. The roundhouse
right that he swang at Rowdy Ran-
som’s jaw would of downed a drome-
dary, but it never fazed Rowdy a
mite—because it never hit him. But
the left that. follered it connected,
and from there on for about a min-
ute it was a sure "nough dog fight.
Then Duff Moser, Link Cassidy, Joe
Clark, Pinch-pocket Patterson, Big-
nose George swarmed on 'em from
all directions and pulled 'em apart.
“Shame on you!” says the ram-
rod. “Fightin’ over the fool words
to a fool song, like a couple of didey
buttons!"
* Duft," says Rowdy Ransom, wip-
ing a little streak of blood from his
lip, but not sounding noways ex-
cited, "ain't you rambled the range
long enough to learn that it ain't
manners to interfere in a fair fight?"
“Tt sure as hell ain't!" snorts Mc-
Corkadale. “Jest turn me a-loose
an’ T1.
“Sure,” busts in the ramrod,
“turn you a-loose an’ you'd both
spit out your teeth to spite your
spleen. How you ever expect to—”
“For my part, we don't!" busts
in Mac. “Either he agrees to sing
this here song right or the duet's
done cancelled!"
“Suits me," shrugs Rowdy. “I
never hankered to hitch up for no
duet with no whiskey-tenored hawg-
caller in the first place!”
“Why, that settles it, then,” says
the ramrod, soothing as sugar-sirup.
“Call off the duet an’ everybody’s
satisfied.”
“Now youre talkin'" agrees
Pinch-pocket Patterson. “Who gives
a durn about them ol’ hens an’ their
cowboy croonin’ contest, anyways?
My money’s on the steer ropin’, an’
if you two grapplin’ galoots don’t
git out there an’ win it, by gollies,
Tu
“Steer ropin'? Hah!" snorts Mac
McCorkadale. “You think I’m go-
in’ to team up in a public ropin’ with
a Lillypewshun lunkhead that blows
up an’ lambastes his own partner
jest because he’s too dumb his own-
self to recollect the right words to
a little ol song? Hah!"
“But, listen, you fellers!” Duff
Moser still tries to smooth ’em down.
“The honor of the whole Shoe Bar
outfit is staked on that steer ropin’!
Our money’s done bet, an’—”
“You better unbet it then, if you
can,” interposes Rowdy Ransom,
quiet but firm. “For as far as Pm
concerned, the ropin’ team of Ran-
som and McCork-the-dull has sure
"nough come to the partin’ of the
ways!”
OUBT if you will that a duck
can quack, that your saddle
will turn when the cinch gits slack,
but don’t you never doubt but what
them two Shoe Bar rannyhans had
50 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
their necks bowed. By threatenin’
to bonnet ’em with slop buckets and
pen 'em up with the hawgs, Duff
Moser and the boys did manage to
kinder hold 'em apart for the time
being. He appointed Link Cassidy
and Joe Clark to take turns hang-
` ing onto Rowdy, whilst Pinch-pocket
Patterson and Big-nose George
drawed the same responsibility for
McCorkadale.
“If we ever let ’em tangle to a
finish, fists or guns,” says Duff,
“there won’t be enough left of either
one of 'em to rope a rabbit, much
less a thousand-pound steer. As
long as we can keep 'em apart,
there's always a chance they may
cool off an’ make up in time to git
into that team-tyin’ contest, after
all."
But there wasn't much prospect
of it. Follering the bust up, them
two formerly pardners wouldn't
even speak to each other. Mean-
time, the rest of them Shoe Bar
waddies was gittin’ plumb frantic.
When they seen threatening
wouldn't do no good, they let in
to beg.
"Listen, Rowdy," pleads Link
Cassidy. “It ain't fair to the rest
of us boys. We've done bet ever’
cent we got on you an’ Mac—Tve
even put up my saddle—to win that
ropin’!”
“Better cancel your bets, then,”
says Rowdy. “We ain't teamin’.”
“Try cancellin’ hell with a cup of
coffee!” says Link. “Ol Sheriff
Millwee’s holdin’ the stakes. Duff's
done been to see him. He maintains
a bet's a bet an' as stakeholder he
ain't goin’ to cancel nothin’ unless
we git them Box L boogers we're
bettin’ agin’ to agree to it. Per-
sonally, I'd rather lose forty saddles
than humilimate myself by beggin’
them bull-whackers to let me off!”
“I wouldn't," says Pinch-pocket.
: book
“In fact, I've done been over and
tried it. They say all their side of
the bets was that Ross an' Hicks
would win the steer-ropin', an’
whether our men rope or not ain't
got no bearing on it."
“Damn the bets," says Big-nose
George. “It’s the disgrace of let-
tin’ them Box L lollypops walk off
with a win after all the big medicine
we’ve made about it!”
“Well,” says Rowdy. “Lookin’
at it from that angle, I'll swaller my
insults on one condition: git holt of
a songbook with “The Trail to Mex-
ico’ in it, an’ if it shows them words
to be the way McCorkadale claims.
TII not only sing it his way in the
duet, but I'll also git out there and
help him win that steer ropin’.”
When they put the same proposi-
tion to Mac, he faunched around
right smart, but finally agreed to
abide by the same conditions.
“Course,” he says, “there ain't no
question which one of us is right,
an' any honest song book in the
world will prove it."
Trouble was there didn't seem to
be no song book in the whole town
of Ganado that even mentioned such
a ballard as “The Trail to Mexico."
“Tve studied through ever’ hymn
in both churches," groans
Pinch-pocket Patterson, reporting to
Duff Moser out back of the chutes
not more’n a half hour before the
rodeo was due to commence. . “They
got plenty pieces on the trail to
heaven, but nary a mention of Mex-
ico."
“Kinder peculiar, too," complains
Joe Clark. “I’ve noticed a heap
more people headin' for Mexico than
I have for heaven! Well, it looks
like— Wup, looky yonder! You
reckon they’ve gone an’ made up?”
It sure looked like it, for yonder
was Rowdy Ransom and Mac Mc-
Corkadale a-straddle of their ropin’
DEMON AN’ PITHYPUSS 51
ponies ridin’ from the stable toward
the outside gate, side by side.
“I told Link an’ Big-nose not to
let them two git together!” snorts
Duff Moser. “Look! They got their
guns on! We better see what’s up!”
The three of 'em overtaken Rowdy
and Mac just inside the gate.
“Well, boys?” inquires Duff.
“Goin’ out to limber up your ropes
a little?”
“Limber up hell!" snorts McCork-
adale. “Were goin’ outside to set-
tle this here disagreement once an'
for all!”
“Like gentlemen an’ cowboys!”
agrees Rowdy. He pats the holt of
his six-gun plumb significant.
If it hadn’t been for the gate-
man, Old Snapper Smith, swinging
the gate shut quick when Duff hol-
lered to him, they just might of done
it, too. As it was Duff and Pinch-
pocket and Joe Clark got between
'em. Rowdy and Mac looked at the
ten or a dozen Box L cowboys ap-
proaching from the stables, then at
each other.
“We don’t want no Box L audi-
ence, Rowdy,” says Mac. “Suppos-
in’ we tend to this later?”
"Sure," says Rowdy. “Anyways,
Link says he’s got wind of an old
feller that’ll prove—”
“Prove hell!” snorts McCorkadale.
“TIl prove to you that—”
He didn’t git to say what on ac-
count of the grinnin’ arrival of them
Box L hands.
“Hiyah, songbirds!” they all sing
out together. “Any more cash to
lay on the team-tyin’?”
“Sure,” says Duff Moser grimly,
yampin’ some bills from his pocket.
“Thirty more that the team of Ran-
som and McCorkadale wins it!”
“You shouldn’t ort to of done
that, Duff,” says Rowdy, after them
Box L’s had rode on to line up for
the Grand Entry. “You know there
WS—4B
ain’t no such team any more, an’
won't be, unless—"
"Unless we show you that song
in a book, provin’ which one of you
is right! That there's the promise
you made us. You're still aimin'
to keep it, ain't you?"
“Yeah,” grunts Mac, “but—”
“You an’ Joe stay with 'em, Pinch-
pocket!” busts in the ramrod, sud-
denly spurrin’ for the grandstand
gate. “I’m going after that song
book!”
What Duff had got suddenly took
with was a good-enough idea all
right if it would work. The droop-
eyed hombre he grabbed at the
grandstand gate was Editor Strawn
of The Ganado Gazette. On Duff's
tip Strawn had bet some money on
Rowdy and Mac his ownself, and he
already knowed about the bust-up.
“Looky here, Strawn,” says. Duff
when he got him cornered. “All we
got to do is show them boys that
blasted song printed out in a book
an’ they’ve agreed to abide by same
an’ call the feud off. Well, we can’t
find it in no song book, but what’s
to keep you from rushin’ right down
to your place an’ printin’ one?”
“Whaz prevent?” says Editor
Strawn. “Jush three thingsh pre-
vent, Mishter Mossher. Number
one: Printing takesh time. It’ssh
too late now. Number two: Shopsh
outa paper because the editor used
paper money to bet on shteer-rop-
ing. Number three: Only one
printer in town—thash me—ssh!
He’sh drunk!”
O the Ganado Range Rodeo
banged open. It come on to the
big main event of team steer rop-
ing, and the Shoe Bar still didn’t
have no prospect of winning, for the
unbeatable team of Rowdy and Mac
was still hatin’ each other’s innards
over a song. Not only that, but
52 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
both Link Cassidy and Big-nose
George were missing, which broke
up both of the Shoe Bar's other en-
tries.
“I leave them honyaks to keep
watch over Rowdy and Mac,” com-
plained Duff Moser, “an’ they not
only don't do it, but plumb disap-
pear into the bargain! I wisht to
hell—"
He busted off all of a sudden, for
yonder come Link Cassidy racing
acrost the track, waving a guitar.
“Hey, Duff!’ he pants. “I got
him! Bring 'em over here behind
the grandstand!”
“Got who? Bring who? What
you mean, runnin’ off when I—”
“Ol Nick Shortridge, Rowdy an’
Mac—an’ pronto before the team-
ropin’s over!”
Still without savvyin’ what it was
about, Duff, with Joe Clark and
Pinch-pocket to help him, managed
somehow to haze them two feudin’
ropers around behind the stand.
There, squattin’ against a post
was a weather-whipped little: old
man with droughty whiskers and ir-
rigatin’ eyes. :
“Boys,” says Link, "this beats a
book. Meet Mr. Nick Shortridge,
the feller that made up ‘The Trail
to Mexico’ in the first place, which
I’ve brung him here to settle this
song argument once an’ for all. You
tell 'em how it goes, gran’pa!”
"Tetch me a chord," says Mr.
Shortridge. “My fingers is so stiff
I cain't whang it no more!”
So Link give him the chord and
he cut 'er loose, kinder shrill and
whiney, but right strong for such
an old coot:
"I made up my mind in an early day,
That I'd leave my gal—she was too gay—”
“Yuh see?" gloats McCorkadale
at the end of the first stanzer. “It
goes jest like I said it did!"
"Quit interrumpin' me, young
squirt!” snaps the old man. He
cuts loose on the stanzer about old
man Stinson, only danged if he don't
sing this un Rowdy's way, endin'
it up:
“With a herd of steers to New Mexico—' "
So now it's Rowdy's turn to look
like the cat that caught the gopher.
He's jest waiting for the old man
to let go of the double-demi-semi-
quaver on the last note before he
starts crowing for his side, when all
of a sudden another old whiskerino
come hobbling around the corner
of the grandstand, leanin' on a cane
with one hand and on Big-nose
George with the other. He looks
plenty feeble, but his voice ain't.
“Drat your guzzle, Nick Short-
ridge!” he bellers. “Won’t you never
learn the right words to that there
song? It ain't ‘New Mexico,’ it's
Mex—"
*"Tain't no suchova!" busts in
Mr. Shortridge, bristling his whisk-
ers. “Ol Jim Stinson never drove
a steer to old Mexico in his life. He
DEMON AN’ PITHYPUSS 58
drove into New Mexico at Salt Lake,
swung past Fort Sumner, an'—"
What plumb drownded him out
was this other oldster's bobbed-wire
beller bawling out:
“°Twas in the year of eighty-three,
That A. J. Stinson hired me.
He says ‘Young feller, I want you to go,
An’ foller my herd down to Mexico! "
“That’s the way it goes, gents,”
he puffs, “an’ don't you let no wa-
tery-eyed, sniffle-snooted, wabble-
tailed ol’ coot like Nick Shortridge
try to tell you different!”
“That’s right, boys," says Big-
nose George. "Because I jest found
out that Mr. Bunker here is the
feller that made it up in the first
place. I reckon that ort to prove
that—" 2
“Prove my tail feathers!" whinnies
old Nick Shortridge. “I made up
that ballard myownself back in '86!
An’ if Ab Bunker claims different
he's a split- tongued, Story-tellin ol
magpie!"
"Why, you cockle-bur-tailed o°
sawed-off song-stealin' sonuva short-
horn—"
Right then was when old Nick
Shortridge hit him with his cane—
right between the “sonuva” and the
"shorthorn." The next thing any-
body knowed them two old whiske-
roosters was goin' it for hell-ain't-
half, cane-whippin’ each other to
beat a bullfight.
Strangely enough it was Rowdy
Ransom and Mac McCorkadale that
jumped in quickest to pull 'em apart.
“Shame on you!” says Mac. “Two
old mossyhorns like you, fightin’
over the fool words to a fool song!
We ort to bump your heads together
for you!”
Then all of a sudden Mac seemed
to realized what he’s sayin’. He
looks.at Rowdy Ransom. His num-
ber ‘leven mouth kinder dangles
open, and one of his ham-size hands
scratches his head kinder sheepish.
Rowdy Ransom meets his look with
sort of a sickly grin.
“Seems like that’s what they been
tryin’ to tell us, Mac,” he says.
“Kinder silly, ain’t it?”
“Specially when we didn’t neither
‘of us make up the dang song in the
first place,” grins Mac. “Listen—
they’re still callin’ up steer ropers
out there, Rowdy. Let’s you an’
me—”
“Get out there an’ show * em how
it’s did!”
“Well, I be damned!” says Duff
Moser, watchin’ ’em hightail it for
their hosses. “Jest like Demon and
Pithypuss, ain’t they?”
That night, when the Shoe Bar
team of winnin’ steer ropers also
teamed up on a duet in the Ganado
Ladies’ Social, Literary and Business
Society’s cowboy singing contest, the
song they sung was “The Old
Chisholm Trail.” It had a new verse
in it that they'd made up their own-
selves:
“A kick in the pants or a punch in the
nose—
Who gives a hoot how the dang song goes?
Coma ti yi yoopy yoopy yip yoopy yay!
It’s team-tyin’ steers that draws the pay!”
THE END
“IN TONTO TOWN
By HARRY R. KELLER
In Tonto Town the silent streets
Lie buried in a drift of sand.
Like corpses in their winding sheets
The gaunt adobe houses stand.
Time was when clamor filled the air,
And range-bred men, all lean and brown,
Came tiding nightly to the blare
Of revelry in Tonto Town.
I know, for I was one of these,
The wildest ranny of the band,
A wiry bronc between my knees,
A six-gun ready to my hand.
From fickle chance I caught my cue
To swap hot lead, or play the clown.
It mattered not, when life was new—
And likewise cheap—in Tonto Town.
I close my eyes and see them still:
The bearded freighters, gray with dust;
The gun hawks spoiling for a kill;
The panther play of greed and lust.
The rabble in the dancing halls,
The lurid lips, the gaudy gown—
Their shadows haunt the crumbling walls
In Tonto Town, in Tonto Town.
Nor will I be forgetting this:
Blue moonlight in a patio,
A touch of hands, a breathless kiss,
A promise whispered soft and low.
Too soon the eastern sky grew wan
With morning light. ... Her eyes were brown,
But she, with all the rest, is gone,
Forever gone from Tonto Town.
The sun-bleached bones of cattle lie
Across the range that drought has swept.
Beneath the brazen, searing sky
For twenty years the town has slept.
Its darkened doorways mock the night,
Like sightless eyes its windows frown;
But it is not deserted quite—
My heart still lives in Tonto Town.
5&
ACES AND EIGHTS
BY NEY N. GEER
Tue Powder River Kid drew rein
at the high gap cutting through the
Cascade Range. It had been a hard
climb up the east slope, and his bay
gelding was winded. With a caution
that had become habitual during the
past two years, the Kid’s blue eyes
narrowed intently as he looked back
across the tufted pines and scanned
his trail.
That trail was a thousand miles
The Powder River Kid
was fast, but he wasn't
expecting a sneak
draw from the tinhorn,
long, and the Kid had left a few dead
men along it for sheriffs to worry
over. The first to drop had been
Dutch Holtz, owner of the saloon
where the Kid’s father had been
fleeced of his cattle and range in
a crooked poker game, then killed by
a derringer slug when he questioned
the honesty of Three-finger Jack, a
fly-by-night tinhorn gambler. It was
Three-finger Jack that the Kid was
after, and the tinhorn’s erratic wan-
derings were hard to follow. The
gambler was constantly changing his
name and making long jumps be-
tween killings which invariably were
56 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
the result of card games. It was a
trail that had put bitter lines in the
Kid’s young face and a sardonic
smile on lips which had once been
cheerful and friendly.
The Powder River Kid knew he
would find no rest from the morose
and brooding thoughts that drove
him along this trail of ‘Three-finger
Jack until he sat face to face with
the crooked gambler across a poker
table. For, like many a man before
him—some of whom were now dead
—the Kid had vowed to beat the tin-
horn at his own game. A game of
draw—cards and guns!
- The Kid was not a fool, however.
By constant training his supple
hands had acquired a lightning
swiftness of movement that baffled
the eye. Even as he paused on the
trail, one hand expertly worked with
a worn deck of cards, switching the
top half off the bottom, then back
again. Suddenly, his other hand
dropped reins and streaked to hol-
ster, snapping out his Colt in a sin-
gle motion that was quicker than
thought.
He laughed without mirth, for his
back trail was empty and he was
entirely alone. No danger threat-
ened. He returned the Colt to
leather, changed hands with the
cards, then executed a sudden cross-
hand draw. A draw that was sudden
death to tinhorns. Three times since
leaving Wyoming's Powder River
range the Kid had used that draw
across a poker table. And it was his
hunch that very soon he would use
it on Three-finger Jack. Lucky
Gulch, where a bonanza of placer
gold had been recently discovered,
was not far ahead and the card sharp
was almost sure to be there. Un-
suspecting miners would be easy
picking for the tricky gambler.
The bay gelding nudged the slack
reins and stepped off along the trail
through the gap and on down the
west slope. Two days later the big
brone picked its way into the new
gold camp.
Lucky Gulch was a five-mile
stretch of looping curves where
rough-clad miners toiled thick as
ants, using gold pans, rockers, long
toms and whip-sawed sluice boxes in
which to wash out the rich red gravel
and reap their golden harvest. First
news of the strike had brought a wild
stampede, not yet at its peak, for the
population of the diggings was in-
creasing hourly. Excitement pre-
vailed everywhere, the Kid observed,
and men moved about with tense
nerves. Calmly riding at a walk
through all this confusion, the Kid
came into Stringtown which had
mushroomed up overnight.
Stringtown was a double row of
tents and rough-board buildings
sprawling along the canyon trail.
The Kid saw hotels under canvas,
gambling dens, saloons and a few
stores. he hot noon sun boiled
pitch from the town's raw lumber.
The most pretentious of all the
false-fronted buildings was the Ace
High Bar, a combination saloon and
gambling joint. The Kid stopped at
the hitch rail before it, found a
vacant place for his horse, then en-
tered the bar, which housed a brawl-
ing, two-fisted, hell-for-leather sort
of crowd, well sprinkled with profes-
sional gamblers, riffraff and outlaws,
all seeking adventure and the quick-
est, easiest way to turn a dishonest
dollar.
Near the front end of the long bar
stood Diamond Joe, more of a look-
out than a dispenser of drinks. He
had observed the Kid ride up, and
gave him a close scrutiny as he
stepped inside. Diamond Joe saw
with interest that this stranger was
well built and wore his gun in an
unusual fashion, butt foremost on
ACES AND EIGHTS 57
his right hip. Also, the stranger
looked capable and willing to use
that gun, if and when occasion re-
quired. i
Diamond Joe's friendly smile was
a magnet that drew the Kid to him.
"Howdy, cowboy!" the saloonman
called cheerfully.. “Name your poi-
son, pilgrim, A stranger's first drink
is always free. Come far?”
The Kid smiled. : “Far enough to
be choked with dust," he.replied
easily, and ordered rye.
The Kid casually observed that
the large room housed many. and
various gambling layouts, most of
them receiving a good play. Across
the room on a raised platform a
small, droop-shouldered man was
pounding from a battered piano
something which passed for music
with the boisterous crowd. To spot
Three-finger Jack among this shift-
ing camp population would take a
little time, the Kid decided, for he
had never seen the man and had only
a sketchy description of him. He
was said to be a nondescript char-
acter of ordinary size and build,
whose only oddity was that the sec-
ond finger of the left hand was cut
off at the first joint.
“Any easy money around this dig-
gings?" he asked of Joe.
Diamond Joe could detect only
bitterness in the Kid's hard-bitten
face and sardonic smile. “Not unless
you’ve a stand-in with Ike Jenkins,”
Diamond said. “But if you’re plenty
handy with your gun, waal, Ike
might use you. Just stick around
camp a few days. Give the boss a
chance to look you over. What's
your moniker, son?”
The Kid thought of Three-finger
Jack and decided changing names
was a game two could play. . He
brought out his worn deck of cards
and gave them a shuffle. Then,
with studied carelessness, he cut the
deck and turned two cards face up
on the bar. The ace of diamonds
and king of spades showed. Diamond
Joe looked at the cards, puzzled.
“That’s my moniker,” explained
the Kid. “Just tell Ike Jenkins that
Ace King will bear lookin’ over. Ill
` stay a few days.”
"You won't stay long with that
moniker,” said the lookout. “Not
unless you take up residence in boot-
hill.”
“Yeah?” said the Kid.
spade is to bury my dead.”
“That
IAMOND JOE shook his head.
He stepped to a drawer contain-
ing gambling supplies and selected a
new deck of cards which he placed
before the Kid.
“Your cards are about worn out,”
he smiled, still friendly. “Try your
luck with a new deck. Pick another
moniker, son. One of the boys an-
swers to Ace Jackson. "There's no
use in you gettin’ killed.”
The Kid’s blue eyes brightened.
“That’s right,” he grinned. “I reckon
I better try my luck again.”
He broke the seal on the new deck
and shuffled it while Diamond Joe
watched narrowly and with keen in-
terest. But when the Kid cut and
turned up two cards they were the
same as before, the ace of diamonds
and king of spades. Diamond Joe
looked startled.
“Pilgrim, you are slick with cards
he conceded.
“Yeah, an’ slick with a gun,” said
the Kid. “Better tell Ace Jackson to
change his moniker—or leave camp.
I aim to stay.” He pocketed the new
deck of cards, tossed a coin on the
bar and walked outside to his horse.
Looking out over. the painted half
of a front window, Diamond Joe
watched the Kid mount and ride off
along the street. A young but mighty
[a
58 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
salty gun hand, he decided, and
hunting easy money.
There was a clearing amid the
pines and chincapins where a large
corral and open-faced shed served
Stringtown as a livery. The. Kid
found it and left his animal with the
hostler in charge. Next, he dulled
the keen edge of his hunger in a tent
eating house, where he picked up
scraps of information while listening
to the other patrons converse. He
knew at once that the camp was on
edge. Rich claims were constantly
being jumped; thrifty miners who
did not gamble or spend money over
the bars were nightly being mur-
dered and robbed of their hard-won
gold; gunplay.was so common that
it passed with scant notice. The Jen-
kins gang, it seemed, held a death
grip ou this bonanza diggings. The
Powder River Kid set out to prowl
the camp.
The sun dropped behind high tim-
bered ridges, and the sultry air of
Stringtown cooled. Miners wearing
the mud-stained garb of their trade
thronged the street in increasing
numbers. One of them, an elderly
man who walked with a painful limp,
attracted the Kid's attention. The
man's hat brim was low over his
eyes; a grizzled beard effectually ob-
scured his features. Pausing fre-
quently, the limping man spoke in
low tones to other miners, who
nodded as if in agreement, then con-
tinued on their way. This aroused
the Kid's interest. Something was
stirring!
He followed the man at a distance.
Soon an entirely different type of
man brushed past the Kid. A man
who wore expensive and spotless
garb, and whose half-lidded, hawk-
like eyes were fixed intently on the
movements of the one who limped.
The stalker's lean, sharp visage ex-
pressed the predatory cruelty and
cunning of a wolf. His polished
boots took him nearer to his quarry,
while his lean hands drew closer to
the butts of his thonged-down guns. `
Suddenly his cold voice chilled the
crowded street.
“Tuttle!” he called.
thief!"
Startled, the limping man whirled
about, his hand going to his gun. It
was a hopeless attempt to draw and
shoot. His weapon never cleared
leather. The hawk-eyed gunman
blasted him down, shooting with
both hands. Tuttle’s body shuddered
with the impact of smashing lead.
He gave an agonized cry: ^Jen-
kins! You bloody devil! You’ll—”
A lead slug crashed through his
teeth, another ripped through his
heart.
Ike Jenkins stood in his tracks a
moment, watching the body settle in
the red dust of the street, carefully
judging the temper of the startled
crowd. Then he turned calmly and
walked back toward the Ace High
Saloon, while nearly fifty miners
watched him go. They had wit-
nessed cold-blooded murder, yet
none of them made a move. A gun-
man laughed coldly, and the Kid was
quick to understand. There were
others of the Jenkins gang posted
along the street. Their guns were
protecting their leader's back.
"Laugh, you damned coyote,"
growled an embittered miner under
his breath. “The Jenkins gang has
“Yous damned
_ just about shot its last wad in this
2-55
diggin's.
The Kid swung about and faced
him. “Yeah? What do you mean
by that?” He eyed the big miner ap-
praisingly, and his thin lips twisted
in scorn.
Without answering, the miner spat
into the dust and turned away. It
was obvious that he wanted no words
ACES AND EIGHTS 59
with anyone who wore a gun in such
a rakish manner as the Kid did.
Other miners eyed the Kid sharply,
no doubt considering him one of the
Jenkins gang. None of them spoke,
for the expression on the Kid’s face
was not friendly. He saw in these
slow-handed, intimidated miners
only so much pay dirt being run
through Ike Jenkins’ sluice box and
washed clean of their gold. Where
was their fighting spirit, he won-
dered. They stood huddled like a
bunch of storm-whipped cattle. The
Kid turned his back on them and
moved away.
HE Kid continued his prowl of the
camp, while doves mourned in the
chincapins and nighthawks cried in
the darkening sky. Sight of that
gunplay had intensified the hard-
bitten expression on the Kid’s face;
it had plunged his mind into a dark
interval of morose and brooding
thought. The night life of the boom-
ing camp held small interest for him,
and it was yet early when he paid
an outrageous price for a room on the
second floor of a frame hotel which
was not yet completely finished, but
was already open for business.
He pulled off his boots, stretched
out on the narrow bunk and pre-
pared to get some needed sleep. But
sleep would not come, he soon dis-
covered. Through the flimsy parti-
tion there crept into his ears the muf-
fled sound of someone sobbing. A
soul-racking outpouring of grief,
all the more disturbing because
it was almost wholly suppressed. It
angered the Kid. He tried in vain to
close his ears to the sound. He com-
menced wishing he had slept out un-
der some chincapin. However, he
was packing a considerable roll of
money and had not wanted to run
the risk of being murdered while he
slept. But now that racking sound
in the adjoining room was cutting
into his heart.
The Powder River Kid had long
thought his heart was hard as stone.
He was still more angered to discover
it wasn’t. That sound of grief,
slight as it was, cut into his heart
quite easily. He found no defense
against it. Sitting up in the dark-
ness, he rolled a smoke, waiting for
the sound to stop. But it kept on
and on. It drove the Kid to remove
the chair from before his door and go
out into the long hallway, where he
gently tried the latch at the next
door.
The door opened and the Kid went
quietly inside. He struck a match
and lighted a lamp on the wall. Face
down on the bunk lay a slender fig-
ure in overalls and brush-frayed
jacket, head buried under a pillow.
At first the Kid thought it was a
girl. He hesitated, as if about to
back away, then thought better of it.
Snatching away the pillow, he said
harshly, “Shut up! Stop that fool
noise!”
With a violent start, the youngster
sat up, shrinking back against the
wall. He was dry-eyed now, for the
wells from which tears flow had long
since been emptied. He looked at
the Kid and his quivering lips tight-
ened. He became utterly silent and
motionless, his grief-reddened eyes
glaring at the Kid with an expression |
of bitterest hatred. His eyes were
light-brown, well set in a handsome
face. Something in that face turned
the Kid's unreasoning anger. He sat
down on a rough bench and worked
up a smoke, eying the holes in his
socks. The silence became a living
thing. j
“I couldn’t sleep,” said the Kid,
and took out the new deck of cards.
His skilled hands worked with them
absent-mindedly, while the boy
watched and the silence built again.
‘here, mister.
60 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
The Kid’s hard-bitten expression
softened somewhat, and when he
spoke again his voice had softened,
too. “Cryin’ don’t get a man no-
where. Better tell me about it, son.”
The boy on the bunk drew a deep,
unsteady breath and let go of it with
a quivering sigh. "You're not one of
the Jenkins gang?” The Kid shook
his head, and the boy went on, “Ike
killed my dad, and I . . . I couldn't
even get pa's gun. "They toted him
off and slapped me away. Wouldn't
even let me watch his buryin. I’m
sorry you couldn't sleep, mister.
Soon as I can get over these shakes,
Tl slip out of here. I gotta kill Ike
Jenkins! "Thats why I snuck up
To get rid of these
shakes."
“I know how you feel," said the
Kid. “I’ve felt that way myself.
You learn you got a chore to do even
though you gotta grow up to the job.
You’re Tuttle’s kid, I reckon.”
“Yeah, Jim Tuttle. My pa dis-
covered this diggings. Ike Jenkins
drove us off and jumped our claims.
He shot pa and left him for dead.
But I managed to pack him back in
the hills, and he come around again
pretty fair. We kept to the hills,
because the Jenkins gang had staked
all the best claims here. Pa was
Jucky and struck it again, the mother
lode, he said. We got a family back
East dependin’ on us, and pa was
determined to make good. He came
here thinkin’ to pick some honest
miners who'd help him hold that new
strike for a fair share. Now pa’s
dead!"
“Gold never made anyone rich,”
said the Kid. “You better get out of
this camp and head for your folks
back home.”
Jim Tuttle shook his head. “We
hid our horses back in the chinea-
pins. "There's a rifle on my saddle.
J aim to kill Ike Jenkins. Then Ill
hold that lode. You might have
caught me cryin’, mister, but I ain't
a quitter."
“Sure not," said the Kid.
how you feel. You got a chore to
do." He eyed the holes in his socks
and continued to work with the
cards, his thoughts taking a new
turn. He wanted to help this kid.
A step came along the hall, doors
softly opened and closed. Listening,
the blue eyes of the Powder River
Kid narrowed a little. Presently, the
door of the room opened and a non-
deseript man in gambler's attire
coolly stepped inside. The Kid felt
his back hair raise, like the hackles of
a dog scenting wolf. The intruder
smiled and his left hand toyed with
the heavy gold watch chain strung
across his checkered vest. The second
finger of that hand was short. Its fin-
gertip had been neatly amputated at
the first joint, and the Kid knew ex-
actly why. That short finger offered
a decided advantage to a crooked
poker player. With it cards could be
dealt from the bottom of the deck
without a telltale glimpse of the
working finger's knuckle.
The Powder River Kid knew he
was face to face with Three-finger
Jack, the tricky tinhorn who had
killed his father. But not face to
face across a poker table, so the Kid
grinned. “This your room, amigo?"
he asked easily.
“Not at all, sir," replied the gam-
bler suavely. “I was hunting this
fatherless lad. "This camp is not un-
mindful of his sorrow. Over in the
Ace High some of us gentlemen took
up a collection in his behalf. Al-
ready it amounts to over a thousand
dollars, and it’s still growing. We
will all feel honored if the lad comes
over with me, so that the donation
can properly be presented to him.
You understand, sir?”
Jim Tuttle blurted out a hot re-
“I know
ACES AND EIGHTS 61
fusal, but the Kid silenced him with
a look and said, “The lad is all on
edge. He don’t savvy how such
things go. But I savvy. It was
mighty kind of you gents to take up
that collection for the youngster.
He'll think well of you in the morn-
in’ after he’s had some sleep. I'll
talk with him about it. Tomorrow,
TIl bring him over to the Ace High,
mister—"
The gambler smiled. “Just ask for
Ace Jackson. I'll be looking for you.
If I'm not around, some of the boys
can find me. By the way, what’s
your name?”
“The moniker is Ace King,” said
the Kid, and matched the tinhorn’s
smile.
“T take keen pleasure in making
your acquantance,” Jackson said.
“You impress me as being a far-
sighted young man. We have much
in common, Ace." The tinhorn's
colorless eyes turned suggestively to
Jim Tuttle, then returned to the Kid.
“It becomes obvious that we can
work together. Diamond Joe speaks
well of you." Three-finger Jack
bowed courteously, and departed.
Jim Tuttle looked accusingly at
the Kid. *I don't want their damned
money!"
*Sure not, Jim. But when you toss
a cat on its ear, it always lands on
its feet. We'll be mighty lucky to
do that, I reckon. Was your dad
packin’ gold of rich quartz from that
lode?”
“Yeah, Ace. Pa brought along
some picture rock that’d knock yore
eyes out. He wanted something to
show the honest miners that’d draw
'em to him. Look here!”
The boy handed the Kid a lump of
ore. It did not require a trained eye
to see that the ore was the real Mc-
Coy, for it was seamed and splotched
with yellow metal. The Kid viewed
it with a sardonic smile.
*[ thought so, Jim. The Jenkins
gang searched your dad's pockets.
They know he made a new strike.
That talk of a thousand dollars was
just bait. They aim to get their
hands on you, so you can lead 'em
to the rich lode your dad discovered."
“T’d never do that!" declared the
boy. 3 :
"Sure you would," said the Kid.
“They’d help you change your mind
and it wouldn't be pleasant, the way
they'd handle you. You got a kite
to fly, an’ mighty sudden. Come
along, Jim. Ill get my boots on."
Jim Tuttle followed rather uncer-
tainly. Events were moving too fast
for him to understand fully. But he
had looked behind the Kid's mask
of bitterness and knew he had found
a friend. The two of them left. the
hotel by way of the back stairs and
without mishap gained the livery.
“T was lookin’ to get some shut-
eye,” grumbled the Kid to the watch-
ful hostler in charge. “But Ike
gimme a chore to do straight off."
That seemed to satisfy the hostler,
and his alacrity to serve the Kid
proved he was one of the Jenkins
gang. The Kid saddled and
mounted. He rode to where the boy
waited in the scrüb timber nearby
and swung him up behind. The two
continued on for a little ways, then
the Kid stepped down. He split his
roll of money and tucked one half in
the boy's overall pocket.
*So long, Jim," he said easily.
“Give my bronc its head. It'll pick
a game trail and take you up the east
slope and over the pass. Keep on
headin’ east, amigo. My bronc
knows the way. When you hit the
T Bar Z on Powder River, just tell
the boys that the Kid sent you.
They'll make you right at home, no
matter who owns the spread now."
“But I wasn't thinkin’ to pull
62 . STREET & SMITH'S WESTERN STORY
out,” said Jim Tuttle.
job to do."
“Skip it, Jim,” said the Kid firmly.
“TIl do yore chore along with one
of my own.” He slapped the bay
gelding on the rump. “Give them
'T Bar Z punchers a howdy from me,
Jim,” he called softly as the gelding
knowingly carried the Tuttle boy
away.
“I got me a
HREE-FINGER JACK was deal-
ing at a poker table in the Ace
High | Bar when the Kid found him a
little later that night. They ex-
changed a look of mutual under-
standing as the Kid settled into a
vacant chair at the table which an
unlucky miner was vacating, having
dropped all the gold in his poke in
the game of draw.
'The colorless eyes of the gambler
asked a question.
“T left him asleep," answered the
Kid, and bought a stack of blues.
"He feels pretty tough but’ll come
out of it."
The gambler smiled and nodded.
“You're mighty quick to catch on,
my friend. It’s a no-limit game with
millions in it.”
The Kid smiled.
little easy money,”
biguously.
me a ranch.”
So the Jenkins gang was after Jim
Tuttle, he mused. The game was
like mistletoe on the oaks, a para-
sitic growth that lived on the sweat
and blood of honest men who toiled.
He observed that the cards were fac-
tory marked, the same as the new
deck in his pocket, bought from Dia-
mond Joe. This was a no-limit game,
and the miners were betting reck-
lessly, not knowing that they were
being fleeced. One of the miners was
the same black-bearded giant the
Kid had met in the street. His name
proved to be Abe Benton, Big Abe,
“I could use a
he replied am-
Hi been thinkin’ to buy
his friends called him. Abe was los-
ing heavily; losing temper, too, and
grumbling.
When it came the Kid's turn to `
deal, his skilled hands stacked the
deck. After the cut, he easily
slipped the lower half back to the
top again. He dealt top, bottom, and
second cards. He dealt Big Abe a
winning hand, and smiled sardoni-
cally as the giant raked in the chips.
“By thunder!” rumbled Abe Ben-
ton. “You’ve changed my luck,
young feller.” He gave the Kid a
square-toothed grin.
Luck whipsawed back and forth
across the table. Chips passed from
Three-finger Jack to Abe Benton.
Other miners and the Kid won a
few.
The game became faster and
wilder. It drew an interested crowd.
The gambler’s drawer emptied of
gold dust and chips but he smiled
thinly and sent for more. Jenkins
came to stand at the tinhorn’s shoul-
der, not at all pleased with the way
the game was going. Always before
Ace Jackson had been a steady win-
ner. Abe Benton pawed his black
whiskers and chuckled with delight.
His luck was running high. The Kid
remained cool and calm, the smile
on his hard-bitten face never chang-
ing. He had his way with the deck
and his trained hands escaped detec-
tion. Seated to the right of Three-
finger Jack, the Kid was cutting the
cards in such a way as to hamper the
gambler’s tricky dealing.
A grim-visaged gunman came to
whisper softly into the ear of Ike
Jenkins, who in turn bent forward
and whispered into the ear of Three-
finger Jack. The gambler’s face
tightened a bit. He opened a new
deck of cards and gave them a rapid
shuffle. He crimped the deck just a
trifle, relinquished it for the cut.
The Kid saw the crimp, but care-
ACES AND EIGHTS 63
lessly cut to it. “Who’s short in the
ante?” he said.
Three-finger Jack glanced at the
pot, then looked hard at Abe Benton
and said, “Sweeten the kitty, my
friend.” The big miner grumblingly
tossed in a chip, and the tinhorn com-
menced dealing the cards. But, un-
noticed, the Kid had deftly switched
the lower half of the deck to the top
again. The deal went wild from
there. The betting went wild, too,
and everyone but the Kid, Big Abe
and Three-finger Jack dropped out.
Those three seemed to be holding
pat hands. Abe bet his pile and
called for a showdown, spreading a
full house at kings and jacks. The
tinhorn, his face a shade whiter,
grimly exposed a higher full, aces and
eights. He reached for his winnings.
But suddenly the Kid stayed his
hand.
“Just a minute!” he said. “I’m
still in this game.” With his right
hand he fanned out his cards. He
was holding the joker along with four
aces.
“Five aces!” thundered Big Abe.
“And Jackson has already turned up
three! Someone has cheated!”
“Tl say,” smiled the Kid, nar-
rowly eying Three-finger Jack. “It
was a new deck and this card-
sharper’s deal. By mistake, I
reckon, he dealt himself the wrong
cards. Aces and eights is a dead
man’s hand—so the boys say on
Powder River. A cowman died with
such cards in his hands once.”
Two guns hung on the tinhorn’s
flanks. But he thrust at the table
and snatched for his hidden der-
ringer. The great arms of Big Abe
had locked about the winnings and
held the table fast. The Kid’s cross-
hand draw was fast as the tongue of
a snake. His big Colt roared across
the poker table. His slug ranged up-
ward through the gambler’s skull be-
fore the derringer spoke. Three-
finger Jack dropped back into his
chair, then sprawled forward with
his head scattering the cards. It was
over before surprised spectators had
time to fling their bodies from the
line of fire.
Looking first at the dead gambler,
then at the smiling Kid, Big Abe
slowly unfolded his arms. “Waal,
by cracky, I reckon you win this
pot," he said, a little shaken.
“Bring it along, pard," said the
Kid, quite undisturbed. “Tf you like,
we'll cash in at the bar and split the
winnings."
Big Abe grinned. He took off his
huge hat and scooped chips, currency
and gold into it, then followed the
Kid. Other miners crowded around
him, and Big Abe grinned at them,
spoke à low word or two, making
clear to them that he was backing
his new-found pard to the limit.
Ike Jenkins, a cluster of hard-eyed
gunmen around him, had been in-
formed that Jim Tuttle had vanished
from the hotel. Ike correctly judged
that this salty pilgrim was crossing
his gang. Ike silently cursed Dia-
mond Joe for a bungling fool. Then
he cursed the dead gambler for an-
other fool—allowing himself to be
tricked at his own game. With a
covert sign to his henchmen, Jenkins
strode after the big miner and the
Kid, determined to recover their
heavy winnings. Jim Tuttle and the
new strike also figured in this play.
T the bar, the Kid saw the gang
closing in. Two of them took
positions near the front door, cutting
off escape. Other hard-looking desper-
adoes set themselves to the Kid’s
right and left, where they had him
hipped. Jenkins came in slowly. The
Powder River Kid smiled in scorn.
A prize bunch of gun-slingers! The
gang must consider him pretty good,
64 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
if they reckoned it would take the
whole dozen or so of them to down
him in a gun fight.
With his back to the bar, the Kid
braced himself against the shock of
lead he knew was coming. Jenkins
spoke sharply to Diamond Joe, who
was counting the pile of chips.
“Don’t pay off on that take, Joe!”
he snapped. “I saw this card slick
cheating!”
Diamond Joe ducked low. Jenkins
was drawing and on all sides guns
were being snatched from leather.
The Kid’s Colt was the first to go
into action.
In the front doorway a Sharps rifle
boomed its black powder thunder,
leading a crashing symphony of gun
fire. The Kid saw Ike Jenkins
knocked off balance and start down.
Fanning his hammer, the Powder
River Kid heated his Colt into a
flaming torch, pouring lead into the
Jenkins gang. The Kid felt his left
arm knocked limp and useless. An-
other slug took him through a leg.
Whistlers were flying nine ways from
the jack. The Kid’s Colt ran dry!
Diamond Joe cocked back an arm
and hurled a bottle. It clipped the
Kid’s head and knocked him spin-
ning to the floor.
“To hell with the Jenkins gang!”
shouted Big Abe, a smoking gun in
his fist. “Finish the bloody devils!”
Sprawled there under the rolling
smoke, the Kid shoek his head and
cleared it. He saw the guns that had
spilled from Jenkins’ lifeless hands,
and he snatched up one of those
guns. He peered toward the front
of the saloon. Under the thickening
smoke he made out a slender figure
in overalls and frayed jacket. Jim
Tuttle was anything but a quitter!
Jim was down one one knee, calmly
squinting over the sights of a Sharps
at one of the Jenkins gang. The
Sharps cut loose with a roar. The
Kid knew now who had spiked Ike
Jenkins, and he swung about toward
the bar. Diamond Joe’s head came
into sight, and he was sighting a gun
at Big Abe Benton’s back. The Kid
spilled a shot that dropped Diamond
Joe into the discard.
Suddenly it stopped. The miners
had finished the rest of the Jenkins
gang. They could fight, those slow-
handed miners, once they got started.
Big Abe picked up the Kid, ex-
amined his wounds, then slapped him
on the back. “By cracky, pard!
We'll split them winnin’s yet. They
downed yuh, but you're all to the
good.”
In spite of two bullet holes, the
Kid was feeling pretty good. A
changed expression was on his face
as he looked around at these hard-
fisted miners. They were giving him
warm and friendly smiles. The Kid
grinned back in kind.
Jim Tuttle came to his side
through the lifting smoke. He was
carefully stuffing a cartridge into the
Sharps. “Waal, I finished one chore,
and I reckon you finished yourn,
mister. I tied your bronc along with
mine, back in the chines. Ifn you
ain't too busy, maybe you'd help me
with that other job back in the hills."
“Don’t you two kids be in no tar-
nation rush," said Big Abe Benton,
kindly. “You ain't goin’ no place,
without I tag along. You need a
gent about my size to look after
you!”
“Then plug these leaks and let’s
fly our kite,” said the Kid in Big .
Abe’s ear. “Jim’s got a lode to stake,
and I reckon us three is equal to the
job. The way I feel, it won't be
healthy for no human to start both-
erin’ us.”
“Not by a jugful, it won't," the
big miner boomed.
THE END.
RANGE
SAVVY
65
hy H. FREDRIC YOUNG
Sixty years before the Oregon expedi-
tions and the discovery of gold in Cali-
fornia, pioneers from New England
shouted “Westward, ho!” and the first
of the covered wagons creaked out of
Ipswich, Massachusetts, headed for the
great adventure. On March 1, 1786, dele-
gates from eight counties met in Boston
and drafted a plan made by General
Benjamin Tupper to explore northwest
of the Ohio River.
The plan of action agreed upon in-
volved the raising of a fund of one
million dollars to be divided into one
thousand shares of one thousand dollars
each, in conti-
nental land
certificates, and
the purchase of
settlement land
in the Western
territory. Con-
gress eventually
granted five
million acres of
land at two-
thirds of a dollar an acre. As this was
to be paid in United States certificates
of debt, which were worth about twelve
cents on the dollar, the actual price of
the land was about eight or nine cents
per acre, perhaps but one percent of the
present worth of that same land.
Armed and equipped for their danger-
ous enterprise, the emigrants gathered on
December 3, 1787, at the Rev. Dr. Cutler's
house, in Ipswich, and, after firing a vol-
ley as a salute, began their westward
track. This was the first wagon train to
strike out for the West.
A.
In Western frontier times the ski, or
Norwegian snowshoe, as it was then
called, was an integral part of the equip-
ment of the stockman. Very few pos-
sessed web snowshoes, much less the
skill to use them, one reason being that
the legs of a man who rides a horse sev-
eral hours a day do not handle the clumsy
racquet easily.
A band of cattle might be trapped in
some sheltered
spot beyond
gulches and
drifts through
which a horse
could not wal-
low, and in such
cases small
bales of hay
were carried to
them by: means
of skis. If roads and trails became
blocked, the rancher waited only for the
snow to settle, then, on a pair of well-
tallowed skis he set out to visit neigh-
bors, the post office or trading post, prob-
ably at the same time enjoying the sport
very much as the ski enthusiast of today
does. The only difference in the ski of
then and now was that the staff with
rings attached, on which modern skiers
depend so much, was unknown to ranchers.
4
Up to a few years ago, in order to
bring religion into the various inacces-
sible hamlets of cattle lands, a circuit-
riding preacher visited these places.
Often months
and even years
elapsed between
his visits.
Hence, arriv-
ing, it was not
uncommon , for
him to hold
services for a
wife or hus-
band long dead.
The word-coining cowboy, in order to
avoid any confusion of identity, in-
geniously nicknamed these gentlemen
“sky pilots,” and the name stands as one
of the landmarks of the old West.
Mr. Young will pay one dollar to anyone who sends him a usable item for RANGE
SAVVY. Please send these items in care of Street & Smith, 79 Seventh Avenue, New
York, N. Y. Be sure to inclose a three-cent stamp for subjects which are not available.
SADDLEFUL OF DYNAMITE
BY JIM KJELGAARD
Down in the corral little dust
bombs exploded under the hoofs of
the two mares as they made a wild
race around the inclosure and finally
backed into a corner. But the sleek
brown gelding, neck arched and
pointed ears erect, braced his fore-
feet and lifted his tail a little as he
faced the girl who was approaching
him with hand outstretched.
Mac Williams, sitting on the top
bar of the corral, felt his own hands
tremble. The gelding reared and a.
great cloud of dust arose. When it
cleared the gelding was nosing into
the pocket of the girl’s buckskin shirt
for the reward he knew would be his
for this bit of play acting. And Mac
heard Chris Lapham’s admiring,
“Joan, I think you talk horse lan-
guage."
Mac said nothing. Then Joan
Deering turned her quick gaze from
Chris Lapham to him and smiled.
Mac’s white teeth flashed against
his lean, sun-tanned jaw as he an-
swered the smile. But his hands had
dropped to the corral bar, and his
knuckles showed white.
He and Joan Deering had grown
SADDLEFUL OF DYNAMITE 67
up together. Mac remembered her
as far back as he remembered any-
thing.
about the yard, and after that she
had been a half-wild, rugged little’
tomboy sticking like a leech to the
back of the wildest-pony. Mac had
never thought of her as a girl in
those days. She had been like an-
other boy, riding with him as they
explored the far blue hazes together.
And always they had talked of
horses, the. wonderful horses both
would own. when they grew up.
Now this girl who had always been
part of his life was a woman. And
Mac knew that if she did not con-
tinue to be part of his life, for him
there could be no life.
But there was Chris. Lapham, who
controlled a small empire of ranches
and fifty thousand head of cattle and
horses. Chris was a fair man, as he
understood fairness. But what he
already had in the palm of his hand
Mac only hoped. to get.
Joan Deering came out of the cor-
rai. Mac leaped down to join her,
and for a moment before Chris Lap-
ham came around the corral his
gray eyes met her brown ones. They
had known each other a long time
and speech was not always neces-
sary between them. But lately, by
tacit consent, they had been more
aloof from one another. Joan owed
him nothing, and Mac wanted her
to understand it. She needn't do
anything she might later be sorry for.
"VE brought you something, Joan,"
Chris Lapham was saying.
"Brought me something?" Her
brown eyes lighted pleasurably.
“What is it?" :
Chris grinned. ^A little jigger I
thought you'd like." He led the way
to his car, opened the door, and bent
over the back seat. Mac heard Joan
Deering's gasp of incredulous de-
WS—sB
They had ridden brooms:
light, and for the fraction of a second
felt Chris Lapham’s eyes piercing
him. Mac lowered his gaze to the
present Chris Lapham had brought.
It was a saddle, a heavy stock
saddle made of finest tooled leather.
Silver.stars and circles decorated the
tree; skirts, and stirrup leathers. On
one fender was a silver-inlaid picture
of a girl on a bucking horse, holding
her hat hight in her right hand with
reckless abandon. On the other fen-
der. was simply a horse, but it had
been wrought with supreme artistry
that made the horse come alive: as
he stood on a little silver-tinted
hillock with his head alert.
Joan Deering was on her knees,
the tips of her fingers daring only to
brush the silver saddle. She looked
up at Chris Lapham, her. face
flushed.
“Chris,” she said haltingly, I—”
“It was made in London especially
for you."
He might have said, "Especially
"for me," Mac thought, recognizing
the silver saddle for what it was. A
daring gesture, a bold stroke, telling
Joan Deering that it was only the
first of many marvels that could be
hers with Chris Lapham. And it
was a challenge to Mac Williams.
At last the gantlet was thrown
openly.
Joan Deering arose. Her riding
skirt molded smoothly to her slim
hips and swished loosely about her
knees. Her buckskin shirt revealed
her slender waist. A big hat hung
down her back; and her tumbled
brown hair framed her excited face.
Mac knew that if she had designed
the saddle herself, she would not
have had it different. Chris Lapham
could read a girls thoughts, and
know her dreams.
Joan looked at Mac, and back to
Chris: If she kept the saddle— Mac
tightened his jaw suddenly, and did
68 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
not speak for a moment because he
wanted his words to flow freely and
naturally. Any man who could not
stand and trade punches with an-
other man admitted himself inferior
to that man. And aman must never
beg for what he could not get.
“Joan, that’s as fine a piece of
leather as I ever saw,” he said ad-
miringly.
And he saw respect in Joan Deer-
ing’s eyes, resentment and involun-
tary admiration in Chris Lapham’s.
ALF that night Mac Williams
lay in his bunk, his open eyes
staring into the blank, unyielding
darkness that was so heavy it almost
seemed he could push it away if he
reached forth his hand and tried.
And, when he finally found sleep, it
was troubled slumber broken by
dreams of a huge silver saddle that
had been fastened to his back and
rendered him incapable of moving.
Mac woke up again. He struck a
match, and its yellow light made a
puny effort to defeat the darkness.
The alarm clock on the shelf said
two o'clock.
Mac got up and dressed. He
started a fire in the stove and cooked
a breakfast of ham, eggs and coffee.
He made a light pack of coffee, flour,
bacon and salt, wrapped it in a tar-
paulin, and ‘strapped a holstered .38
around his waist. He took his strong-
est lariat from its peg in the store-
room, and with that in his hand went
out to the corral.
A hundred million stars were pin
points in the sky, and above the dark
bowl of hills that surrounded his
ranch, the sky was light. The six
horses in the corral snorted when
they smelled him, and milled about.
Mac opened the gate and went in.
He dropped the lariat noose over the
head of a stringy bay with a wall
eye. There were faster horses in the
corral, but the stringy bay was
longer winded‘ and had more en-
durance than any of the others.
- Mac drew the fighting horse to
him, warmed the bit with his hands,
and put on the bridle. The horse
danced skittishly when Mac threw
the heavy saddle on and fastened the
pack to it. The rope he laid across
the saddlehorn. Leaving the bay
tied to a corral post, Mac hazed the
other five horses out. They would
find range fodder while he was away,
so there was no need for anybody to
be at his ranch. Mac mounted. The
bay pitched briskly for a few min-
utes then, warmed up, and started
off at an easy trot through the dark-
ness.
Mac rode up a stone-bottomed
gully and into timber at its head.
The first light of day shot a wide
silver streak across the sky. Mac
turned south through the timber,
and let the horse pick his own gait
and his own way through. There
was no hurry.
The light of the stars began to
fade as the increasingly stronger
hand of day shoved them back to
distant hiding paces in the sky. Mac
touched the spurs lightly to the bay's
flanks and turned him down a hill
into an aspen-covered valley. They
climbed the hill on the opposite side
and Mac drew up beside a natural
meadow to sit his horse waiting.
Then daylight broke full and the
pouring sun made dappled shadows
on the trees and seemed to make a
golden fire of the meadow. Mac bent
low in the saddle, his eyes fixed on
the lower end of the meadow.
A scrubby little white mare came
into the meadow and started across
it. She stopped in the center and
looked bàck. Mac caught the mo-
tion of other horses following her.
Seven more little white mares, their
SADDLEFUL OF DYNAMITE 69
tails and manes heavy with bur-
docks, came into the meadow and
dropped their heads to crop list-
lessly at the grass. Then Mac
sighted the blue roan.
ERFECTLY formed from his
small head to his black tail, the
blue roan was a living model of a
horseman's dream. Nobody knew
exactly how he had come here,
whether he was a throwback to fine
forebears or whether he had escaped
from some wealthy rancher's private
stables. He was, Mac thought,
mostly pure Arab with a dash of
some other blood.
Only once in the three years the
blue roan had been on the range had
he been saddled. Two cowboys had
trapped him in a blind gully, and
had roped and saddled him. Blind-
folded and still hobbled, the blue
roan had been allowed to come to
his feet. One of the men mounted
while the other snatched the blind-
fold and hobbles off. Then the sad-
dle cinches broke and the blue roan
nearly killed his rider before the
other man drove him off and back
to the hills with the bridle still on.
In some way the blue roan had
gotten rid of the bridle. Since then
he had been chased numerous times,
but catching him was like catching
a deer. He was faster than any
other horse and gave no man or
group of men another opportunity
to corner him. When pursued, he
took to the hills and sought the wild-
est and most unapproachable breaks
and canyons. But this time, Mac
thought, with set jaw, the blue roan
would have to trail loriger than he
ever had before and hide his trail
better.
Mac rode into the meadow. The
eight mares threw their heads up.
The blue roan’s nostrils flared and
his eyes fixed on Mac. Mac held the
bay to a trot. The nine horses
wheeled and were gone.
They scattered. The blue roari
never held his bunch together when
they were being chased. Mac still
held the bay to a trot. Before he was
through he was going to need all the
strength, speed and endurance the
bay had. The wild bunch came to-
gether in the gully, but scattered
again when Mac caught up with
them. They came together a third
time in the main valley leading to
the ranches, and again Mac found
them.
The blue roan, black mane flying
and black tail streaming behind him,
broke into a gallop and drew away
from the mares. He cut. toward a
side valley that led back into the
hills, thundered up it. Mac roweled
the stringy bay. A white mare
squealed and her heels flashed up as
he rode past her. He entered the
valley, but the blue roan was not in
sight. The little black marks where
his pounding hoofs had scarred the
green earth made an uneven line up
the valley. Mac took the trail and
followed it all day, camping on it
that night. ;
For four days Mac trailed the
blue roan, and in that time saw
him twice. True to his habits, the
horse had struck for the roughest of
the upland country and for two days
Mac had ridden the stringy bay
through breaks, great spruce and
pine forests, and over rough, rocky
country so desolate and forsaken
that it seemed unbelievable any
other creature could live there.
It was not game country, though
there was some game. A half dozen
times a day big-eared deer flashed
across the trail. There were trees
that had been scarred and torn by
bear’s claws and big grouse that
waited until the horse and rider were
70 STREET & SMITH'S WESTERN STORY
almost upon them, then burst out on
thundering wings. And at least once
a day Mac saw fresh cougar sign.
There would: be cougars wherever
there was deer. It was not a safe
country for horses. Mac did not
worry about the bay, but the blue
roan: had no protection.
A stubble of black beard itched
Mac’s tanned face. His shirt was
ripped and torn by sharp spikes of
branches, and the food he had
brought was almost gone. But there
was enough game in this country so
that he need not fear starvation. He
shot grouse with his pistol and re-
served five cartridges in an inner
pocket. They were for shooting deer
if he got so far back that it would
take him a number of days to get
out again.
But while there was food for him,
there was little forage for the horse
he rode. The bay nibbled at shoots
of trees and, whenever they crossed
a patch of grass that the blue roan
had not already eaten, Mac stopped
to let his horse graze. And always
the trail of the blue roan led farther
back into the wilderness.
The roan was never more than a
few miles ahead. But Mac could
not shorten his lead. When he found
the trail plainly manked and rode
hard, the blue roan galloped to draw
away from him. When he stopped
to rest or camp, he found when he
rode on where the blue roan had also
stopped. When, because of hard or
rocky ground, Mac had to walk and
lead his horse, the blue roan walked
ahead of him.
Another day passed. Mac found
himself one more day's travel back
in the wilderness, and no closer to
the blue roan. He picketed the bay
with the lasso and made his camp at
the base of a towering pine from the
foot of which a little crystal spring
bubbled. His supper was a partridge
and sour-dough bread and when he
finished eating, he sat with his knees
hunched under his chin watching the
fire cut the night with yellow knives
and listening to the bay as he ranged
to the end of his rope to smell out
every last bit of the sparse forage.
mM“ often thought of the silver
saddle that had cost Chris Lap-
ham half as much as Mac’s whole
ranch was worth, and of Joan who
had accepted it.as a gift. She had
known as well as Mac knew what
that saddle meant, had understood
that to refuse it would have been to
insult both men. If Mac couldn't
match the present Chris had of-
fered— But he would match it.
He’d follow that roan devil to hell
and back. He’d—
The bay horse raised his head and
snorted. His hoofs thudded on the
pine needles as he galloped close to
the firelight and stood staring into
the darkness. The pistol in his hand,
Mac stepped up beside him. The
horse had smelled either a cougar or
a bear. Mac stroked the bay's neck,
talked to him soothingly. When he
returned to the fire the horse
crowded close to him and stood
swishing his tail and stamping his
forefoot.
Mac wrapped the tarpaulin about
him and lay down to sleep. A cold
fear that had been present, but latent
since he’d been in this country,
started up afresh. The bay had
nothing to fear because it was in-
conceivable that any animal would
attack a horse while a man was near.
But the blue roan was a different
proposition.
The bay still stamped near the fire
when Mac fell asleep, but it had wan-
dered to the end of the rope and was
lying on a small hummock when he
woke up. It was still dark, but not
the intense blackness of deep night.
SADDLEFUL OF DYNAMITE : 71
A gray light filtered through the
trees, and it grew stronger as Mac
built up the fire. In these high alti-
tudes the nights were always cold.
Breakfast—another partridge and
more. sour-dough bread—finished,
Mac paced restlessly back and forth
waiting for enough light to continue
on the blue roan’s trail.
At last, mounted and leaning from
the saddle, he started. He sighed,
knew tremenduous relief when. he
found the blue roan’s trail and, five
miles from the place where he had
camped, the horse’s bed in a grassy
little swale.
All day, trotting or cantering
where he could, walking and leading
the bay where trailing was hard,
Mac followed. The day was a dreary
repetition of the five preceding it.
Just before dusk Mac swung from
the bay to make camp. He went for-
ward for one last look at the blue
roan’s trail and gasped. His heart
seemed to skip a beat. Ten feet
beyond the place where he had
stopped, a big cougar had come out
of a patch of small evergreen.
His track beside the blue roan’s
was plain.
EANING close to the ground,
Mae continued on the trail.
Dusk became semi-night. | Mac
struck a match, and by the flicker-
ing light advanced a few more
paces. "Then, realizing the futility
of such action, he turned to almost
bump into the bay. The animal had
smelled the cougar, and was afraid
to be alone.
Mac returned to the camp site he
had selected and built a fire. Cou-
gars hunted by sight and hearing
more than by scent. Undoubtedly
this cougar had come out of the ever-
greens just after the blue roan had
gone by, and had seen the horse. He
was following him to get some idea
of the blue roan's line of travel, the
places he would pass and the spot
where he would probably bed down.
If the cougar decided to hunt farther
he would go to the bedding place
and make his attack there.
But the cougar might not be hunt-
ing the blue roan, Mac told himself.
Cougars didn’t hunt by running
along the trail of whatever animal
they wanted to kill. They ambushed
that animal, and sprang from some
high place down on it. Besides, the
blue roan was as swift and powerful
as any horse his size could be. He
could defend himself. Then Mac
shook his head. Horses had de-
feated cougars, but not often.
- But all he could do was sit the
night out and see what the morning
brought. He told himself that his
chances of getting a rope on the roan
were only about one in forty any-
way, and, even if he roped him, there
still remained saddling and riding
him. But he had known before he
started that his chances of getting
the blue roan were small.
He rolled up in the tarpaulin and
tried to sleep. But he could not
sleep. Again he was troubled by
visions of the silver saddle, and the
tall, cool girl to whom he must take
as good a present or admit defeat.
Finally he dozed in fitful snatches to
wake up long before daylight. The
bay horse stood over him.
Mac cooked and ate breakfast and
saddled the bay. Eagerly he led the
horse out to the last point to which
he had traced the blue roan’s trail
the night before, and waited fretfully
there while the black curtains of
night lifted from the wilderness.
When it was light enough to see, he
led the bay and followed the tracks
farther. ..
Slowly the light grew so that he
could stand erect and see the tracks.
72 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
Then he could follow from the sad-
dle. The blue roan had gone on be-
yond his customary lead. He, too,
must have scented the cougar. Mac
touched the spurs lightly to the bay’s
flanks and put him to a slow trot.
Then he rode out on a bed of almost
solid rock with only scattered trees
growing from cracks in the rock and
lost the trail there.
He swore, and dropped from the
saddle to search ‘on his hands and
knees. After five minutes he found
where the rock had been scuffed by
a pointed hoof. The next mark was
ten feet beyond that and took an-
other two minutes to find. Mac
stood erect, beads of sweat dotting
his temple. His shirt collar was hot
about his neck. It would require
-hours of painful tracking to follow
the blue roan across the rock. He
might lose the trail altogether. The
reins slack in his hand, he stood up.
Then the bay whinnied.
Mac turned. The bay’s head was
up and his ears were cocked forward.
He was gazing intently across the
rock in the direction the blue roan’s
trail led. Mac followed his gaze.
Then he vaulted to the saddle and
dug the spurs in. The bay leaped
forward.
They thundered across the rock
and were in a thin line of trees. The
bay tossed his head and fought the
bit. He wheeled in a little half turn
and tried to go back. Mac brought
his head around and raked his flanks.
The bay began to pitch. Mac slid
from the saddle and tied the reins
to a small pine tree. His eyes rolling,
the bay strained backward. Then,
from ahead, came the shrill scream
of a fighting horse.
Mac snatched the rope from the
saddle and gripped his gun in his
right hand as he ran on. Branches
whipped him. The blue roan
screamed again.
A half mile from where he had
tied the bay, Mac broke from the
trees into a rock-studded little glade.
He paused for a split second.
Pitching, bending, twisting, the
blue roan flung himself insanely
about. His sleek sides were shiny
with his own blood, and the cougar
that clung like a tawny strip of
shimmering satin to his back was
digging claws in deeper. The horse
rolled, but the cougar was on his
back when he got up. The cougar
must have jumped from one of the
trees, and the blue roan had carried
him this far.
Mac raised his gun, but he could
not shoot from here without endan-
gering the horse. Recklessly he ran
forward, to get within five feet of the
savagely plunging horse. Then the
cougar saw him. The beast leaped,
and his tawny length made a long
arc in the air as he headed for a rock,
gained it, and slipped behind it. Mac
did not shoot. He jammed the gun
back in its holster and took the lasso
in both hands.
The rope snaked out and the blue
roan was his horse.
XACTLY thirty days after he
had taken the blue roan’s trail,
Mac Williams rode out of the forest
on the wall-eyed bay. He led a
magnificent blue roan that had a row
of freshly healed scars down his back.
The horse made no effort to strain
on the short lead rope or to get
away. When Mac dismounted, the
blue roan smelled him over with a
friendly muzzle.
Only Mac knew exactly what had
happened in the wild little upland
pasture to which he had taken the
blue roan. Only he could tell how,
by infinite patience and tender care,
he had taught the blue roan that
while man might be the bitterest
SADDLEFUL OF DYNAMITE 78
of enemies, he could also be the kind-
est of friends. And only Mac knew
how, finally, he had persuaded the
blue roan to accept shackles in the
form of a saddle and bridle. But
Mac would never tell. He had done
what he set out to do; the rest wasn't
important.
Mac stopped at his house on the
way in, shaved, and changed his
clothes. He was hungry after living
on venison and roots for three weeks,
but he didn't take time to eat. He
remounted the bay, and still leading
the blue roan, rode down to the
Deering Ranch. He put the blue
roan's lead rope in Joan Deering's
hands.
"Ive brought you a horse," he
said, *a horse fit to wear that silver
saddle." ;
He watched the blue roan arch his
neck as his soft muzzle brushed the
tips of the girl’s extended fingers.
She took the lead rope. The blue
roan danced skittishly, but quieted
under her expert hand. She looked
from the horse back to Mac. And
when she smiled it seemed to him
that all the old days had returned,
that forever he and this girl would
ride their horses into the blue hazes
—together.
“He’s just good enough to wear
my saddle," she corrected softly.
“The day you left I told Chris Lap-
ham he'd better give that silver sad-
dle to somebody else."
THE END.
BUFFALO WALLOW
EARLY travelers on the western prairie were at first puzzled by deep
cuts frequently found in the heavy sod far from any stream or water course.
One spring a hunter, stalking a small band of buffalo, advanced under cover
to within a hundred yards of the group. Two bulls were industriously dig-
ging at the sod with their short, heavy horns and throwing the loose dirt
back over their bodies. When they tired of the play, others took their
places. In a short time a trench was started. The animals were shed-
ding, and since there were no tree trunks against which they might rub
off their loose hair, they were making a place. Like all animals that shed
hair or wool, the buffalo likes to roll in the dirt, and the wallows were as
popular among them as the rolling place is with horses and mules.
Buffalo wallows served the pioneers in many ways. At times suffi-
cient water collected in them during a heavy rainfall so that a horse could
be watered. They afforded ideal cover for hunters, and some of them were
deep enough to afford protection from the cyclones that swept the prairie.
Wallows had their dangers, too, as many a trail driver learned when, in
riding out a stampede in the darkness, he suddenly felt the front feet of
his horse give way under him. Even today one may find them in high
mesa country along the Platte, where the land has not been cultivated.
SIDEWINDER'S RAIN CHECK
BY WILFRED McCORMICK
Honest Joun Cotter would have
fought any man that told him so,
but he was something like the old
gray mare, not what he used to be!
Tt had taken him until sundown to
finish his post-hole job on Rock
Mesa, and ten o’clock wasn’t far off
by the time he finally reached: the
Y-O corrals. He was dog tired, and
hungry enough to have eaten supper
with a buzzard, but not too much of
either to notice a strange line-up in
the feed barn. ©
Saddled horses. Four of them.
There was no reason that he could
think of for the men to have left
their mounts saddled and bridled. at
this time of night. f
It bothered John. He didn’t even
take time to unsaddle his own raw-
boned bay, but started immediately
for the bunkhouse as fast as his stiff,
cramped old legs could walk.
The-boys were still up, all right.
A sliver of light leaked from. Monk
Dooley's room in the west end, and
the low hum of voices indicated that
the foreman was not alone.
John pulled the latch string, set-
ting his knee against the door, which
opened with a squeak. Four men,
huddled strangely in the center of
the room, jerked around at John's
neisy entry like so many wolves
startled at a kill. He didn't attempt
to move any closer, just stood there
with his wide, gaunt shoulders filling
the doorway.
"What's the matter?" he asked
curiously.
With his white: hair, contrasted by
shaggy, still-black eyebrows and a
black stub mustache, Honest John
Colter didn’t look like the average
broken-down old cowhand. Nor was
he. A year ago he had been figured
one of the wealthiest ranchmen in
the county, with ninety sections of
good grassland and plenty of fair-
marked stock to graze it. But ev-
erything had gone in a.single, ca-
lamitous day. All he had. left now
was his reputation of honesty.
"We ve been waitip' for you, old-
timer," Foreman Monk Dooley said,
a bit uneasily, it seemed to John.
'The foreman was a big man, with
the power of à. pack mule inside his
flannel-clad shoulders, and the hard-
headed grimness of a bulldog show-
ing in his square chin and twisted,
flat nose. “Shut the door, an’ get
over here closer so we won’t have
‘to talk so loud.”
ONDERING, John obeyed. He
lowered his gaunt form stiffly
onto an upturned nail keg, then
leaned forward, chin in his cupped
hands.
“You
rannies, he remarked
. dryly, “look. guilty as a litter of
hound pups around a cut of dropped
beef! "What's goin’ on, anyhow?”
“You knowed Bruce Gallop was
losm’ the Y-O tomorrow?” Monk
Dooley asked.
John nodded soberly. “Unless
he’s been able to raise seven thou-
sand dollars.”
“Well, he ain't. He's still two
thousand shy.” Dooley, seated op-
posite old Honest John in the circle
of men, leaned across toward him.
“We don’t dare tell Bruce ahead of
time,” he whispered, “but we're aim-
in’ to rustle the rest of that money
for him tonight.”
SIDEWINDER’S RAIN CHECK "3
“Howe”
“Come midnight,’ the foreman
explained briskly, “we’re headin’. for
town. We aim to tap the bank, be-
tween two thirty an’ three o'clock.
It ought to be easy. They've given
the night watchman a key to the
place, an' he'll be the only hombre
on the streets at that hour. With
his key, the job's a cinch."
While the foreman talked, Honest >
John’s leathery jaw had dropped,
giving his face an expression of un-
believing amazement. “You ain’t—
You ain't serious?" he sputtered.
“You're damn right we are!” the
foreman declared. "We've got a
heap more regard for Bruce Gallop
than we have for the bank.”
John’s sharp old eyes studied the
foreman intently. “You’ve got
somethin’ else up your sleeve,” he
accused him. “Shucks, this is the
first time I ever knowed you to play
nursemaid to anybody! What's your
game, Monk—the veal game?"
The foreman’s swarthy face went
livid. It looked for an instant as
though he would climb old John
“If there’s a lynchin’,”
Honest John Colter said,
“take me, too. I was
in with those boys."
76
then and there, but the mood
passed. He forced a mirthless laugh,
shrugged his mammoth shoulders.
“If you think it’s all my doin’s,”
he said curtly, “just ask the rest of
the boys." P
John’s gaze swept the circle. He
saw them all nod agreement. His
eyes met those of Dad Carver, who
had cooked for the Gallop outfit
nearly fifteen years.
“I’m in!” Dad told him frankly.
“Bruce Gallop has been the best
boss that ever walked on two legs,
an’ lll stick my chin out for him
any day.”
“Me, too!” chimed Shorty Plunk-
ett, a squatty, freckled little rider
who had grown up in the canyon
and never expected to leave. “I
couldn’t stand to see pore ol’ Bruce
out huntin’ a thirty-a-month job
next week.” i
“That’s the way I feel,” drawled
lanky Tex Rowan. “It’s a choice
between the bank an’ Bruce Gallop.
I’m throwin’ in with Bruce. Later,
when he gets on his feet again, we
can slip the money back where it
came from, with interest.”
“But . but dang it!” sput-
tered Honest John. “You rannies
are jumpin’ offn a cliff without even
lookin’ to see what’s at the bottom!
Don’t you know there’s a thousand
bucks reward for the scalp of any
bank robber these days?"
“Of course," Monk Dooley said
sarcastically, “if you’re scared to
join us, we—”
LD JOHN stiffened, and anger
flared in his eyes. “One more
crack like that, you loose-lipped ran-
nihan,” he said bleakly, “an’ TII
blow them words clean through the
back of your head!"
Tense quiet. The foreman's thick
fingers started inching down toward
his gun. Old John saw the move.
STREET & SMITH'S WESTERN STORY
He waited, willing to let Dooley's
hand reach the gun butt before
starting his own grab. Then he'd
show him! But Dad Carver, who
was sitting next to Monk Dooley,
-intervened by linking his arm
through the foreman's.
“Cut it out, Monk!" he warned
sharply. “You know plumb well
Honest John ain’t got enough yellow
in his whole carcass to paint a mus-
tard seed!”
“Then why don’t he throw in with
us?” ‘
“Maybe he will yet,” returned
Dad. “Let me have a try at him.”
He glanced across at John. “Now,
listen here, you ol’ rooster!” he said
patiently. "It was this same bank
that once busted .you flatter than a
split cigarette paper. If it was me,
Fd help steer Bruce Gallop out of
a similar chute. An’ besides, you
ought to be plumb tickled for a
chance like this to give the bank a
return wallop across the rump. Be-
lieve me, I would!”
“You're damn right!”
Monk Dooley.
But old John continued to shake
his head.
Monk Dooley, who had been
frowning impatiently, suddenly
switched tactics. He produced a
grin that was evidently meant to be
friendly, reached across and laid his
hand on John’s knee.
“Don’t forget, old-timer,” he said
persuasively, “that Bruce Gallop has
been mighty white to you. While
everybody else was layin’ men off,
he gave you a job, an’ he’s told me
many a time to make your assign-
ments easy—in fact, I'll likely catch
hell in the mornin’ for sendin’ you
up to Rock Mesa today. Another
thing,” the foreman added hastily as
old John attempted to cut in, “last
month you were laid up three weeks
with the rheumatism, but Bruce
growled
SIDEWINDER’S RAIN CHECK Ti
never stopped your pay for a min-
ute. He needed the money himself,
You ain't forgettin' that, are
you?"
*Of course not," John admitted
miserably.
A flicker of hope lighted Dad
Carver's face. “Then you'll throw
in with us?" he asked, leaning for-
ward eagerly.
It was a tough moment for the
oldster. He was going to have to re-
fuse them, he knew. But how could
he say it? These rannies would
never understand that to Honest
John Colter it was one thing to be
loyal to his friends, but quite an-
other to break either his word or the
law.
That very principle was responsi-
ble for his own plight now. It was
a peculiar case: A year ago John
Colter had wanted to retire. He fig-
ured on cashing out for some fifty
thousand dollars, then being able to
pay off a ten-thousand-dollar mort-
gage the bank held, so that he could
spend his remaining years in town.
A buyer had contracted for his
stock, and the deal was practically
closed when, in a far corner of his
range, John had discovered a calf
badly infected with the dread foot-
and-mouth disease. He knew the
penalty if folks found it out. He'd
be forced to destroy his entire herd
and set fire to the range.
Complete, total ruin stared John
Colter in the face. But there was
one way he could save himself. If
he closed the deal without saying
anything, it would be the other fel-
low’s loss. Faced with such a pros-
pect, only one man in a million
would have called off the deal. But
Honest John Colter was that man.
Two days later, his stock having
been killed by the sheriff’s orders,
* his grass only a black, charred ex-
panse, he surrendered his home to
the bank in payment of the mort-
gage.
This past year as a common cow-
hand had been mighty hard on John
Colter, but he had been able to grit
his way through because of his pride
and his conscience. Now they were
asking him to give up these!
“What do you say?" Monk Doo-
ley urged impatiently. “Would you
rather see Bruce keep his home or
do you want him throwed out?”
John hesitated for only an instant
longer. Then his head came up with
a jerk. His old eyes now did not
waver as he stared from one to an-
other of the group.
“There’s no excuse, never, for a
man to break the law!" he declared
sternly.
“Then we'll do the job ourselves!"
“Not if I can stop you—" began
John.
HE bunkhouse door squeaked
suddenly open. As startled as
though they were criminals already,
every man lunged to his feet. But
it was no sheriffs posse that had
walked in on them. Just a stooped,
kindly faced old cowman with his
vest front open and his sleeves
rolled up. He seemed mildly sur-
prised at the gathering, then singled
out John Colter.
“Tm glad you got back all right,
John," he said, smiling slightly.
"You're still tough enough to fight
a wild cat an’ give him the first bite,
aint you? But come on over to the
main house. Mary's fixed you some
supper. An’, mind you,” he said,
shooting an angry glance at the fore-
man, “John gets tomorrow mornin’
off to lay abed as long as he pleases!
Come along, John, Mary’s already
got your biscuits in the oven.” He
held the door open.
John Colter hesitated. Once more
his eyes swept the group of silent
"8 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
men. He read the same question on
every face: Could he still refuse to
help Bruce Gallop, his closest friend
for many years? His desperate gaze
moved over to Bruce, as concerned
over an old cowhand’s getting his
supper as though his own cares
weren’t weighing him down. Old
John knew he couldn’t refuse to help
Bruce Gallop, no matter what the
cost.
“Count me in, boys!" he said
huskily, and followed Gallop.
“What’re you boys fixin’ to do?"
Gallop asked him outside.
“Just a little poker game we're
cooking up," lied Jolin.
It was a strange night by two
o'clock. Stuffy, with the thick feel
- of coming rain in the air. A bril-
liant moon was trying to shine, but
fast-moving clouds high overhead
would one minute plunge the little
canyon into gloomy darkness, the
next to dazzling light.
Monk Dooley led his little band
of masked men into the alley behind
the bank, and there motioned them
to halt. Suddenly the threatened
rain materialized in a soaking,
drenching downpour that lasted for
perhaps a minute, only to quit as
quickly as it had begun. Monk took
off his hat, swishing the water from
its brim, then beckoning his men in
close.
“Its about time for the night
watchman to make the rounds," he
whispered. ^I] sneak over to yon
doorway an’ corral him when he
comes.”
. “Don’t handle him too rough,”
cautioned John Colter.
The foreman grunted scornfully.
Swinging down from the saddle, he
handed the reins to Shorty Plunkett
to held. At the same moment a
man strolled across the alley just
ahead of them. The group went
rigid, not even daring to breathe.
One of the horses coughed, but ap-
parently the watchman did not no-
tice. He disappeared from sight.
Monk Dooley waited a few seconds,
then pulled out his six-shooter and
started in stealthy pursuit.
Presently the waiting group heard
a scuffle, followed by sounds of a
falling body and a low moan. Monk
came hurrying back to them, and
they saw that he was shaking his
head.
“I couldn't find any keys,” he ex-
plained. “Well have to break in.”
“Maybe that wasn’t the watch-
man,” John Colter suggested. “It
seemed to me that he was a couple
inches taller than Ow] Malone.”
“It wasn’t Owl" Dooley said.
“They fired him yesterday. . This is
some new hombre they put in Owl’s
place.”
“Did you have to hurt him
much?”
“Enough so that he won’t stir till
mornin’,” the foreman said grimly.
“But let’s get started! Shorty, you
an’ the rest of the boys tackle the
front door. Ill see if I can break
in the rear. Come on!”
It was dark again now, but they
could hear Monk Dooley just ahead
of them as they rode out of the al-
ley. He left them there, darting off
toward the bank’s rear door while
the rest continued on toward the
front.
Old John Colter hadn’t said any
more, but he was doing a lot of
thinking. Now, as the group rode
on, he quietly checked his horse and
swung down from the saddle. He
wanted to have a look at the injured
night watchman. A man, left lying
in the street with a busted head,
might die before morning. Robbing
a bank was bad enough. But mur-
der, too— Old John’s pulse nearly
stopped at the thought.
SIDEWINDER’S RAIN CHECK 79
A crushed hat on the ground in-
dicated Monk had caught up with
the watchman, but the man himself
was gone. As moonlight lit the
street temporarily, he got down on
his knees, searching the ground for
bloodstains. It was impossible to
tell if, there were any, though, since
everything was damp from the dash
of rain a few minutes before, so he
rose again to his feet. He. stood,
undecided.
A movement down the street drew
John's gaze. A hatless figure had
darted nimbly in between two build-
ings. Old John sucked in his breath.
The watchman hadn't been badly
hurt. Not when he could move like
that!
John wondered whether to go
back and help the boys or collar this
fellow to keep him from rousing the
town before they could enter the
bank. He decided on the latter
course. Breaking into a stiff-legged
trot, he hurried to the place where
the watchman had disappeared,
trailing after him between the two
shadowy buildings.
HE sudden rattle of gunfire
jerked old John to a halt. More
shots sounded, coming from the
bank! He whirled, rushing out into
the street, cursing himself for not
being there to side the Y-O boys.
It was a block and a half farther
on, and the fight was over by the
time John reached there, panting `
and heaving like a foundered old
horse. The sight that greeted his
eyes sickened him. Lanterns—a
dozen of them—had bobbed up from
all sides, forming a circle of light
around Shorty Plunkett and Tex
Rowan, who stood with their hands
high in the air. Dad Carver was on
the ground, wounded, but giving
vent to his anger at the ambush
that had trapped them.
Big Sheriff Dawson walked over
and grabbed Shorty Plunkett by the
shirt collar. “Where’s the money?"
he demanded peremptorily.
*Hell, we didn't even get inside
the place!” growled Shorty. “Tf it's
gone, somebody else got there first!"
The sheriff whipped out a gun.
He jabbed the muzzle solidly into
Shorty's ribs. “Don’t try to give
me that!" he roared. "I want to
know where the money is!"
“That’s right!" a dozen members
‘of the crowd muttered, almost in
unison. “Make 'em come clean or
we'll string the whole bunch up!”
John Colter pushed through the
ring into the center of light. “If
there’s any lynchin’ done around
here," he said, “take me, too! Pm
with these boys. But I’m backin’
what Shorty said. We never even
got inside the place!”
A murmur of surprise rippled
through the crowd. There wasn't a
more respected man in the county
than Honest John Colter, and his
admission now that he was con-
nected with a band which had in-
tended robbing the bank jolted them
to the heels.
Sheriff Dawson was the first to
find words. “In the name of thun-
der, John, what got you mixed up
in this?”
There was an
Then:
“PU answer that!” .
Everybody turned. The words
had come from the outer fringe of
light, and now a big set of shoul-
ders squeezed into view. At sight
of Monk Dooley, old John’s lower
jaw sagged in amazement. He noted
further that the foreman wasn’t a
captive like the rest of them.
Monk Dooley, a gloating smile on
his face, swaggered to the near cen-
ter. He pointed an accusing finger
at John Colter. ARS
hush.
ominous
80 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
“Not all of you know it,” he said
in a loud voice, “but Honest John,
here, has carried a grudge against
the bank since they foreclosed on
his place. So he's been plannin' for
a solid year to get a bunch together
an' rob—"
“Why, you lyin’ polecat!” John
broke in hotly. “It was you that
framed this! Ain’t that right, boys?”
He turned to the equally astonished
Y-O captives. They nodded em-
phatically. “Tve smelled trouble
right from the start," John went on,
“but Monk was a little too smooth.
Now I’m beginnin' to savvy. It
wasn't his wantin’ to help Bruce
Gallop that lays behind this. It's
the reward money—a thousand dol-
lars on each of our heads as bank
robbers. Monk argued us into it,
an' then tipped you folks off to am-
bush us so he could collect —"
Monk Dooley's scornful laugh cut
through John's words. He threw a
knowing wink at the sheriff.
“Ninety-nine bandits in a hundred,”
he sneered, “claim they ain’t guilty!
Are you gonna swallow that?”
“I don’t know,” muttered Daw-
son. “After all, Honest John Colter
ain’t a man that would lie—”
“But this is different, sheriff!” cut
in a hatless, red-bearded man whom
John immediately recognized as the
night watchman. “From what I
gather, the bank took Colter’s place
away from him a year ago. You
know how an old cow mopes around
after losin’ a calf! Well, no matter
how honest he used to be, I'd say
he's changed."
“That’s right!" muttered a by-
stander.
“Sure!” another seconded.
hid that bank loot some place. Let's
sweat it out of him!”
Old John whirled savagely on the
man. “If that money's gone," he
flared, “somebody else—"
*He's:
“It’s sure-enough gone!” another
man broke in.
The sheriff laid a strong set of fin-
gers on John's arm, jerking him off
balance. “You come with me!" he
said crisply.
AIT!" John yanked himself —
loose, his eyes fairly spurting
flame. “Youre lettin’ the real bank
robbers go free!” he charged hotly.
“Who do you mean—Dad Carver
an’ Shorty?”
“No!” thundered old John. “It’s
as plain now as the wart on your
Aunt Sally’s wooden leg! This new
night watchman, with his key,
tapped the bank before we ever rode
into town. He an’ Monk Dooley
are in this thing together. No won-
der he passed by us in the alley
without lookin’! An’ no wonder he
got away so fast after Monk re-
ported bustin’ him across the head!
Shucks—he wasn’t no more hurt
than me! The whole thing was a
frame-up.”
“You mean—”
“T mean," old John went on sav-
agely, "that this pair of oily-tongued
hellions stands to win plenty if you `
don’t wake up! Besides collectin’
four thousand dollars reward money
on me an' the boys, they've proba-
bly got that bank loot salted away,
too! I tel you, Monk Dooley
framed this whole thing. He rode
into town with us himself, an’ then
Again the foreman's sneering
laugh interrupted. “I figure you
gents are too smart to be fooled by
any such yarn," he said to the
group, “but if any of you do figure
that I came in with these outlaws,
I can prove it ain't so."
“That won't be necessary, Monk,”
Sheriff Dawson assured him. “We
don't doubt you. In fact, the
county owes you plenty for—"
SIDEWINDER'S RAIN CHECK 81
“Let Monk tell us where he's
been!” old John broke in sharply.
“Tf he's so innocent, it won't hurt
him!"
“That’s right!" one of the men in
the crowd muttered.
*Sure! If Monk offers to prove
he wasn't with the gang," suggested
another, “let him go ahead. There'll
be time enough afterward to settle
with the rest of these coyotes—if
they don't produce the money."
The sheriff hesitated momen-
tarily, then glanced toward Monk.
“All right," he said. “Where were
you when John an' his bunch rode
into town?"
“From ten thirty until just now
I was over there inside that empty
water barrel" Monk lied persua-
sively. ^I didn't know just how
soon these four hombres would
strike town, so I tied my horse an'
hid early to keep watch on the bank.
“That’s gospel truth," the night
watchman promptly seconded him.
“Every time I made the rounds
Monk was right there on guard. It
was—” A near explosion from John
Colter cut him short.
* You're the biggest two liars that
ever fouled good air!" John charged
hotly. “An’ whats more, I can
prove it!"
“Prove what?" asked the sheriff.
“T can prove,” old John declared,
“that Monk Dooley was in the sad-
dle with the rest of us when we rode
into town at two o'clock, An’ if
you're fair minded at all, yov'll give
me the chance."
“That’s right!” à murmur came
from the crowd. “Honest John is
entitled to a chance."
“Then hurry," the sheriff growled.
“Where is this proof?”
“Do you gents remember a heavy
dash of rain about fifteen minutes
ago?” John asked. As several nod-
ded, he went on: “Well, we were
just enterin’ town. It soaked us
plenty!”
“What’s that got to do with
Monk Dooley?”
“Go look at his horse an’ saddle!”
John invited them. “You'll find
they're both still wet—except for
the seat of his saddle. That will
be dry! That proves Monk was rid-
in' it when the rain hit."
“Evidence like that," pointed out
Monk Dooley, “won’t get you very
far. You're too smart to swallow
that, ain't you, sheriff?”
The officer scratehed his head.
. “Of course," he said slowly, “if your
saddle seat really is dry, an' the rest
is wet, it would look bad for—"
“Tt wouldn't prove a damn thing!"
Monk Dooley insisted nervously.
Sure of his hunch now, John Col-
ter turned to the sheriff. “An inno-
cent man," he surmised, "wouldn't
be afraid to let us look at his sad-
dle!”
“That’s right!” agreed several in
the crowd.
The sheriff nodded to Dooley.
“Come along, Monk,” he said. “Just
to satisfy folks, we'll. have a look."
Monk Dooley started to hold
back, but the night watchman
walked over and linked arms with
him.
“Sure!” he said readily. “Me an’
Monk ain't afraid of any honest evi-
dence."
LD JOHN saw the pair swap
glances, and saw the watchman
wink knowingly at Monk. Then
Monk also began to grin. It both-
ered John momentarily, but he was
still too sure of his ground to be
much concerned. With the sheriff
at his side, he led the way into the
alley, turning to where Monk's big
sorrel was hitched to a tree stump.
A few of the group had stayed to
guard the Y-O cowboys, but several
S2 STREET & SMITH'S WESTERN STORY
others had followed with lanterns.
John Colter asked for one, then
hoisted it above his head for a look
at the saddle, confident that a sin-
gle quick glance would be proof
enough.
But he was wrong! The saddle,
seat and all, was as wet as though
it had been soaked overnight in a
tub of water! ‘
The sheriff grunted sourly. “I
guess this clears Monk,” he ob-
served. “It’s a cinch nobody was
ridin’ this saddle when the rain
struck.”
Monk Dooley, who had been
strangely silent, now broke out with
a gloating laugh. “I told you!” he
sneered. Whirling on John Colter,
he asked, “Well, have you got any
more proof?”
John gulped for words, but found
none. His gaunt old shoulders had
sagged wearily forward, ten years
heaped onto his age. His eyes, de-
jected and glassy-looking now,
stayed fixed on the wet leather sad-
dle and the pair of full, worn bags
draped on either side of the pommel.
A hand clutched his shoulder.
“Come along!” the sheriff said
coldly. “I’m takin’ you to jail.”
“All right," John agreed wearily.
He sucked in a deep breath and
started to turn around. Then he
thought of something. Quick as a
streak, his eyes again showed fire.
“Look!” he cried excitedly. “The
missin’ money!”
“What do you mean?” Sheriff
Dawson demanded.
“Look inside them saddlebags!”
John directed feverishly. “It’s all
soaked through my thick head now!
While Monk was preparin’ the am-
bush at the front of the bank, his
accomplice sneaked around here an’
swapped saddles. This one’s been
waitin’ out in the rain, but he had
it packed with the money an’ all
ready to go! I'll bet— Hey!”
He spun around just in time to
make a wild grab for Monk Dooley.
The foreman was trying frantically
to break from the crowd. He would
have made it, too, if old John’s claw-
ing fingers hadn’t caught the back
of his shirt. He fought to get loose,
but John held on. Suddenly Dooley
snatched out his gun, whipped the
muzzle around and jerked a quick
shot almost in John’s face.
Scorching lead seared John’s tem-
ple, but the old-timer clung like a
leech. Dooley tried to shoot again.
A desperate, twisting jerk threw him
off balance, however, and John daz-
edly managed to trip him to his
knees. John let go with his left
hand, smashed the other a raking
blow across the mouth. Dooley
promptly countered with a clubbed
wallop from his pistol. It knocked
John away, but he dived back at
Dooley with a fury that sent the
foreman scooting forward on his
face. Before he could get up, a
dozen bystanders had leaped in to
hold him helpless. Others had taken
charge of the watchman.
Friendly arms helped old John
Colter to his feet, and he was daz-
edly conscious that the sheriff was
pumping his hand.
“Im sure glad to admit I was
mistaken," the officer said warmly.
* An' for trappin' two bank robbers,
against plenty of odds, I'll see to it
that the county pays you a couple
of thousand dollars the first thing
tomorrow mornin’. I reckon you
can ^most retire on that, old-timer!"
“Two thousand dollars!” muttered
Honest John Colter. His tired old
face broke into a grin. “Why, that’s
enough to clear Bruce Gallop’s place
—an’ do it legal!” He chuckled hap-
pily.
THE END.
“Remember this, Tully,”
Taw Ringo said. "I'll ride
you down and make you pay
if it takes me a lifetime."
A GUN BUCKO
BY H. FREDRIC YOUNG
THERE was no fear in Taw Ringo’s
tanned face, and only hard anger
and contempt in his eyes. “Lay that
lash to me once, Tully,” he said with
deadly earnestness, “and you'll pay
a devils ransom. Il collect if I
have to crawl on my belly like a
snake through a prairie fire!”
The moon was coming up, filling
the raw pits and crooked fissures of
the Mustangs with silver glow. It
made pasty-white the faces of the
score of Block G punchers who
formed a horseshoe around the base
WS—6B
of the cottonwood. It seemed to
etch deeper the stern, almost savage
lines on the face of old Tully Gerault.
And its lifting rays bounced back
from the defiant, blue fires in Taw
Ringo’s young eyes.
Taw Ringo was lashed with his
back to a cottonwood tree. His
hard-muscled brown body had been
stripped to the waist, and the hard-
bitten old man who owned the
Block G stood before him with a
quirt in his hand.
Taw’s muscles were strained, but
84 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
he made no struggle against the
hemp lariat that held him. There
was laughing contempt in his eyes
as he looked first at Gerault, then
down at the thonged quirt.
“Go ahead,” young Ringo taunted
contemptuously. “Go ahead. You'll
collect yore pay farther up the
crick.”
Tully Gerault’s seamed face split
in a grin of derision. “I been threat-
ened all my life, Ringo,” he said,
“and threats never did spook me. I
could do worse than I’m gonna do—I
could string you up. But I swore
the next thief I caught using his
owlhoot iron on my range, I'd lash
him and send him back to his kind—
and now I aim to do it.”
“Then go ahead!” Taw said
bleakly. “Do it! You're wastin’
good time, my time and yores. The
quicker you git it done, the sooner
I'll start to collect. But remember
what I’m telling yo’, Tully, you got
the wrong hombre. I ain’t a thief.”
“Mebbe I shouldn’t hold too much
agin’ you,” said Gerault. “You got
your old man’s black blood in your
heart.”
“Leave Jed out of this,” Taw said
thinly.
“I slapped the cayuse from under
Jed when we hung him," Gerault
continued relentlessly. “We caught
him deadwood just like we caught
you. Standing there with a hog-
tied calf at your feet and a hot iron
in the fire. Trouble was, we didn't
catch Jed until he'd stolen several
hundred head of my cattle. I don't
think you've gotten away with
many. I seen a few calves hair-
branded of late, so I been having
you trailed. I'm doing this to warn
your kind. Go an' tell them you was
whip-lashed by Tully Gerault. Go
to Ringo Roost and tell Carp Peters
if he ever rides out of hiding, I'll do
the same to him, an' then hang him
higher’n a crow’s roost. And tell ’em
I'd hang you now, but I know I can
catch you again sometime, and PH
wait till then to hang you."
Taw Ringo only laughed. “Is that
palaver part of the lashing?" he
inquired mockingly. “When I die
it'll be my way, Tully, not yores.
An' I'm tellin you again, I didn't
hogtie that calf!"
“Your story don't hold water,” the
grim-faced cowman said. savagely.
“You claim you rode up and scared
an hombre away. I'll admit there
wasn't a brand on the calf yet—I
reckon I'd be hanging you now if
there had been—but if my beys had
just waited five minutes longer
they'd ’a’ caught you in the act. If
you are such a law-abiding citizen
as you claim, why didn't you catch
the hombre?"
“I wouldn't care if rustlers stole
you blind," said Taw. “I know what
happened and that suits me. If I'd
been rustlin’, yore punchers would
never have tied me without a fight."
THERE was a shuffling of feet
amidst the Black G hands, and
some went so far as to lift their
brows, punch back their Stetsons,
and nod to each other. There was
logic in Taw Ringo’s words, all right,
and there was no guilt written across
the bronze of his face, only bitter
defiance and a laughing contempt.
But then he was the son of Jed
Ringo, and what was more likely
than that Jed’s mean blood had
cropped out in his lone offspring.
The moon was lifting higher,
bringing awing hordes of screaming
night hawks, sending its revealing
waves deeper along the jagged ter-
rain, splashing deeper shafts of sil-
ver along the face of Tully Gerault.
The lines in that face attested to
the cowman’s two-fisted fight for su-
premacy in the Mustangs. A two-
WHIPLASH FOR A GUN BUCKO | 85
fisted fight that carried him often to
his back, but ever forward over the
long years, and that was enough to
satisfy Tully Gerault. A savage hulk
of a man whose guns had never
slowed or shown mercy to an en-
emy. And now, before him, stood
the offspring of the man who had
been his worst enemy. And being
of Ringo stock, Taw knew he could
expect no mercy. He didn’t ask for
any.
“T’ll use a rope on your neck next
time I find you on Block G land,”
growled Gerault. “If you want my
advice, dig up your old man’s booty
and hit the long trail. You know
where it’s cached. There’s thousands
of dollars he hid from his thievin’ and
marauding. Dig it up and git!”
Taw Ringo laughed. “I ain't ask-
in’ yore advice, Tully. Mebbe I
know where Jed hid his money. If I
do, I'm the only hombre that does.
But what's wrong with yore nerve,
Tully—you ain't crawfishin’ on that
quirt? Lay it on, and lay it on
hard, because I want to remember
it a long time. I want to be able
to count each drop of blood on my
chest—and that many drops will be
yore pay.”
“TIl draw blood, Ringo," Gerault
whispered hoarsely, and his great
arm rose and fell. Long, lean strips
of buckskin made loud explosions
against taut skin, but Taw Ringo
never flinched.
Twenty-five times Gerault’s
brawny arm rose and fell, and sweat
oozed from his face, making it a
gleaming mask that shone with dull
and cruel radiance. The sound of
whipped flesh sung a high song that
penetrated far up the pine-choked
slopes of the Mustangs. Taw gave
no indication of the hot fire that
must have been ripping into the
heart of his chest muscles, and at last
Gerault stepped back. The quirt
left his fingers as if it had suddenly
grown white hot, and hit the dust at
his feet.
“Untie him," Gerault panted.
Two punchers leaped forward and
dropped the ropes around Taw
Ringo’s shabby boots. He stood
there a moment, his eyes measuring
those of Gerault.
"Beat it!” ordered the cowman.
"Take your old man's booty and
git!”
But a full minute passed before
Ringo moved. Then he took one
swift step toward Gerault. “Yo’re
old, Tully, or I’d tear you limb from
limb,” he spoke in a low, tension-
filled voice. “But you'll pay, and
don’t forget that.”
Then he moved through a parting
lane of Block G riders, leaped to his
horse, and vanished into the night,
the tattoo of his horse growing
fainter and fainter, and finally dying,
while the echoes lingered like some
last, hushed warning.
As if mesmerized, every Block G
man listened until the hoofbeats
died away. It was some moments
before they discovered the new-
comer in their midst.
“Gramp, what are you doing?”
Tully Gerault whirled. ‘“Tad!”
he gasped. “What you doing out
at this hour?” Anger vanished from
his eyes as he gazed at this seven-
year-old boy who seemed to hold no
fear, night or day, of the rangeland.
Tad, whose mother was dead these
seven years and whose father had
fallen a victim to one of the owl-
hooters from Ringo Roost, was the
very cornerstone of Tully Gerault’s
kingdom.
“You whipped a man,” Tad said
accusingly.
“Tt’s part of this kind of life,
Tad," his grandfather explained.
“You run along home. And don’t
ever come out at night again.”
86 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
IAW RINGO rode with fury-
charged recklessness through the
night, toward the shack he called
home, a lopsided log cabin on free
land long since deserted by some
aspiring squatter. Rage and shame
burned in his heart.
He had been playing a game with.
that little one-room, gee-gaw place,
a game of dreams known only to him-
self and, ironically enough, to little
Tad Gerault, who often. sneaked
away from his grandfather’s domain
to while away happy hours with Taw
Ringo. They called this tumble-
down structure the Running R, for
Taw dreamed of a spread.to call his
own, bought. with honesty and hard
sweat and smashing knuckles if
need be.
But his mind was made up. The
instant that whiplash seared into his
flesh he knew what. he was going to
do. He had tried to live down the
name of Jed Ringo, tried to prove
to people that an outlaw's offspring
could be a decent citizen. He had
tried all that, and now he was
through. Tully Gerault had branded
him an outlaw, and he'd be one; he'd
surpass the misdeeds of Jed Ringo
so completely that people would re-
call his father with a forgiving sigh.
And he had the money to hire gun
hawks by the dozen. It had been a
temptation, knowing that twenty-
five thousand dollars was his for the
digging. All these years since his
father's death, he had been taunted
by that money—enough to set up a
ranch equaling that of his dreams.
But he had forswore ever touching
that money for personal use; he had
wanted a spread built on honesty,
sweat, and skinned knuckles. Well,
he was through with such: dreams.
Home again, Taw realized he was
hungry. He warmed some beans on
the stove and made some coffee.
When he had satisfied his hunger he
heated water and bathed his chest.
As he swiped away clots of drying
.blood he tried to count the livid
marks, but gave up when rage blazed
up in him à jain.
Next morning he was out on the
trail early. He headed for a distant
peak that bate his father’s name—
and his own, he thought savagely—
Ringo Roost. He could see the dim
outline of the peak. In one of its
hidden canyons, he knew, a nest
of renegades had. their hide-out.
There he could hire as many guns
as he needed. He spurred on.
He laughed aloud at the irony
that had brought all this about, a
twist of fate as vicious as a rattler
that he had fought against for years.
Tully Gerault was to blame for it all.
Tully had thrown jeering remarks at
him every time they met, had
taunted him, tormented him about
trying to pass himself off as an hon-
est citizen. Tully Gerault would pay
—pay with his most sacred pos-
session, the undisputed power of the
Mustangs. It would send the old
man to his knees, crushed, quiver-
ing, begging for mercy.
Taw knew from range gossip that
the present year had been disastrous
for the Block G outfit, knew that
Tully Gerault's salvation lay in the
fact that recent heavy rains had
filled his tanks and reservoirs. But:
at the moment Gerault could not
stand a hard blow below the belt.
Anything that would require hard
cash and a lot of it would send the
Block G to its knees for the count.
For instance, a blasted dam or the
loss of a couple thousand head of
stocky yearlings.
Skirting the lower realms of the
Mustangs, Taw Ringo suddenly
stopped his horse. "There, on the
trail ahead, was the answer to his
promise of revenge, if he wanted to
take it. Tad Gerault was gouging
WHIPLASH FOR A GUN BUCKO 87
his small pony along a brush-walled
trail. Taw swerved his horse and
met the youngster.
“Howdy, Tad," said Taw, smiling
crookedly. “Where you headed so
early?"
The boy looked startled, then a
quick smile lighted his face.
“Oh, you frightened me, Taw.
You see, I was riding over to your
cabin to see you, and here you are!”
His boyish laughter rang like a bell
through the pine-clad slopes.
Taw swallowed, surprise lingering
long on his face. But he said grufHly,
“What you riding to my place for?
Tully'd skin you, was he to know
it. E
“Sure, I know that,” said the lad,
and he cast a backward glance over
his shoulder. “But I have been com-
ing here for a year and he ain't
caught me yet. He asked me the
other day who taught me to spin a
rope, but I wouldn’t tell him. That’s
what you said for me to do.”
“Sure,” Taw said brusquely. “Sure.
But you run along, now. I got busi-
ness on hand." He seemed to forget
that here was the means of revenge,
within reach of his fingers.
“I got to hurry back. Taw,I...
I just wanted to tell you that I think
you're honest and that Gramp was
wrong in whipping you. I’m sorry.”
Taw gritted his teeth, ground
them until they ached. “All right,
you're sorry." His voice was harsh.
“Now run along."
With a hurt look in his eyes the
lad turned his pony and rode away.
Taw’s eyes followed him for a mo-
ment, and he swallowed again. Then
he jabbed his spurs and headed up-
slope.
AW RINGO rode into a world of
jagged peaks and yawning
chasms, higher and higher toward a
hidden valley, ‘There was one door
to that valley, and one door only,
but Taw knew where the opening lay.
He rode threugh it unchallenged, a
high-walled, knife-cut pass, and en-
tered upon a flat, arrow-shaped area
of land comprising about a thousand
acres. It was completely walled in
with staggering slabs of upright
granite. Taw headed straight for
a group of log huts he could see
in the distance.
Tt was nearing sundown, and the
valley was already growing half dark
as Taw dismounted before a large
cabin set apart from the rest. He
recalled this cabin vividly, for it had
been the home of Jed Ringo. Now,
however, it was occupied by an out-
law named Carp Peters, who had
been second in command to Jed.
As: Taw dismounted, a man
emerged from the door of the place
and walked toward him. He was a
tall man, and the drawing shadows
distorted his heavy figure until he
looked amazingly broad. He had a
short neck, bullet-shaped head, and
small, suspicious eyes. His arms,
thick and hairy, flapped loosely at
his sides, and his flat features
seemed continually wrapped in a
snarl. 'This man, Taw knew, would
be Apache Rance.
Rance tilted his head forward,
resting his scarred chin on his bar-
rel chest. “Who in blazes are yuh?”
he demanded.
"Im Taw Ringo, and I want to
see Carp.”
“Ringo, huh!” the giant drawled.
“What you want? Yuh think to
take Jed’s boots over? Skeedaddle
if yuh do, Ringo! I’m it when Carp
is gone. Besides, I heard yuh was
too good to mix with yore pap’s
friends. If yuh think—”
Taw turned and strode into the
cabin, aware that the giant Rance
was at his heels. Carp Peters was
alone in the large, littered room.
88 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
Carp was small, withered, like an
aging hawk that had a cracked voice,
but deadly talons. He’d written
grim history in blood, and seemed
to be gloating over it as he sat at
the table, turning a bottle of whiskey
in his yellowed fingers. His small,
shrewd eyes lifted to Taw, studying
the youth at first without a sign of
recognition. Finally his eyes gleamed,
and he said:
“Taw Ringo. What’s up, you
comin’ here? You scoutin’ for the
law?”
“No, I’m not,” Taw said curtly,
“but I’m scoutin' gun hands. How
many you got here for rent?”
Carp Peters yawned, and poured
himself a drink.
“So the saint’s come home,” he
taunted. “Well, make track out o"
here, Taw. I know you're lyin’.”
Taw smiled bleakly and stood his
ground. “I could have brought the
law here if Pd wanted to,” he re-
minded. “I mean what I said—"
“The boss says git!”
HE voice came from behind Taw,
a snarling reminder from Apache
Rance. Taw spun round quickly.
The giant's huge arms stabbed out
at him, blunt fingers clutching at
his jumper. Taw struck, and he
struck hard and quick, a short, right
hook that cracked against Rance's
cheekbone, spinning the big hombre
half away. A choking roar filled
the room. Rance whirled with amaz-
ing speed for his size, hunkered his
shoulders, and began charging. Carp
Peters leaped to his feet.
“Pull in your neck, Apache!” he
ordered. “Leave the kid alone.
Maybe he’s right. He could have
brought the law along with him.”
Rance was still snarling, but the
gun that had flashed into Peters’
hand cowed him. He straightened
and turned toward the door.
“PIL kill you for that, Ringo," he
threw over his big shoulder. “And
it won’t be long.”
Alone with Peters, Taw propped
himself on the edge of the table.
“Now what’s all this talk you’re
makin’, Taw?” the owlhooter asked
calmly.
“I said I want to hire some guns,”
Taw reminded. He opened his shirt,
showing the lash welts to Peters.
“Tully Gerault done that. I aim to
break him in two.”
Carp Peters chuckled. His lids
drooped like those of a drowsy cata-
mount. “I been up to that idea ever
since he hung Jed. I got three men
down there right now on his spread,
and if they get what they went after,
Tully’s a broke gringo.”
Taw’s lips tightened. “What’s it
about?” he asked.
“Mebbe Tl tell you—later. Mebbe
you won't have to break’ Tully in
two. Ithink I done got him broke."
*What about the gunhands I want
to hire?" asked Taw.
“Come back in two days," said
Carp mysteriously. “If my plan
don’t work, l'll throw in with you.
We'll work together.”
Not at all satisfied with this an-
swer, Taw nevertheless had to accept
it. He left, saying he would be back
in two days. As he rode away he
saw Apache Rance hanging back in
the deep dusk watching him.
HE next evening, as he sat in his
cabin eating a tasteless meal,
Taw_heard the drum of approaching
hoofs. A horseman was speeding
across the grassy flat, punishing his
horse cruelly.
When Taw finally recognized the
rider he stepped over and grabbed
his gun belt from a wall peg, throw-
ing it around his waist.
Tully Gerault leaped from his
horse and ran to the door. He
banged his fist against the outside,
then plunged through, stopping short
as he came face to face with Taw
Ringo. Heart beating like a trip-
hammer, Taw stared at the old cow-
man. The lines on Tully’s face were
deeper even than when he wielded
he quirt against Taw’s bared chest,
and in his eyes was a strange mix-
ture of fear and dread.
"I don't know what you want,
Tully,” Taw said after a moment
of deadly silence. “But whatever
it is, git out o° here. You ought to
know yo're as welcome as a rattler.”
"I can't help that," gasped Tully.
"You've got to help me. You're the
last man in the world I'd let see me
grovel in the dust for help. But I
came to you—and I'm begging‘on my
knees."
Taw Ringo was taken aback for
an instant. He couldn't believe his
eyes. It was too good, but it had
happened. The man he despised was
begging—begging for help, and he
hadn't had to turn a hand.
"Hurry," Tully pleaded. “Man
alive, I wouldn't be here if you wasn't
the last one who could help me. I
need money and I need it fast. I’m
mortgaged to the hilt and can't get
it from the bank."
“Tf that’s all you want,” Taw
rasped tightly, “you can git on yore
horse an’ ride back to the Block G.”
. “But man—they got Tad! Kid-
naped him and sent me a note. They
want twenty thousand ransom—”
Taw’s eyes were suddenly lidded.
“Who got him?”
“Carp Peters. He wants twenty
thousand. Git your horse saddled,
Taw. You're leading me to your
old man’s booty.”
“Yo’re cracked, Tully,” Taw said
flatly. "Loco, if you think I'd lead
you there. I told you I'd collect my
pay.”
Gerault's lips faded to ashen white.
He rocked on his heels and then his
face was shot livid. He jammed a
EACH MONTH WITH A MODEL
AIRPLANE YOU GET FREE!
Each month during May, June, July,
August and September, 1940, Street &
Smith will offer prizes for those who con-
struct and fly the country's best Class C
rubber-powered model oirplanes. There
will be 100 awards—$265.00 in all—
twenty prizes each month for five months,
as follows:
Ist prize each month—$25.00
2nd prize each month—$10.00
3rd to 10th prizes each month—A Me-
gow Model Kit of the Korda-Wake-
field World's Champion Model—
Value $1.00 each
llth to 20th prizes each month—A
Comet Model Kit of the Cahill-Wake-
field World's Champion Model—
Value $1.00 each
GET YOUR AIRPLANE FREE
With a one year's subscription to
WESTERN STORY we will send you
FREE a "Sun Spot," Class C, rubber-
powered, 36-inch wing-spread model kit
which we have had designed especially
for this contest by Joe Ott and which you
may enter for the prizes. Full details
will ‘be mailed you with your model kit.
STREET & SMITH PUBLICATIONS, INC.
Dept. Jy-K4, 79 7th Ave., New York, N. Y.
Inclosed is $4.00 for which kindly send a
one year's subscription to WESTERN STORY
and a "Sun Spot," Class C, rubber-powered,
36-inch wing-spread model kit for making
the plane which | will enter in the contest
for the monthly awards.
90 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
gun in Taw's middle. *You’ll come
or I'll put daylight through you!”
he rasped.
Taw only laughed. “Go ahead,
Tully. Why don’t you put daylight
through me?”
Their, eyes met, locked fiercely,
then the gun sagged in Tully’s hand.
The boss of the range was whipped—
like a yellow cur. Wild, fierce tri-
umph was rioting through Taw. Here
was the man he wanted to break—
broken.
*Yo' don't dare shoot, Tully,” he
taunted. “I’m yore last chance—
and I'm telling yo' to go to blazes.
Why should I help yo'?"
All the iron went out of Gerault.
The corners of his mouth sagged and
his eyes went dead, and a pained
look of defeat showed on his face.
"No," he said wearily, “I can't
shoot you. I came here hoping I'd
been wrong about you, thought
maybe you was right, that you really
wanted to go straight. But I was
wrong. You're rotten, rotten to the
core."
Shoulders suddenly drooping,
Tully Gerault turned and strode to-
ward his horse. Slowly he lifted
himself a-saddle and rode away, the
slow beat of his horse’s hoofs echo-
ing with leaden intensity. .
As. Taw watched, the fury in him
slowly subsided. Impulsively he took
a forward step, then drew back. A
terrible conflict raged inside him, and
he tried to feed it with thoughts of
hatred. He glanced down at the
red marks on his chest, and his
fingers touched them gently. Then,
as if he had no control over his own
actions, he moved to the door and
shouted.
ULLY GERAULT stopped,
turned, something jerking at his
lips. Taw bolted out to the corral,
saddled and mounted and rode
alongside the old man. Their eyes
met and held an instant. Then Taw
grunted and jerked his head toward
the mountains. He-rode that way
and Tully followed.
The moon came out, painting the
pine-choked slopes a frothy white,
splashing like phantom waves along
the rugged rocks, and still they rode,
on and on. Tully’s eyes were half
closed and he kept his lips sealed.
Nor had the younger man spoken a
single word. It was midnight when
Taw halted.
Dismounting, he warned Gerault
to keep watch. Then he strode off
into the underbrush, came to a small,
rock-crested cave and crawled in.
Five minutes later, his nails grimy
with fresh clay, Taw Ringo handed
Tully a huge leather case.
“There’s about twenty-five thou-
sand in greenbacks there,” he said.
“T always intended giving it back to
you some day.”
Joy leaped into Tully Gerault’s
eyes, his lips parted.
“T don’t want any thanks,” Taw
said harshly. “But I’m gonna de-
liver that money myself. Let’s go.”
Near daybreak, they reached
Block G headquarters. Men were
already astir hitting the trail, while
others were dragging in, weary after
a night's search for Ringo Roost.
They bunched around Gerault and
Taw.
“Boys,” said Tully in a trembling
voice, “I got the money. Taw lent
it to me. And he’s ramroddin’ the
affair from here on."
Eyes flashed to the young man,
eyes filled with amazement and new
hope.
“Tully says this money is to be
delivered to a hombre who will be
in Shotgun Gulch at noon to-day,”
Taw said abruptly. “I want every
man here to go to the gulch and hide
in the south end. Crawl on yore
WHIPLASH FOR A GUN BUCKO 91
bellies for five miles if you have to,
but don’t be seen. Is that straight?”
He glanced around at the nodding
heads, quickly estimating the man
strength af twelve or thirteen. He
felt a dull foreboding that the deliv-
ery of this money would not assure
the return of Tad Gerault. He knew
the way of Carp Peters, and did not
trust the outlaw an inch.
“You better get started now,”
Taw added. “I'll ride into the gulch
at noon and meet this hombre. But
I don’t want a shot fired until some-
thing starts from the other side.”
“The other side?” asked a waddy.
“What you mean, Ringo?”
"Just what I said!” Taw said
shortly.
AW waited, uncenscious of the
noonday heat of Shotgun Gulch.
Just when the sun was directly over-
head, Apache Rance, a rifle across
his lap, came riding in on a tough
big dun stallion. Rance’s face
bleated with anger when he saw
who was waiting for him.
"Where's the kid?"
manded.
"Where's the money?" snarled
Rance.
'Taw opened the top of the leather
bag, and the owlhooter’s eyes
widened with greed as he saw the
packets of green money inside. His
blunt paw shot out, but Taw jerked
back.
“Wait a minute!” Taw warned.
“Yuh'll git the kid back,” Rance
spat out.
Taw let his glance stray back
amidst the oak trees hugging the
guleh floor. His sharp eyes detected
the tip of a black Stetson, but his
expression did not change. Suddenly
he handed the sack to Apache. The
big man hugged it against his body.
“You see the kid gets safe to the
Taw de-
ranch, Apache,” Taw said mildly.
“You see to that, and don’t forget.”
He turned, gouged his horse lightly
in the flanks. Apache Rance, a lit-
tle puzzled, sat gaping at Taw’s back,
then glanced down at the bag, poked
his fingers inside and licked his
cracked lips. Then his laugh—a sig-
nal that Taw awaited—sounded loud
and callous.
Taw Ringo suddenly pulled in his
mustang, dropping to one side In-
dian fashion, just as two slugs
chopped at his hat crown. Gunfire
broke loose on all sides in a split sec-
ond's time, and suddenly Taw could
hear pounding hoofs bearing down
on him. He flung up his gun, too
late, for Apache Rance was already
upon him, ramming his horse with
the big dun stallion. Taw felt him-
self spinning through the air; he lost
all control of arms and legs. Once,
twice, during that spin, he heard the
report of Apache's gun and felt the
staggering power of slugs shattering
their way through flesh and bone.
When he hit the ground he hit in a
limp heap.
Coming to—he didn’t know how
much later—the roar of Winchesters
and Colts dinned in his ears, hoofs
were knifing the air over his head,
and he had a drugged feeling which
made movement almost impossible.
He began clawing the dirt with his
fingers and finally rose to his knees.
He felt his six-gun on the ground be-
neath one knee, and, grabbing it,
staggered to his feet.
D Taw saw a horse charg-
ing down on him. He ducked
to one side and saw the hulk of
Apache Rance lean down. Taw
yanked on the trigger, missed, but
Rance’s horse stumbled in a dog hole
and threw its rider end over end.
The giant hit like a huge ball, roll-
ing over and over, but miraculously
92 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
coming to a halt on his feet. In-
stantly he roared and charged.
Taw, dizzy and weak, saw two or
three men where there should have
been one. He saw forked tongues of
flame dancing before his eyes, and
felt the jerk of lead as it passed
through his clothes. His mind was
playing tricks on him, for he was
sure that Apache Rance was twins,
or perhaps triplets. So, as a drunken
man might do, he fired at each of the
figures in turn.
Sound filled the air, a hoarse, fatal
screeching followed by several
choked coughs, and then something
terrifically heavy slid against his
legs, knocking him back. He lay
there struggling until finally he
gained his feet. As in a daze he
pointed his gun at the figure sprawled
at his feet. But he didn’t pull trig-
ger, because he suddenly realized
that Apache Rance was dead.
Taw kept shaking his head, trying
to jar loose the cobwebs that af-
fected his vision. He thought that
sounds of the battle were dimming.
He was still doing that when a group
of punchers thundered up and dis-
mounted. Taw lifted his gun, it
wavered, and somebody shouted a
warning, then Taw felt the dead click
in his hand. Somebody laughed—
the laugh had a friendly sound—and
Taw Ringo at last saw clearly the
group of Block G riders at his front.
Taw counted and knew some were
missing. Several were bleeding from
open wounds, but they seemed happy
about something. Then Taw saw
Tully Gerault and Tad moving to-
ward him.
“We got Tad," said an exultant
voice. “But we had a hard time
finding him. "Thought you'd been
killed."
Taw recognized the voice as Tully
Gerault's. Taw stood there, slam-
ming his open hand against his head,
clearing it some.
“Good,” he mumbled. “I’m glad
Tad’s all right. Well, so long."
“Wait a minute!” boomed Tully’s
hearty voice. “You ramrodded the
act before Ringo, but this time it’s
mine. Tad told me all about the
ranch you and him called the Run-
ning R. Well, we found the money
where Rance dropped it. I'm beg-
gin' you again, but in a different way
this time, Taw— . Here's the money.
Take it. It'll set up that Running R
in fine fashion. And I need a neigh-
bor on that side of my spread—a
man I can trust!"
Taw turned to face the cowman,
staring at him as though his words
were beyond credulity. Then his
glance drifted to Tad’s jubilant face.
“Pinch me, kid,” he said huskily.
“I want to be sure this ain't still a
dream!”
THE END.
Our readers seem to become more
and more active in sports as time
goes on. In recent months we have
received a surprising amount of in-
quiries concerning firearms for sport-
ing purposes, and this interest is
growing.
One of the most frequent of these
inquiries concerns the Model 1917
Enfield army rifle and its possibili-
ties for conversion to a good hunt-
ing rifle. This particular rifle is
available to any American citizen
who is a member in good standing of
the National Rifle Association. Dues
-in the N. R. A. are only three dollars
per year, and the Enfield is sold to
N. R. A. members simply because
it is war surplus, not because the
peren considers the gun use-
ess.
Here’s the story behind the En-
field rifle. Back along in 1916 the
Allies required large quantities of
Guns and
Gunners
By PHIL SHARPE
arms and ammunition. Their own
factories were loaded to capacity, so
accordingly contracts were being
actively filled in the United States
by our own commercial gun makers.
They were producing the British En-
field rifle in enormous quantities for
England. Of course, this gun known
as the Model 1914 Enfield was cham-
bered for the British .303 service
cartridge.
When the United States entered
the war in 1917 it was totally un-
equipped to fight. Only a small
quantity of rifles were available to
take care of the rapidly mobilizing
United States army. The service
Springfield known as the Model 1903
had been built in only two factories
The following list of literature is available to our readers: STRAIGHT
SHOOTING,
SNAP SHOOTING, WINCHESTER AMMUNITION
HANDBOOK, SAVAGE, STEVENS, FOX, COLT, SMITH & WESSON,
HARRINGTON & RICHARDSON, 3c each; MOSSBERG, MARLIN,
2c each; WESTERN AMMUNITION HANDBOOK, 5c; REMINGTON
ARMS AND AMMUNITION, 6c; and a large three-pound bundle of
assorted catalogs, 30c each and 38c west of Chicago.
to Canada.
None can be sent
Postage stamps are accepted.
Application blanks fòr membership in the National Rifle Association
may be obtained by writing to Mr. Sharpe. Inclose a three-cent stamp with
your request.
94 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
—Springfield Armory at Springfield,
Massachusetts, and Rock Island Ar-
senal, at Rock Island, Illinois. It
was being turned out in such small
quantities that the capacity of these
plants would not permit us to pro-
duce enough rifles to take care of
the increasing number of soldiers.
To ask any factory to produce a
new rifle is a rather complicated job.
Thousand of dies, jigs, special
gauges, and other small tools would
have to be made before the first gun
could be produced: This would take
many long months of effort. Uncle
Sam looked at all available guns and
decided that the Enfield would be
the best bet. 2
Accordingly, we stopped manufac-
ture of the British Enfield for Eng-
Jand and altered it slightly to handle
the regular .30-06 army cartridge.
Factories were already tooled up to
produce this gun and the army took
the entire production. The altered
1914 Enfield became our Model
1917.
The British Enfield had not been
standardized so that parts were read-
ily interchangeable. Uncle Sam
changed all of that. After we had
standardized the Enfield, the assem-
bly record was 980 rifles a day, while
skilled assemblers in the various
plants average 250 rifles a-day per
man.
The production of Enfield rifles
for the duration of the war was
9,193,499. The British government
had been paying $42 each for these
rifles in the enormous quantities they
were taking them. Standardization
by our methods of manufacture
brought the cost down to the United
States to approximately $96 each.
Therefore, the rifle that you can buy
from Uncle Sam actually costs him
$26, and you can acquire it for one-
half that amount of money.
Uncle Sam still has considerably
more than a million of these rifles
stored away. That's the reason he
can afford to spare a. few of them
to shooters of the United States.
The price to members of the N. R. A.
its $19.50 for a new gun, or $7.50 for
a used gun. Used guns are service-
able, but it is recommended that you
plan to buy a new gun.
Of course, this is a military rifle,
and if you want to make a neat
sporting arm out of it, it requires
some home gunsmithing. The barrel
is twenty-six inches long with a mili-
tary front sight. The gunsmith can
cut this barrel down to twenty-four
inches, remove the ugly front sight
and fit a modern sporting sight de-
signed for this particular rifle. The
rear sight is crude and mounted on
the top of the receiver. This could’
readily be used for hunting purposes,
but the average amateur prefers to
have this machined off and a good
peep sight mounted in its place.
The military stock can be cut
down and reformed to make a sport-
ing type, but the average man de-
sires a stock made along neater lines.
For about five dollars you can get a
good walnut blank roughly formed
on the outside and with. the action
parts all inletted, so that any good
craftsman can do the final fitting in
a few evenings. Many shooters pre-
fer to build their own in this fashion.
This department has been designed to be of practical service to those who
are interested in guns.
Mr. Sharpe will gladly answer any question you may
have concerning firearms. Just address your inquiries to Phil Sharpe, Guns and
Gunners Department, Street & Smith's Western Story Magazine, 79 Seventh
Avenue, New York, N. Y. Be sure you inclose a three-cent stamp for your reply.
_Do not send a return envelope.
Mines
and Mining
By J. A. THOMPSON
Dnrer MINING is the working of
placer gold deposits by underground
methods. The system is applicable
where the gold values are held to a
fairly narrow, well-defined pay
streak close to bedrock and where
there is considerable barren over-
burden above the gold-carrying
material Moreover, drift mining
can be used by individual prospec-
tors in small-scale operations.. No
extra, expensive equipment is re-
quired, but some knowledge of the
process is essential.
H. H., of Charlotte, North Caro-
Tina, has asked us about drift min-
ing this week. “Can an individual
drift mine?" he writes. “Is the
method suitable for Alaska, which is
where my partner and I intend to
do some prospecting in the near fu-
ture? How is it carried on?”
Those are the questions. Now for
the answers. Alaska, because the
permanently frozen condition of
95
many of the placer gravel deposits
there eliminates the need of heavy
timbering in underground work, is
one of the sections in which drift
mining has played an important role
in the past. The method is also ex-
tensively employed in northern Cali-
fornia in working old channel beds,
bench gravels and buried placers.
Among old-time Alaskan prospec-
tors, drift mining often afforded ex-
cellent opportunity for winter work
on the gold-flecked patches of a bed-
rock pay streak that could be taken
out best when the country was
frozen, piled on a dump, and washed
in summer when water for the pur-
pose was available.
Today, once you have first located
suitable gold gravel, this same sys-
tem can be used. The practice
formerly was to sink a small shaft
down to. bedrock on the pay streak.
The shaft should be located on the
lowest part of the channel and in
approximately the middle of the pay.
From the shaft, run a main drift or
tunnel the entire length of the claim
or the pay streak..
In working out the ground, start
mining at the lower end of the main
drift by establishing working faces
across the channel at right angles to
the drift, extending them, of course,
the full width of the pay streak. In
small-scale work the custom in
Alaska used to be to thaw the frozen
gravel with wood fires.
Both care and skill were required
in handling these fires so as to keep
the heat directly against the face.
Otherwise the roof would warm up
and slough badly. First kindling
was placed along the face when an
area of several hundred square feet
had been opened up. On the top of
the kindling a layer of dry wood was
built up until it was roughly two feet
thick, Over this a layer of green
96 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
wood was sometimes set, and the
whole thing covered with long sheet-
iron plates. Or else the dry wood
was simply topped off and muffled
with a thick layer of coarse gravel.
Once lighted, such fires usually
burned about five hours, more or
less, and would thaw the frozen
gravel about a foot back into the
.face. General custom was to build
and light the fires in the evening, so
that they accomplished their thaw-
ing job during the night. By morn-
ing the fires had burned out and at
the same time the thawed gravel had
not had a chance to refreeze. The
day could then be spent in getting
out the thawed material, wheeling it
to the shaft, and hoisting it to the
ground surface for deposition on the
dump to await washing when
warmer weather came. The face
was cleaned up, and a new fire set
to thaw the next day’s quota of
gravel.
An average prospector working
fairly steadily under at least medium
satisfactory conditions ought to be
able to get out about a thousand
wheelbarrow loads of gold gravel
during a winter this way. His re-
turns will naturally depend on how
much gold the ground averages per
wheelbarrow load. Where three or
four partners are working together,
faster handling for the frozen pay
streak can often be obtained by sink-
ing two shafts instead of one. The
shafts should be between fifty and
seventy-five feet apart. While the
gravel is being mined from one shaft,
@ We desire to be of real help to our readers.
thawing can be carried on from the
other.
Pay streaks that are on bedrock
at a depth of anywhere from fifteen
to thirty. feet below the surface are
the handiest depths for small-scale
drift mining in frozen ground such
as is prevalent in Alaska. Large-
scale drift mining has been accom-
plished with bedrock depths as high
as two hundred feet. Such work
necessitates a hoist and other equip-
ment, as well as considerable man
power.
In country where the ground is
not frozen, northern California, for
instance, timbers and lagging must
be used both on top and sides of the
main drift to keep the ground from
sloughing. Faces are worked essen-
tially the same way, except that
there is no need of pre-thawing the
ground. It can be picked down. `
Suitable timbering in the form of
posts, lagging, and head boards is
also required in the cross cuts.
Likewise interested in gold pros-
pecting in Alaska, is J. F., of Ta-
coma, Washington, who writes that
“just for the record” he would like
to know when placer gold was first
discovered there.
In 1850 a Russian engineer made
the first reported discovery of placer
gold in Alaska in the Kenai River
Basin. Gold was found in the
Tanana Valley in the "70s, near
Juneau in 1880, and at Circle and
Forty-mile about 1885.
If there is anything you
want to know about mining or prospecting, a letter inclosing a stamped and
self-addressed envelope sent to J. A. Thompson, care of Street & Smith's
Western Story Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y., will bring
a prompt authoritative personal reply.
Letters unaccompanied by a return envelope will be published in the
order in which they are received. But as space is limited, please keep such
letters as brief as possible.
We get so many letters asking what
has to be done to “join” the Hollow
Tree and what the “requirements” and
“obligations” are that we thought we'd
do a little explaining. In the first place,
to join the Hollow Tree you simply
have to send us a letter for publication
stating that you want pen friends, and
it’s a good idea to be specific as to what
type and what age you’d like your Pals
to be so that you won’t get bogged down
with mail from folks with whom you
might not have much in common. As
for the requirements, there are none ex-
cept your sincere desire for friends, and
your only obligation is to at least
acknowledge every letter you receive if
you find that it’s impossible to carry on
a lengthy correspondence with “all.
And now, here’s our first letter this
week. It comes from out California
way—
Dear Miss Rivers:
I've been reading your Hollow Tree in West-
ern Story for about two years and I thought
that I'd sort of like to see my letter printed
there. I'm crazy to get Pen Pals from all over.
Im twenty years old and my favorite sports are
football, swimming and hikjng. I promise to an-
swer all letters, so come on, gang, let’s keep
the mailmen busy. Here’s hoping I have good
luck.—Carl Holser, P. O. Box 874, Santa Cruz,
California
Drawing is her hobby—
Dear Miss Rivers:
Here is a nineteen year old putting in her
plea for Pen Pals from all over the world. My
favorite sports are fishing and hiking. I have
several hobbies, but drawing and collecting pic-
tures are my favorite ones. I promise to an-
gwer all letters, so here's hoping I hear from
someone soon.—Bessie Walker, General Delivery,
Luverne, Minnesota
he Hollow Tree
By HELEN RIVERS
These two lads have diversified inter-
ests—
Dear Miss Rivers: f
This letter is being written by two sixteen-
year-old boys. We want to hear from boys and
girls between thirteen and seventeen years of
age. We are interested in collecting eigar bands
and newspapers from all parts of the world,
writing short stories and drawing cartoons. You
will find us very interesting.—Buddy Krusen and
Dick Connolly, 118 Pennsylvania Avenue, El-
mira, New York
You can depend on Auriel to answer—
I would be very
not under fifteen years of age.
grateful for any letters and promise to answer
all as I know how disappointing it is to write
to a person and be turned down. I love swim-
ming, singing and cycling, and I collect stamps,
snaps and match-box tops. Well, here's hoping
Y get scores of letters.—Auriel Garratt, 9 Der-
went Park Road, Moonah, Via Hobart, Tasmania,
Australia
George wastes no words—
Dear Miss Rivers:
Can I join the Hollow Tree, too? I am forty-
nine years old, a widower, have been in' Cali-
fornia eight years and lóve it. Would welcome
letters from men and women near my age. I'd
like to join someone on a ranch, farm, mine,
or anything. Could be a partner, Pal, or what
have you. Love the mountains and outdoor life
but can adjust myself to the city. Have been
in the music business for years. Will tell you
all about this part of California if you'll] write
to me.—George Boyland, 431 East Main, Stock-
ton, California
These two gals are lonesome in a big
city—
Dear Miss Rivers:
We are two very lonesome girls although we
live in one of the largest steel cities in the
United States. Marge is seventeen and bas
many interesting hobbies and enjoys music. I
98 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
‘am seventeen, too, and will-send a snapshot to
the first ten who write. I amy so-they tell me,
a very good dancer.—Marge Perry. 002. Madi-
sen Street. Gary, Indiana. and. Tola Cash, 8964
Madison Street, Gary Indiana
Lt
Calling a E R A
Dear Miss Rivers:
I'd like to hear from someone who answers to
the description of '"jack-of-all-trades;" Someone
who does art work, can write short stories,
poems and songs. A serious person looking for
a business pardner as well as correspondent. I've
got some good information to hand-out to those
answering this plea. You have nothing to. lose
by writing and hearing my proposition. Please
state a small amount of your ability. "This is a
brain plea, so let's forget the age and beautiful
looks. This may be the chance you've. been
looking for, so get busy and write to me.—James
Paugh, No. 19, Gray, Pennsylvania
Jean's letters should be entertaining—
Dear Miss Rivers:
Calling the Hollow Tree! Calling the Hollow
Tree! Be on the lookout for Pen Pals who
would be interested in writing to an eighteen-
year:o!d Hoosier girl whose hobbies are writing
letters and collecting. snapshots and post cards.
If found, please report to me.—Jean Pisowiez,
4882 Walsh Avenue, East Chicago, Indiana
Howard has had lots of different jobs—
Dear Miss Rivers:
I am a Texan twenty-three years old. I've
been in the CCC and national guard and have
worked on ranches, in: stockyards, and -dozens of
other places. I'll send a snap of myself to all
who send me one. I've quite a few tales to tell
of my adventures and.all are welconre to write.
My chief likes are movies, popular musie, box-
iug and football. Everybody, everywhere, pleas
write to. me.—Howard A. Deaton, 3800 Jackson
Street, El Paso, Texas
Carrie is a sports fan—
Dear Miss Rivers:
Im an Oklahoma girl,
twenty years old, a
junior in high school, and
am considered good-
looking. I love -all sports, “especially basketball
and oe riding. My favorite pastime is
dancing. romise to answér- all lefters from
Pals in fore ign countries or the United States
and will “exchange snapshots.—Carrie Hamilton,
Rt. No. 2, Westville, Oklahoma
t
Sig and Nick's case is herewith dis-
missed— `
Dear Miss Rivers:
Is it possible to present our case before your
court? We, Sigmund and Nicholas, plead guilty
of having enjoyed Western Story in many
strange lands, such as Panama, Hawaii, and
now, the Philippine Islands. We are twenty-
six years old and represent the long and short of
soldiering—Sig is small and Nick is quite tall—
anyway, we'd enjoy writing. swapping yarns and
SAAPS.- — Sigmund Loskowski and Nicholas- Fkao,
Headquarters 20th Air Base. Nichols Field;-Rizal,
Philippine Islands
And here's. a Canadian "hook-up"—.
Dear Miss Rivers: -
Hello, Pals! This is Station P. A. L. $
broadcasting from Red Willow, Alberta, Canada.
I am a Canadian girl requesting just oodles of
Pen Pals. Im sixteen years old and interested
in many sports. I will be anxiously waiting for
i rgaret Robinson, Red Willow,
Alberta, Canada
Richard wants to hear from everyone—
Dear Miss Rivers:
1 often read the Hollow Tree and I won-
dered if I wrote to you would you try to get
me some Pen Pals. I am nineteen years old,
enjoy all sports, aud my hobbies are collecting
stamps and match-box covers. I would like to
hear from young and old. from far and near, so
please don't fail me. Ill exchange snaps, so
write, everybody.—Richard Reid, 1431 Cleveland
Avenue, Lincoln Park, Michigan
Bill and Johnny are cowpunchers— ss-
Dear Miss Rivers:
We are two *ornery" cowpunchers. Bill is
eighteen and I'm nineteen. We would like very
much to have Pen Pals. We work on a rauch
and fork broncs from sunup to. sundown. There's
a rodeo Saturday and, boy, you should see us
cut up the earth! We will send an arrowhead
to the first. one. who writes to us.—Bill Platt
and Johnny - Miller; Corralittoes Ranch, Los
Cruces, New “Mexico
Keep Peggy busy—
Dear Miss: Rivers :
I would like to correspond with anyone ia
America, especially cowboys and cowgirls, I am
twenty-one years old, my favorite sport is swim-
ming, and I would like to exchange newspapers.
photos, et cetera. I promise to answer all let-
ters and the more I get. the busier my pen will
be, which is just what it lik
7 Towns
Africa
This soldier has lots of time to write—
Dear Miss Rivers:
I've been answering letters published in the
Hollow Tree and am very much diszppointed to
only receive one answer. I’m hoping to get some
Pen Pals now, by having my letter appear. J
am twenty-three years old and would: like to
hear from young and old. I will answer all let-
ters and exchange snapshots of myself and the
Islands with anyone who wants to. I have lots
of time to write.—Private Andy Blum, 35th In-
AY Company B, Schofield Barracks, Hawaii,
—
Not so tall, but dark and handsome is
this sailor—
Dear Miss Rivers:
I have been a faithful reader of Western
Story for several years and.wish to crash the
Pen Pal column in the Hollow Tree. I am a
twenty-four-year-old sailor just back from a
three-year cruise in -Asiatic waters. I'm dark
and handsome, but not tall enough to make
it the famous three. I will swap souvenirs
and snaps with all who write. ve been to
South America, China, Japan, Alaska, the Philip-
pines, Hawaii, and both Atlantic and Pacifie
pur in the United States.—L. J.. Brooks,
S. Trippe (403). Boston, Massachusetts
3
X
Where to go
and how to
get there
By JOHN NORTH
=
CARRYING along some sort of con-
centrated food or emergency ration
is important to every camper. Trap-
pers, hunters, timber -cruisers and
prospectors out far from the beaten
trail may find themselves farther
from their base camp. than they
anticipated, or caught and kept
from camp several days by storms,
swollen streams and a host of other
unpredictable occurrences that are
always cropping up to test the stam-
ina and the resourcefulness of the
true outdoorsman. A pocket pack
of concentrated food on such occa-
sions may literally be a life saver.
Moreover, hikers off on a few days’
jaunt into back-country wilderness
-must perforce travel light. Canned
goods for such trips are heavy, bulky
and awkward for the back packer to
handle. Concentrated foods have
none of these drawbacks. On the
other hand they are primarily useful
WS—7B
99
as emergency rations, and not in-
tended for a steady, unsupplemented
diet over long periods of time.
A. H., of Chicago, Illinois, is one
of that ever-growing group of wil-
derness hikers, men who are city liv-
ing, but outdoor loving, and who
find they can cram more real back-
to-nature stuff in a week's walking
trip through woods and forests than
any other way. “How about con-
centrated foods for such trips?"
wrote -A. H. “Remember shelter,
food, in fact everything I take with
me, I tote on my back.”
First and foremost among such
concentrated foods is that old
standby of the Indian on long, lone
trips—pinole. Our own famous
pioneer frontiersmen, like Daniel
Boone, Davy Crockett, Bridger, and
their contemporaries, relied heavily
on pinole. Even today down. in the
Southwest and particularly below
the border, lone Mexicans will start
off on trips of several days' duration
with just a little sack of pinole tied
on behind their saddles. .
About two heaping tablespoonfuls
of pinole stirred in a cup of cold
water will make a meal. You drink
the stuff down. And for the modern
traveler your pinole in water, plus
a small handful of raisins, another
excellent, concentrated food, will
make a pretty square meal with lots
of sustaining power.
Pinole itself is simply pulverized,
parched Indian corn. The corn can
be parched in a frying pan on the
stove. Stir it constantly, however,
to prevent scorching it. The In-
dians used to parch it in hot wood
ashes until it was brown, then sift
the ashes out and grind the corn. At
home you can grind the corn yourself
in one of those old-fashioned coffee
mills that used to hang on nearly
every kitchen wall. : The idea is to -
grind it fine enough. to be drinkable
100
when mixed with water, but not so
fine that it merely flours into a thin
paste when put into-a water-filled
cup. :
Pinole was originally intended for
a quick meal while on the trail, or
on long trips as an alternative
standby when game was scarce.
It gets its “staying” qualities
not only because it is surpris-
ingly high in nutritive content, but
also because when added to water
and consumed, the parched corn
swells in the stomach creating that
customary full after-dinner feeling.
Pemmican, of course, is the old
standby of arctic explorers, and
hunters in the far Northwest. Be-
cause it contains a considerable per-
centage of suet or fat it is essentially
a cold-climate concentrated food.
The early-day pemmican of the Far
North, a standard item of diet
among the old Hudson Bay trappers,
was made of lean buffalo meat, dried
like jerky in the sun or over a fire
until it was hard and brittle, then
pounded to powder. The buffalo fat
and marrow was then melted, mixed
to a pasty mass with the powdered,
dried lean meat and the whole
packed into cloth bags.
Thus prepared, pemmican would
keep for years in the cold North
country climate. It can be eaten
raw, sliced and fried like sausage,
or boiled with a little flour into a
thick, heavy soup.
Modern manufactured pemmican
is made of beef meat instead of but-
falo, but is just as nutritious as the
STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
old-timers’ product. Perhaps even
more nutritious because, as a rule,
a little sugar, and some raisins are
added to the manufactured beef
pemmican which is squeezed into
cakes and packed in moisture-proof
containers.
So much for the two mainstay
emergency rations—pinole for the
hot climate of the South and South-
west, and pemmican for the cold
country’ of the North or for winter
travel. Neither of these foods alone
constitutes a_balanced diet by any
means. Both are notably lacking in
the acid factor. Nowadays hiker,
hunter, trapper or trader can get
his daily fruit-juice vitamins on the
trail via the medium of concentrated
citric-acid or lime-juice tablets that
may easily be taken along anywhere.
Raisins, as already mentioned, are
an excellent concentrated food af-
fording a handy form of sugar.
Tabloid tea tablets which come
a hundred in a little box that will
slip into your vest pocket, and make
a cup of fairly good tea per tablet,
are another modern innovation. But
a real bread substitute still seems to
be the unsolved, perhaps unsolvable,
concentrated food problem. Regular
old-fashioned hardtack still remains
about' the best emergency bread
ration. Dessicated eggs, dried
-milk powder and various forms
of compressed soups may also be in-
cluded on extended trips where food
bulk must be kept to a minimum
and at the same time a greater vari-
ety in diet is desired.
@ We aim to give practical help to readers.
Mr. North will be glad to
answer specific questions about the West, its ranches, homestead lands, moun-
tains and plains, as well as the facts about any features of Western life. He
will tell you also how to reach the particular place in which you are inter-
ested. Don’t hesitate to write to him, for he is always glad to assist you to
the best of his ability. Be sure to inclose a stamped envelope for your reply.
Address all communications to John North, care of Street & Smith’s
Western Story Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y.
ON ————————————————————————
The Story So Far:
Steve McGraw is hired by Ed Page to
search for the latter’s father, lost in the
remote and unexplored Dark River coun-
try in Alaska where he went to search for
tin. Steve locates the missing prospector
and makes a rich find of tin. When he re-
turns to Seattle, he finds that Page, with-
out his consent, has formed a company to
develop the claim. Involved in a partner-
ship which he had entered involuntarily,
101
Part Four
BY FRANK
RICHARDSON PIERCE
Steve is arrested with Page on charge of
violating the stock-selling laws.
Steve is paroled by the judge and al-
lowed to return to Dark River on condition
that he fill_a contract to supply a large
amount of tin. Clay Bullock, a mine pro-
moter who has a reputation for fleecing
miners out of their claims, believes he has
Steve in a hole because one of his men
filed on the Dark River ground before
Steve. He intends, however, to let Steve
102
get his operations under way, and then take
over.
Professor Boyer, one of Bullock’s men
who is posing as an anthropologist, learns
that Steve filed on the South Fork of Dark
River, not on the North Fork where Bul-
lock’s claim is located. Realizing that Bul-
lock’s plans will have to be changed, he
sends word to the promoter.
Steve charts a course over the ice from
Schooner Bay to the South Fork in order
to bring a dredge to the place where min-
ing operations are to begin. Unknown to
him, Boyer has dynamited a hole in the
ice over which the dredge will have to pass.
CHAPTER XIV
E ICE-TRAPPED
Tue Diesel motor, turning over at
top speed, pulled the dredge slowly
upstream. The work proceeded
slowly until the engine man sud-
denly bellowed, “Somebody better
take care of that wire rope. It’s
twisting into loops as it comes off
the winch.”
Steve climbed onto the dredge,
grasped a loom and got the rope
back onto a drum once more. “She’s
O. K. now,” he said. “Don’t know
whether it’s the cold or what, but
the line’s giving a lot of trouble of
late. Tl hold it on a couple more
revolutions. Feed it to her.”
“0. K?
A moment later the dredge gave
a convulsive shudder. "What's
that?” Steve asked. “It felt like
something giving way.”
The forward part of the dredge
was a third over the pit Boyer had
dug when the ice on the downstream
end crumpled under the load. The
dredge shot forward, and the front
end was buried deep in the water.
Then, as the buoyancy of the pon-
toons started lifting it up, the end
wedged under the thick, unbroken
ice ahead.
The engine man had shut off the
power, but his bedy pitched forward
with the momentum and he cracked
STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
his head on solid steel. He slipped’
into the water as it boiled over
windlass, cable and engine. Pee
Wee Bompard leaped to the dredge,
grasped the man’s foot and hauled
him out.. His clothing glazed in-
stantly. Half conscious, he gasped,
“Steve’s down there!”
“Steve’s down there!” Pee Wee
bellowed. He turned to the watch-
ing men. “Some of you fellers get
a fire goin’ an’ sleeping bags laid
out, Somebody tear the clothes offn
this man an' get him into a bag."
As Pee Wee talked, Paddy Ho-
gan, unnoticed, was stripping off his
clothing. He grasped a rope and
had. dived into the black, icy wa-
ters before anyone could stop him.
“The fool!’ Pee Wee shouted.
“That won’t do any good.”
Paddy was down a long time. At
last he broke through the skin of
ice that had formed and drew in
choking gasps of air. Ice was al-
ready beginning to glaze over his
face and head. Paddy shook his
head and spoke with difficulty,
*He's caught by the cable. Couldn't
hold my breath long enough—"
Pee Wee hauled in the rope Paddy
was grasping and pulled him clear
of the water. He was hurried into
a sleeping bag.
*You're a brave man," Pee Wee
told him, “but it was the wrong
move."
*Me intentions was of the best,"
Paddy said feebly. “I never was
so cold in me misspent life.”
Pee Wee had pulled down a length
of half-inch water pipe. Now he
stripped off his clothing and picked
up a heavy chunk of iron. “Get-the
headlights of one of the tractors on
the spot,” he ordered.
The tractor was on its way almost
before he finished speaking. He
turned to another man. “Keep this
end of the pipe above water. Don’t
DARK FRONTIER
let it get wet or itll ice over. Pve
got to breathe through it.”
He eased himself into the ice wa-
ter and submerged, lips to the other
end of the pipe. It was awkward
and hard to handle. A hose would
have been better, but there was
none available. Ice coated the pipe,
and every time it moved, skin ice
was broken on the surface of the
water.
Pee Wee had to move crabwise
with his neck twisted in order to
keep his lips to the pipe, but he
knew every inch of the dredge, and
as his feet struck objects he identi-
fied them. The heavy weight in his
right hand kept his body submerged.
His feet touched a. loop of cable,
and he half turned his head. By
the vague light seeping down from
the tractor headlights he saw Steve's
ankle tight in a loop of cable.
He got down close and studied it.
Looking up to make certain there
was nothing above to trap him, he
dropped the weight and grasped the
cable. He twisted it, widened the
loop, and then, gripping the air pipe
in his teeth, pulled Steve free with
his left hand. He got a good hold
on Steve's body and planted his feet
firmly on the dredge deck. "Then,
grasping the air pipe with his left
hand again, he kicked upward.
EE WEE felt the ice break across
his back. He held tightly to the
pipe while men hauled him and
Steve within reach. Pee Wee kept
Steve's head under water until he
could work his hand over the uncon-
scious man's mouth and pinch his
nostrils tightly.
"Keep his mouth and nose cov-
ered,” he warned. “Don’t want the
water in "em freezin' up."
One of the men wrapped a blanket
around Steve's head and hurried
him to the fire. Others helped Pee
103
Wee, now a weak, stumbling giant
incased in a thin covering of ice.
A roaring fire had been made with
gasoline and driftwood. Men held
a tarp to inclose a small space and
imprison the heat. Pee Wee’s coat-
ing of ice melted instantly. He was
dried off with rough towels and put
into a sleeping bag. Other men had
removed Steve’s clothing, got him
into a bag and were now emptying
the water from his lungs.
"Keep it up," Pee Wee ordered
hoarsely. “Make him - breathe.
Keep that fire going. A blast of
freezin’ air might be fatal.”
Paddy was watching the opera-
tion with sober, worried eyes. "Ain't
there some signs of life?" he asked.
"Not yet," a man answered. “I
learned first aid as a boy scout, and
if anybody laughs PI kill him.”
“Nobody's laughin’,” Paddy said
solemnly.
After what seemed hours to
Paddy, the big Irishman saw Steve's
eyes flutter. Then the half-drowned
man began heaving up river water
from his stomach and coughing it
from his lungs. ;
“Keep that air warm!" Pee Wee
kept repeating. “Frosted lungs
would kill him.” He spotted a man
who seemed to have no particular
job. “Light out for the Paddy Creek
cabin and get a fire going. Make it
so hot the walls smoke, but don’t
burn the cabin down. Hey, you
tractor man, be ready to take Steve
into your cab. The rest of us will
ride on the sled.”
“Anything we can do about the
dredge?” the engine man asked.
“Tt’s here until spring,” one of the
men observed dejectedly. “Then
the break-up will take care of every-
thing.”
“Steve ain’t said so,” Pee Wee
said curtly. He turned to another
man. “You leg it for Schooner Bay,
104
tell ^em what's happened and ask
Dorothy Sheldon if she wants a
nursin’ job.”
When Steve could stare weakly at :
the wreckage, they carried him to
the tractor cab, sleeping bag and
all. “It’s a mess,” he muttered.
“Wonder how you go about getting
an ice-locked dredge out of a river.”
“You just forget the dredge,”
Pee Wee told him. “It'll keep."
“Yeah,” Paddy muttered. “It'll
keep. It’s in ice.”
EE WEE had a hunch Steve
wouldn’t be on his feet the next
day, and he was right. Steve was a
very sick man. Somewhere in the
crash he had received internal in-
juries of an undetermined nature.
He remembered vaguely the heavy
ice on the edge of the hole leaping
at him. Perhaps he was thrown
against it—he didn’t know. But he
did remember one thing—there was
water filled with broken bits of ice
boiling around him just before he
passed out. He knew this was no
air hole the dredge had tumbled
into. ;
Paddy, being in better shape than
Pee Wee, was the logical man to
send on a special mission. Steve
sent for him.
“How’re you feeling?” he asked.
“Fit as a fiddle,” Paddy declared.
“Paddy, I think someone dug a
pit in the ice,” said Steve. “Then
they let it fill and freeze over. You
know the rest.”
“If they did,” Paddy said
shrewdly, “they must’ve done some-
thing with the ice.”
“Exactly,” Steve exclaimed. “And
I want you to see if you can find it.
Take things easy. Don’t hurry, and
be careful not to frost your lungs.
And another thing, don’t let any-
one know what youre up to. I
want the report circulated that the
STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
dredge dropped into an air hole.”
“Leave it to me,” Paddy told him.
To save himself unnecessary walk-
ing, Paddy rode a tractor down to
the dredge. The headlights showed
him a lone figure contemplating the
wreck. “Dorothy, me darlin’!” he
shouted.
The girl turned. “Paddy!” There
was an anxious look on her face.
“How’s Steve?”
*He's in better shape than his
dredge is,” answered Paddy.
‘Tm glad. He might’ve been
killed or drowned;" Dorothy said.
*How did this happen? Steve told
me the ice had been tested every few
` rods, and the bad places marked.
Why, tractors have gone over this
place for weeks and dragged heavy
loads on sleds."
. "It's a secret,” Paddy told her,
“but Pll give you the low-down.”
He explained Steve’s theory. “I
wouldn't mention it, but. you're a
friend of us boys, even if you do
work for one of them grave diggers.
I’m on me way now to hunt evi-
dence."
*Let
begged.
“No,” Paddy answered, “you'll be
more help lookin’ after Steve. Pee
Wee and I are afraid he'll try and
get up and do somethin’ about the
dredge before he's able. Then he'll
really be a sick man."
So Dorothy went upriver through
the gloom, while Paddy searched for
likely spots to begin his search.
When Dorothy got to the cabin,
Steve was running a temperature.
A man was doing his best to hold
him in the bunk.
“Listen, you!" Steve was shout-
ing. “Weve got to figure a way to
get the dredge out of there. Horse
it up onto the ice and keep it mov-
ing. I’ve seen the break-up on Dark
River. I’ve seen the ice tumble
me help you," Dorothy
DARK FRONTIER
through Black Canyon. That dredge
will Jast about as long as an antique
fiddle.”
Dorothy could see that he was
only half conscious. He was really
trying to solve the problem, but his
feverish brain couldn’t maintain a
constant, logical thought process.
“All right, Steve,” the girl said
soothingly, “I’m going to help you
get back on your feet. If you'll
help, it won't be long. But if you
buck us, there's no telling how long
you'll be in bed.”
“But don’t you see, -if you’d just
take me down there and let me size
up the situation,” Steve argued, “I
might work out something. Then a
crew of men could tackle the job.”
“Steve! That isn’t your biggest
preblem right now,” Dorothy said
sharply. She took his arms and
forced him back onto the pillow.
“Now relax!” 3
That was the last thing Steve
McGraw remembered for some time.
. His next impression was of Pee Wee
Pompard sitting beside the other
bunk, where Dorothy was stretched
cut.
"Poor kid," Pee Wee said.
*Yowte all in, I reckon.” Pee Wee
was only a blur, and Steve closed
his eyes and tried to straighten out
things. :
When he opened his eyes again,
Pee Wee was whittling on a piece
of wood. "Can't figger it!” he said
savagely. "Can't figger it!"
"Can't figure what?" Steve asked.
Pee Wee stopped whittling and
stared. Then he crossed the room
and looked down. “What’s that?"
he asked. “Say it again."
"Can't figure what?" Steve re-
peated.
“By golly, son, you're out of it,”
Pee Wee cried exultantly. "You're
yourself again. For a minute I fig-
105
gered you was gettin' fixed for an-
other session of ravin'.
“T’ve been out of my head, eh?"
Steve asked weakly.
“Yep. You had a whale of a
fever. Dorothy had a big hand in
pulling you through," Pee Wee said.
"She's a mighty good little nurse."
“It’s too bad I wasn't conscious
to enjoy it all," Steve grinned. “But
Tm still weak, and I'll need a nurse
quite a while longer.” Suddenly
Pee Wee's face seemed blurry again.
Steve knew he had been overdoing at
the start and settled back.
When he awakened from another
sleep, Dorothy was sitting in the
chair beside his bunk. Pee Wee and
his shavings had vanished.
"Tve put you to plenty of trou-
ble," Steve told the girl.
“Tm terribly sorry you had to go
through such an ordeal,’ Dorothy
said, “but I’m glad I could nurse
you some of the time." She walked
over and gazed out the window.
Steve did not hear her as she mur-
mured, “The debits have piled so
high and my credits are so few.”
She stood there, trying to get a grip
on herself. Steve’s appreciation was
so deep, it almost shattered her
poise. She regained her composure,
but there was no concealing the ex-
haustion in her face as she sat down
beside the bunk again.
| ae BOYER appeared
later to ask how Steve was get-
ting along. He expressed his regret
at the disaster and asked if there
was any possible way of salvaging
the dredge. Steve made vague, non-
committal replies to his questions.
When Boyer left, he motioned the
girl outside. “Have you learned
anything of his future plans?” he
asked in a low voice.
“Hardly,” she answered.
been unconscious.”
“He’s
106
“Sometimes unconscious men re-
veal things in their ravings,” Boyer
suggested.
“He hasn’t mentioned a thing,”
Dorothy said briefly.- “And if he
had, I wouldn’t tell you. I still have
some sense of ethics, you know.”
Boyer studied her intently and
shrugged his shoulders. “I guess
you'd better return to Schooner
Bay,” he said. “They believe this
affair was an accident, of course?”
“Steve hasn’t been conscious long
enough to talk of it,” Dorothy said
evasively.
Paddy came to see Steve the next
day: “It is just as you figgered,
Steve,” the Irishman declared.
“Somebody dug a hole. I found the
hunks of ice—tons of it. At first I
thought it'd be like huntin’ for a
needle in a haystack, then I says,
‘Paddy Hogan, use your head for
somethin’ besides buttin" And I
used it. Just drove the tractor in
all the snowdrifts I could find.
When I hit somethin’ solid as a rock
I investigated, and there was the
ice—ragged pieces split up."
“Got any ideas?"
“There might be a spy planted in
our gang," Paddy said. “By brush-
in’ away the snow careful I
thought I might find footprints or
somethin' to prove who done it.
What I fourfd was tractor marks."
*And we own the only tractors in
the region," Steve murmured. “Well,
Paddy, thanks. And keep your find
to yourself. You haven't mentioned
it, have you?"
“Only to Pee Wee," Paddy as-
sured him.
Dorothy came in. In a few min-
utes she sent Paddy away and told
Steve he was to go to rest. He
obeyed, growling that she was al-
ways insisting on sleep just when
things were getting interesting.
“Youre getting along all right,
STREET & SMITH'S WESTERN STORY
Steve," Dorothy told him, “so I
must leave you. Professor Boyer
insists that I return to Schooner
Bay and catch up on my work."
“T suppose you'll have to do it,”
Steve said glumly. “I wish he
would fire you. We'd give you a
job in a hurry."
“Tl tell him," Dorothy smiled.
“Maybe he'll raise my pay. T'll send
Pee Wee in to look after -you.”
Steve must have fallen asleep
again, because when he opened his
eyes again Dorothy was gone. Pee
Wee was sitting there with another
pile of shavings at his feet.
*[ see you haven't solved the
problem yet,” Steve remarked.
“Well, what is it?”
“Dorothy gave strict orders you
shouldn’t talk about minin’ and the
dredge for another week,” Pee Wee
explained. “But time’s flyin’, as
the feller says. I’ve practically
whittled up a tree tryin’ to figger a
way of gettin’ that dredge out, but
I haven’t had any luck.”
“Tomorrow,” Steve said, *you're
goin’ to bundle me up and take me
down there.”
p=: WEE argued the point the
next day, threatening Steve
with Dorothy’s wrath, but he lost.
Steve was carried out to the dredge.
There was a smugness about the
way the river held “the bulky ma-
chine in its icy grasp that challenged
him. Boiled down, the problem was
simple: Push back the river, re-
move the ice, lift the dredge onto
the ice and continue on up the
stream.
“How’re you goin’ to push back
the river?” Pee Wee grumbled when
Steve outlined the problem. “If we
had a lot of cement we could build
a bulkhead around the dredge to
keep the river out and—" He
stopped and looked a little resent-
ful. “You ain't listenin’ to what Pm
sayin’.”
“You've hit it!" Steve said excit-
edly. “A bulkhead! Put the men
to work cutting trees long enough
to reach the river bottom and a lit-
tle to spare. Trim the branches off
and bring 'em down on sleds. Carry
every tree you can each trip the
tractors make to save fuel."
Then, to his disgust, Steve real-
ized he was beginning to feel tired
already. “I guess you'd better get
me back to the cabin. I can't seem
to take it like I used to."
CHAPTER XV
THE EASY WAY OUT
DAY after Steve visited the
dredge, every man except Pee
Wee was at work in a patch of tim-
ber a mile up Paddy Creek. Kula-
lik grew restless and took to snarl-
ing for no good reason.
“A dog team's coming," Steve re-
marked. “Kulalik always acts that
way when he scents a rival dog..
It’s probably Professor Boyer."
Pee Wee rubbed the frost off the
window and looked out. A fine
team, with tails up to prove their
freshness, and with plumes of vapor
coming from their mouths, pulled up
in front of the cabin and stopped.
The driver, a swarthy, heavy-set
man, tied the dogs to convenient
trees and helped a. big man from the
sled. 3
“Holy mackerel!” | Pee Wee
roared. “Steve, it’s Clay Bullock.”
“Bullock!” Steve sat up in the
bunk. “Are you sure?”
“Pd know him in hell,” Pee Wee
growled. "How the devil did he get
here, and what's he want?"
“A plane equipped with skis could
land on Schooner Bay,” Steve said.
“And it could bring dog team and
outfit with it. Well, we mustn't for-
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108
hot tea and food and a drink of
whiskey if he wants it.”
“This is going to hurt me,” Pee
Wee muttered, “but I'll go through
with it.” When Bullock yelled and
knocked on the eabin door, Pee Wee
opened it. The big man stamped
into the room and looked around.
“Hello, Bullock,” Steve said qui-
etly. "What's going on Outside?
We haven't been getting much over
the radio. Too much magnetic iron
in the mountains, I guess."
“The price of tin is holding up,"
Bullock answered as he shed his
parka. “That’s what you want to
know, isn't it? This is one of my
men, Big Chris. Maybe you've
heard of him?"
“Yes,”
watching Big Chris and Pee Wee
sizing up each other.
“So youre Pee Wee Bompard,”
Big Chris said. “I hear you claim
to be a rough-and-tumble fighter?”
“I never make any elaine:
drawled Pee Wee. “I mind my own
business"—he paused and added
significantly—"as long as others
mind theirs.”
He knew all about Big Chris, too.
One of the most valued men in Bul-
lock’s employ, he was a past master
in the art of taking the fight out of
rival outfits. “Cripple ’em, but
don’t kill 'em," was supposed to be
his motto. Rivals buried dead men,
but they had to care for cripples,
and that was an added burden. If
robins heralded spring, then Big
Chris heralded trouble.
Bullock and Big Chris ate the
food Pee Wee gave them in silence.
Then Bullock settled back and lit a
cigar.
“Got bad news for you, Steve,”
he said casually. "Im takin’ over
the company's operations here. Got
a court order pom me re-
ceiver.”
Steve answered. He was
STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
“First you were a friend of the
court's," Steve observed, “and now
the court’s a friend of yours. Well,
you and the court can go to hell.
You're not taking things over until
you're bigger’n you are now."
“I expected a little trouble with
you,” Bullock said lazily.
“You should. You’ve had plenty
of experience in that line,” Steve
said.
“Yes, and I’m prepared. I had
Big Chris here appointed deputy
United States marshal,’ Bullock
continued. “Want to see his au-
thority?”
“Yes,” Steve answered.
HRIS nonchalantly turned back
his coat, then amazement filled
his eyes. “My badge’s gone,” he
exclaimed. “Somebody stole it.”
“Don’t look at me,’ Pee Wee
growled, “I haven’t been near you.”
“I won't insist on a badge," Steve
said. "Just show me your commis-
sion, Chris, and Tl accept you as
special deputy to do Bullock's dirty
work."
Chris took out a billfold and
opened it. Again surprise filled his
eyes. "Commission's gone, too." He
glared about him with rage-filled
eyes. "Somebody swiped it from
me." Š
Steve grinned. "You've got to
show your authority, Chris, before
you can order me around,” he said.
“Tve a receiver's authority," Bul-
lock said angrily, “and I’m taking
over. Now look here, McGraw,
you're under suspended sentence
right now in a State court. If you
get tough and resist me, you'll have
to serve out your sentence, and
you'll be subject to a Federal con-
tempt charge as well."
*What started this receivership?"
Steve asked. "You're back of it, of
course." :
DARK FRONTIER
“T had a man cached back in the
hills checking over things,” Bullock
explained glibly. “He learned you'd
sciually staked the South Fork
ground. I pointed out to Judge
Lund that you had used deception.
You'd let him think the North Fork
ground was involved. The receiver-
ship was a cinch, then." He-grinned.
“Then, coming upriver, what do I
see? You know damned well what
I see—a dredge iced in.”
“I don't think this hombre's
showing the proper attitude, boss,"
Big Chris grinned. “Maybe Pd bet-
ter work on him if he has any ideas
of resistin’ the law.”
“I don't have to take your word
on the deputy-marshal business,”
Steve pointed out. “And Bullock
knows it. You can’t come into
country like this and assume au-
thority without proof.”
“Boss, let’s go outside and talk
things over,” Chris said. “I’m ready
to move in now.”
“I think we'd better," Bullock
drawled. “With a dredge ready to
go out with the ice, the situation's
changed. I imagine the poor, de-
Juded stockholders of McGraw-Page
Metals will be tickled to death to
unload their claims on me—if I put
it up to the court in the right way."
'The two pulled on their parkas and
went outside.
*What do you say, Steve?" Pee
Wee asked in a hoarse whisper. “Is
this receiver and marshal business
on the level?"
“I think it is," Steve admitted.
"He had a man watching us, which
doesn't surprise me at all. The man
made his way to some cannery or
settlement and communicated with
Bullock by radio. Im dead sure
Chris had his badge and commis-
sion, but lost it, which is lucky for
us. .We may have to do some back-
ing down now, Pee Wee, and swal-
109
low an insult or two that won't taste
sweet, but we're going to do it,
knowing our turn will come to even
things up with fists. Keep your
temper and leave everything to me."
But Bullock and Big Chris sur-
prised them when they returned.
"You're right, McGraw," Bullock
said. "You're entitled to see Chris’
authority, and he can't produce it.
We won't make an issue of it. Have
you any objections to us sleeping
here tonight?"
*None in the world," Steve said.
“Make yourself at home."
"They may sleep," Pee Wee
growled when the two went out to
bring in their sleeping bags, “but I
won't. They're up to something."
“You're right,” Steve agreed, “but
it won't happen tonight. I’m sure
of that. I don’t want them to know
about the tree-cutting gang. You
light out and warn the boys against
showing up around the cabin.”
ULLOCK was a genial, enter-
taining guest. He related what
had happened Outside during the
winter and told a few yarns. In
spite of his dislike for Bullock, Steve
had an enjoyable evening. But Big
Chris and Pee Wee scowled at each
other all night.
In the morning, when he and Big
Chris were ready to leave, Bullock
said, “McGraw, you’re-licked and
you know it! You've got a jail sen-
tence hanging over you besides.
Now string along with me and Ill
not only put you on my pay roll
and give you a chunk of money to
boot, but I'll go to Judge Lund, ex-
plain you did everything possible to
deliver the goods, and get him to
suspend your sentence for good. It's
an easy way out."
“No dice," Steve said promptly,
“TI play my hand through and next
119
fall I'll either be in the money or in
jail.”
Pee Wee trailed Bullock and Big
Chris all the way to Schooner Bay.
A light snowstorm concealed him
nicely, and when he arrived he
slipped into the bunkhouse without
being seen. Only a few McGraw-
Page men occupied the structure
now. Most of the others, including
the resentful Ed Page, were upriver.
Doctor Zednick had moved in,
along with several of Professor Boy-
er's men. Just to be on the safe
side, Pee Wee occupied a storage
room on the second floor. He heard
Bullock come in during the evening
and say, “I’m flying back to Seat-
tle and will be glad to take any let-
ters you want to write. I'l leave
my dogs and ample food to the man
who will take care of them and work
them.”
“That’s very generous of you, Mr.
Bullock," Boyer said. “I already
- have a team, but I can use another.
I have some supplies I want “to
freight up river. I expect to make
some important discoveries this
coming year.”
Pee Wee heard Dr. Zednick give
the snort of disgust which he used
to express his opinion of Boyer.
Then quiet settled as the man set-
tled down to write their letters. Pee
Wee turned in, awakened at four
o'clock and, peering through a crack
in the floor, noticed some were still
writing.
The McGraw-Page storekeeper,
who also acted as postmaster, sold
stamps, received the letters and
placed them in a pouch. Pee Wee
sneaked into the kitchen a few min-
utes later, ate a hurried meal, then
faded into the lightly falling snow.
He made his way over the Schooner
Bay ice to a drift near Bullock’s
plane, then he burrowed in and
STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
waited. It was a long, cold wait,
for the air didn’t clear until after
daybreak. `
“I had the pious idear of fixin’
their plane so it’d quit and set ’em
down two hundred miles frem no-
where,” Pee Wee told himself,
chuckling. “But my second idear
was a better one." He chuckled
again. “It'll give Steve a laugh,
too, and fill him with hope. And he .
ain't had much to laugh at lately."
Pee Wee would have liked to visit
with Dorothy Sheldon, but he de-
cided it would be just as well if he
left as quietly as he had arrived.
When he reached the dredge on the
upstream trip, the first sled load of
trees had arrived. He rode the trac-
tor the remainder of the way and
found Steve sitting up in a chair
when he reached the cabin.
“Full of business, eh?" Pee Wee
said.
“Yeah. Had two of the boys
build a cabin on a sled,” he said.
“Tm moving in, and the tractor will
haul it downstream. They put in
windows next to the lower bunk so
I can. rest and watch operations at
the dredge. You get the upper bunk
and the cooking job." ;
“Now, listen here," Pee Wee pro-.
tested. “You aren’t well enough to
do that.”
“If Pm in a bunk and warm,
that’s all that’s necessary,” Steve
told him. “I can just as well be
watching the men work as to be
here looking at the ceiling. What'd
you find out down below?”
“I tried to find out whether Bul-
lock was on friendly terms with any
of the grave-diggers," Pee Wee an-
swered. “He didn't seem to be,
though. But somebody is playin’
his game, and we've got to find who
it is, or they'll knife your plans in
the back again."
DARK FRONTIER ni
HE shack on the sled was tried
out the next day. Steve was
moved without the slightest discom-
fort, and Pee Wee cooked his first
meal on a Yukon stove en route.
Half of the force was on hand to
greet the two of them, the other
half remained in the woods. Under
Steve’s instructions, Pee Wee
marked out an area that included
‘the dredge.
“All you've got to do," he said,
“is to cut holes in the ice and shove
trees down to the bottom. Each
tree is to be pointed on the end.
You take sledge hammers and drive
it into the bottom a few inches.
Cut the holes as you need ’em. Oth-
erwise they'll freeze up.”
It was slow work, because the
trees were placed tightly together.
In a few days the supply was ex-
Coming —
IN THE JULY ISSUES OF
@ BADGE OF DEATH......... WALKER TOMPKINS......... July 6th
WILD Wi
hausted, and: Steve sent all hands
back to the woods again. Paddy
Hogan was straw boss, and he saw
to it that Ed Page did more than
his share of work. If there were
trees to pack, Ed had to carry one
end, a husky man the other. Rather
than drop his end and be subjected
to a rawhiding, Ed stayed with it,
all the while nursing his hate of
Steve, Paddy and the others. He
had long since ceased trying to get
by on personality. :
Steve spent less time each day in
his bunk, and more on the ice. The
second week he put in a full shift,
but he continued to live in the
shack. The others lived in the for-
est camp a mile above Paddy Creek
Canyon.
The great day came when the
dredge was completely inclosed with
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112
trees. Steve had the men bring
down piping and pumps from Page
City and set them up. Every tarp,
hide and blanket that could be
spared was brought up, also. Ice
was cut on the outer side of the
fence and the tarps lowered into the
water, "There was no trouble in fas-
tening the upper edge. It froze to
the trees almost as soon as it
touched.
“O. K.” Steve said, “now. pump
out the water around the dredge and
we'll see what happens.”
While ice imprisoned the dredge,
nevertheless the lower part was in
the water area below the ice. It was
necessary to turn the pumps over at
top speed and keep them insulated
besides, otherwise they would have
frozen up tight. Water gushed from
the outlet, moved a few inches and
froze. This problem was solved by
the crew breaking up the slabs and
skidding them downstream.
Steve watched the ice around the
dredge carefully. Presently it be-
gan to break up, drop an inch or so.
Then the space between glazed over,
only to break as the slabs sank
lower.
` “This is a crazy, expensive idea,”
Ed Page sneered.
“That’s because you haven’t any
brains,” retorted Pee Wee. “The
fence of trees helps keep the water
from reaching the area around the
dredge. The pressure of the water
against the tarps stops the water
from seeping in between.”
“Well, not quite that,” Steve said,
“but almost.”
“That’s it," Ed insisted. “It
comes in faster than the pumps can
take it out."
"Not quite," Steve
*We're gaining slightly."
“And using up costly fuel!" Ed ar-
gued.
Steve stayed up all night and all
insisted.
STREET & SMITH'S WESTERN STORY
of the next day. That night the
pumps sucked the inclosure dry.
Water seeping slowly through tarps
and trees had gradually frozen, seal-
ing everything tight. What re-
mained turned to ice. Steve put a
gang to work removing the remain-
ing ice, then went to bed. He was
satisfied with the progress they had
made, but he knew the toughest job
was ahead. r
CHAPTER XVI
NO ADMITTANCE
TEVE, stil “underweight and
lacking his usual strength, ar-
rived by tractor at Schooner Bay.
A few minutes after he sat down in
the bunkhouse mess room, Dorothy
Sheldon and Professor Boyer ar-
rived.
*What's going on upriver?" Boyer
asked curiously. “Not that it's any
of my business," he added.
"We're doing the best we can,"
Steve answered. :
“T-heard you'd put up a barricade
below the dredge and erected a ‘No
Admittance’ sign.” as
“That’s right," Steve admitted.
"It's our way of handling a little
problem. In case Clay Bullock has
men planted in the region, we don’t
want them to know what is going
on. Barring everyone is easier than
trying to find out who's who. We
came down to pick up a little equip-
ment we need. Later we'll be glad
to have visitors. I’m sure you can
realize we have to take this stand:
Plenty depends on our success. One
more mishap and we won't be able
to operate next season.”
“More power to you,” Boyer said
with an enthusiasm he did not feel.
“Let me know when the bars are
down. Dorothy and I have just
about finished our work. The
break-up is a long way off, and time
DARK FRONTIER
will hang heavy on our hands. You
wouldn’t permit me to examine the
ice man, would you?”
Doctor Zednick had entered just
in time to hear the request. “Mr.
McGraw realizes by this time you're
no anthropologist,’ he told Boyer
hotly. *He'll not permit you to ruin
the greatest find—”
“Tm getting tired of your insults,
- Zednick," Boyer flared.
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” Steve
admonished. “When the time comes
TIl give the ice man to the scientist
who proves to me he's the most ad-
vanced in his work."
“Thank you, McGraw,” Zednick
said. “The ice man, as you persist
in calling him, is as good as mine
right now."
Boyer and Dorothy left a few
minutes later, without the girl hav-
ing an opportunity to talk to Steve.
As they walked along, Boyer said,
“Dorothy, the time has come for
you to make up for the blunder you
caused when you reported that
Steve had staked the North Fork
ground. I think he's more than half
im love with you.”
“I nursed him,” Dorothy said qui-
etly, “and he may feel a little ro-
mantic. But he'll get back to nor-
mal as soon as he’s himself.”
“I think you're wrong there. Its
more than appreciation. With a lit-
tle playing up on your part, you
could have him eating out of your
hand. Barrier or no barrier, you're
going up there on a visit. You're
going to bring that pup to heel and
find out just what he expects to do."
“I see," she said thoughtfully,
‘Tm to make him feel I’m in love
with him, win his confidence—”
“Become engaged to him, if neces-
sary,” Boyer insisted. “Bullock will
remember you when it’s all over.”
“Its a part I’ve never played,”
Dorothy said slowly.
p:
ns
*T think you'll do all right,” said.
Boyer. “Steve McGraw has been
too busy trying to lick the frontier
to pick up an education on the tricks
of the fair sex. You'll find your part
easy enough. In a day or two you'll
go upstream, slip past the barrier—"
“What'll I give as an excuse?"
“Tell them anything," Boyer said.
"Tell them I’m in a romantic
mood." He looked at hér intently,
and Dorothy flushed. “Which
wouldn’t be far from the truth, you
know.”
HEN the tractors left Schooner
Bay they were hauling the big
timbers used as ways when the
dredge was built. Loaded on a sled
were the powerful jacks used in
shifting the dredge.
Men had already cleared away
the ice that had gripped the bottom
of the dredge. Considerable work
had been done inside where water
had entered and frozen. The
dredge was heavy enough without
its load of ice.
The heavy timbers were placed
under the dredge, a task that re-
quired many days’ work. They had
only started the job when the man
on guard at the barrier sent for
Steve. “Miss Sheldon wants to
come upstream," he said. “You said
nobody was to be passed, and I
figgered that included girls, too.”
“Right,” Steve answered. “TIl go
down and talk to her.” He found
her sitting demurely in the watch-
man’s shack. “Anything wrong?”
he asked. ]
“Yes,” Dorothy answered. “Pro-
fessor Boyer has been getting a lit-
tle romantic. He's my boss, and I
. didn't want a scene, either, so I told
him I was getting away from it all
for a few days.” She looked at
Steve appealingly. “Of course, if
your rule includes me, I'll go back.
114
I can make Boyer head in, I sup-
pose.”
“You'll do nothing of the kind,”
Steve said. “Come along with me.
We're doing some interesting things.
When you get tired of watching you
can go on to the Paddy Creek cabin
and make yourself at home. Did
you bring anything with you?"
"My sleeping bag and a few
clothes on a hand sled," she an-
swered.
"You can have the cabin. Pee
Wee and PII stay in the sled shack,”
he said.
Steve was glad to have the girl
with him again. She was fresh and
stimulating. It seemed to him she
was not only interested in his work,
but pulling for him to overcome the
obstacles that kept presenting then
selves.
"Here's the idea," he said when
they reached the dredge. “We jack
up the dredge a few inches, admit
water and let it freeze solid. Then,
using the ice as a base, we jack it
up some more. In time we'll have
the dredge level with the river sur-
face and we'll continue the journey."
A week later the watchman again
sent word to Steve. The latter went
down and found Boyer at the barri-
cade. “Hello, professor,” he said
cheerfully.
“I came for my secretary," Boyer
said. “We had a little quarrel, and
I think I ought to apologize. I guess
I had a touch of cabin fever.”
“T know,” Steve said. “But Doro-
thy can’t go back awhile. You see,
she knows what’s going on, and
while I’m sure she wouldn’t mention
the matter to you, we can’t take any
chances.”
Boyer’s pretended indignation
was well done. He raved, stormed
and said that Steve’s action bor-
dered on kidnaping, but Steve didn’t
weaken. During a lull in the Boy-
STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
er’s protest, the canyon echoed with
the roar of motors.
“What’s that?” Boyer asked, for-
getting his anger in his curiosity.
“That, professor,’ Steve an-
swered, “is the dredge moving up-
stream again.”
“You mean to say that you got
it out of the ice? It’s actually mov-
ing ahead? You got it out of that
hole? You—" Boyer was so dum-
founded he couldn’t talk.
“That’s about the size of it,”
Steve admitted. “Congratulate me,
Boyer. Bullock hasn’t quite got the
upper hand. I’m knocking on wood,
understand, but we’re out of one
bad hole.”
“I congratulate you,” Boyer said,
regaining his poise. “But I still re-
sent your holding my secretary pris-
oner."
‘Tl take the responsibility,”
Steve answered. “And don't bother
to come up again. We'll send her
back when I think it's safe."
Boyer had difficulty restraining
himself. Then he remembered that
an outburst wouldn't be in keeping
with his position. He turned and
walked slowly down the canyon.
TEVE hitched up the dogs that
night and asked Dorothy if she
wanted a ride. He wanted to exer-
cise the dogs, he told her.
He drove to the forks without
stopping. Some of the time he rode
the runners. At others he ran be-
side the sled. He helped the girl
from the sled while the dogs were
resting.
“I didn't bring you up here just
for the ride," he told her quietly.
“T wanted to talk, wanted to forget
I'm a cog in a machine called Mc-
Graw-Page Metals and you're a cog
in Boyers machine. I wanted to
think of the two of us as a couple
of human beings. But first I want
DARK FRONTIER
to tell you Boyer wanted me to send
you down river today. I told him
that you knew too much, that you
had to stay.”
“And he didn’t like it?” Dorothy
asked.
“Not much,” answered Steve.
“Do you know, I have the feeling
you wouldn’t mind staying up here
awhile. That it'd be a change."
"Tm glad you didn’t send me
down, Steve,” she said.
“Pm beating around the bush,"
he said hesitantly, “in trying to tell
you how I feel about things.”
Dorothy smiled faintly. “I know if
you gave me your word you
wouldn’t mention how things are go-
ing with us, you'd keep it."
"Now youre getting into some-
thing else," she said. “I’ve made
certain agreements with Professor
Boyer and his people. I intend to
carry out those agreements to the
letter."
“Are you trying to tell me, Doro-
thy," Steve said only half seriously,
“that if Boyer's anthropology plans
and mine clashed, you'd fight me?"
“To the last ditch, Steve," Doro-
thy said quietly.
"Good. You're my kind of per-
son," he said. “Always go through
with any deal you've made. "That's
what I’m trying to do for the stock-
holders and Jerry Page. Pay them
dividends and make Jerry's dream
come true by producing the tin we
need. I don't think tin production
and grave digging will clash. But
if it does, we'll be good enemies."
“Yes,” she answered. She looked
at him and realized his thoughts
were far from tin and anthropology.
Something fine and enduring in his
face touched her deeply, and she
was prepared for his next words.
* We've been through a lot, Doro-
thy," Steve said, *and we know our
way of life. I know what you can
WS—8B
115
do in my life, and you know what
I can do in yours. Some of the time
Ill be in the city, but most of the
time Ill be on the frontier. I want
you to go along with me. There
may be better ways for a man to tell
a girl he loves her than just saying
‘I love you, but I don't know
them.”
“There are no better ways,” she
answered.
That was all, except her face
framed by the fur of her parka hood
was very beautiful. Steve told him-
self it wasn't just the physical
beauty of a lovely girl, but the
spiritual beauty of a girl whom he
loved and who loved him. He kissed
her and held her in his arms.
*No matter what happens," he
said tenderly, “no matter how wide
our trails separate, we'll make them
come together again, won't we?"
“Yes, Steve,” she answered. Then
her face clouded as she remembered
that Boyer had once ordered her to
make Steve love her. “Well,” she
thought wearily, “he ought to be
satisfied.”
HE barrier guard glanced down
Black Canyon and yawned. Va-
por billowed from his mouth with
each breath. He was bored. No
one had come up the canyon in
days. But this morning, Kulalik,
who was there to keep him company
as well as warn him of the approach
of strangers, suddenly grew inter-
ested. He pricked his ears and
sniffed. The guard got out his
sawed-off shotgun. It was a very
effective weapon, but Steve had told
him never to use it.
Several minutes passed, then a
lone figure came out of the gloom of
the bend. The guard put down the
shotgun, but he looked surprised.
The new arrival was the storekeeper
from Schooner Bay.
116
“Tm softer'n a kettle of mush,”
the man panted. “Listen, hightail
it upriver and tell Steve there’s hell
to pay. Bullock and a bunch of
thugs hit Schooner Bay last night.”
“How could they?” the guard
asked. “Did they come by plane?”
“No. Hired a arctic tradin
schooner. One with plenty of iron
on its bow. It bucked the ice into
the bay and landed sleds, boats,
tractors and a mountain of grub on
the ice. They’re gettin’ the stuff
onto the land. I figger they'll be
comin' up the canyon in a day or
two.”
“You go back to Schooner Bay,”
the guard advised. “Take your
time, and if you can keep ’em from
knowin’ you come up here, so much
the better. Bullock may have an
idea he'll catch us by surprise."
The guard: hurried to the Paddy
Creek cabin and sent a man on to
Page City, where Steve was keeping
a watchful eye on the dredge, which
was now nearing its destination.
The guard returned to his post,
ready for business if necessary. And
it was well he did, for soon he could
hear the roar of a tractor coming
over the ice.
The barrier was formed of ice
blocks and logs five or six inches
through and thirty feet long. The
guard got behind a mass of ice and
waited until the tractor stopped.
Two men got out to move the logs.
“Nothin? doin’, brother,” the
guard warned. “This is private
property. Didn’t they tell you
down at Schooner
could pass here?”
Clay Bullock, swinging his big
shoulders aggressively, got out of
the tractor cab. “You can’t get
away with this," he blustered.
“Come here, Chris, and arrest this
man.” Big Chris unloaded his bulk
from a sled load of grub.
Bay nobody
STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
“You step over that barrier or
touch it," the guard said, “and Ill
let you have both barrels. "That
ought to pretty well take care of
things."
“He means it,” Big Chris said.
He looked at Bullock.
"Where's McGraw?” Bullock de-
manded.
‘Tve sent for him," the guard
said. He was hoping the store-
keeper had managed to slip past
without being noticed.
An hour passed, then Ed Page ap-
peared. He had heard a rumor of
approaching tractors and had come
down to investigate.
“Hello, Page," Bullock said easily.
“Talk some sense into this man, will
you? We've got claims on the North
Fork, and if we don't get our grub in
over the ice we're licked."
“That’s right," Ed agreed. “What
about the receivership business?”
“Tl talk that over with McGraw
when he shows up. Now, confiden-
tially,” Bullock continued, "you'll
admit—" His voice grew low and
confident. Ed. stepped closer.
“I wouldn't do it, Page,” the
guard warned, “you're flirtin’ with
a rattlesnake.”
“Don’t be foolish,’ Ed snapped.
“Mr. Bullock and I have something
to discuss.”
“Something I don’t want the
world to hear,” Bullock growled.
His hand shot out and grasped Ed’s
wrist. He jerked him over the bar-
ricade, and Big Chris, leaping to
lend a hand, caught the other wrist
and twisted Ed’s arm up behind his
back.
Sweat poured down Ed’s face,
and he turned white from pain.
“Don’t worry,” Chris said grimly,
“I won't break your arm; I'll just
pull it out of the shoulder socket.”
He grinned at Bullock. “Been itch-
in’ to get my hands on one of them
McGraw-Page fellers for a long
time. Sorry it ain’t McGraw, but
this one will do.”
Bullock looked at the guard.
-*How about it? Do we go upriver
or does Chris work over your chump
boss?”
*He's no boss of mine,” the guard
answered. “Twist and be damned
and I won't lift a hand. He's the
cause of all this trouble. If he
hadn't got drunk and blabbed, you'd
‘still think you owned the pay
ground and you wouldn't be here."
Chris twisted, and Ed alternately
begged Bullock and the guard for
mercy. “It’s no use," Bullock said
at length. “You can tear him apart
and get nowhere.” He stepped
nearer the guard. “I can use a man
like you. Ill pay you twice what
you're getting and give you five
hundred dollars bonus to quit right
now.”
“TIl take no bonus, half the pay
and stick with Steve," the guard an-
swered crisply. Bullock. shrugged
and made no more offers. The group
settled down to wait. The men on
Be thnitled by
a good
/
| VICTIM FOR VENGEANCE
THE DEATH
Race Williams, one of the best-
known detectives in fiction, is kid-
naped. His plight is unusual and
thrilling in this colorful, complete
novel by Carroll John Daly.
HORDE
A death weapon far worse than
any machine gun baffles the city
—you'll be kept awake by this
novelette!
MYSTERY OF THE ONE-EYED MAN
the load got off and walked around, |
beating their arms against their
sides and stamping their feet to keep
circulation moving.
T was three hours before Steve ar-
rived. He came on a dog sled,
with Pee Wee riding the runners
and the team on the dead run. The
dogs had been fresh and in racing
form when they started, but. they
were ready to drop in their tracks
at the finish.
In the distance, Steve could hear
his own tractors coming downstream
with his men and another coming
upstream. He wasn't expecting a
showdown this early in the game,
but he was ready for it.
"Where's your badge and com-
mission, Chris?" he demanded.
“Tve got them this time," Chris
snarled. “Now call off your guard
Who was he and what was his
purpose? Another novelette that's
full of mystery.
These three are but samples of the
better detective stories that can be
found in the current issue of Clues-
Detective Stories.
I EVERY WHERE
118
and let us through. We're peaceful
men.”
“The only time you're peaceful,”
Steve answered, “is when somebody
beats hell out of you.”
“Let’s start in and make him
peaceful,” Pee Wee suggested.
“Not yet. Wait’ll the others get
here,” Steve said. “No need of
playing Bullock’s game.” He could
see the others move up. He saw
Chris give Ed Page’s arm a. twist,
and he noticed Ed’s lips trembling
like a frightened kid’s.
Steve’s tractor, pulling a sled
black with men, came around a
bend, the sled skidding dangerously.
They unloaded and grouped behind
Steve. Paddy was in this group.
He forged his way to the front, then
started to go over the barrier. Steve
pulled him back.
*Just a minute," he said, ^I want
to be sure we aren't fighting a
deputy marshal and’ posse. Now
let's see your credentials, Chris."
Chris’ answer was cut short by
the arrival of the downstream trac-
tor. Steve expected Bullock re-
inforcements, but to his surprise,
Professor Boyer and Dr. Zednick
jumped off the tractor.
“Well,” Steve exclaimed, “when
did you fellows start billing and coo-
ing?”
Dr. Zednick snorted. “Necessity
makes strange bedfellows.”
“We were afraid we'd get a short
shift if you miners started fighting,"
Boyer explained. “So we got to-
gether.
"We ask permission to take the
remainder of our outfit through,"
Zednick said. “My people, hearing
that a trading schooner with power
for ice breaking was coming to the
bay, sent me additional supplies.
Mr. Bullock very kindly offered to
bring them."
`- “And he brought men and sup-
STREET & SMITH'S WESTERN STORY
piles for me, too," Boyer said. “His
contribution to science—"
“Forget it," Bullock said. “I had
the space and was glad to accom-
modate you. It’s too bad McGraw
isn’t accommodating.”
“All right, go ahead," Steve
agreed. Pee Wee and Paddy re-
moved the logs. They kept their
eyes on the enemy, ready to meet
any attack. Too ready, in fact.
Steve had to calm them twice.
The tractor, dragging sleds loaded
with supplies, snorted by. At that
precise moment, Big Chris, evi-
dently believing Bullock would rush
the opening, momentarily relaxed
his grasp on Ed as he set himself.
Ed jerked free and fairly soared over
the barrier. Big Chris leaped the
barrier, and Pee Wee's fist caught
him flush on the jaw. It staggered
him, but he didn't go down.
“Wait a minute!" Bullock roared.
"Chris! Come here! Obey orders,
blast it!"
*Pee Wee! You hair-trigger mug,
stop it!" Steve's half-joking repri-
mand checked Pee Wee. .
"Tm not ready for the showdown,
McGraw,” Bullock said. We'll test
this later. I want plenty of John
Law to back my hand."
"You're yellow," jeered a Mce-
Graw man.
“That'll do," Steve warned.
“Tarn the tractor around," Bul-
lock ordered. In sullen silence, his
men returned, climbed on the loaded
sleds, and began lighting pipes and
cigarettes. The tractor snorted,
turned and moved slowly down river.
"Yellow," the MeGraw man re-
peated.
"No," Steve answered, “you're
dead wrong. Bullock doesn't hire
yellow men. Remember, he's smart,
and he knows it's important to win
only one battle—the last. He's up
to something. Were going to shift
-DARK FRONTIER
the barrier closer to Paddy Creek
cabin. Theres a narrower spot
that's easier to defend, and help can
get to the guards quicker. I want
to thank you boys for keeping cool
and obeying orders."
Steve put on extra guards at the
new barrier and sent the others
away to rest up. Late that night
the tractor and empty sleds came
back from Page City. Boyer and
the driver were alone.
"Did you murder Dr. Zednick?"
Steve inquired.
"Im saving that until later,"
Boyer answered, laughing. "Zed-
nick and his men are watchin' the
supplies. We're going back after
another load."
"Another?" Steve asked.
“Yes,” Boyer answered.
last!"
“The
CHAPTER XVII
AN EARLY BREAK-UP
c Pee Wee and Paddy
hooked empty sleds onto their
fastest tractor and followed Boyer
down to Schooner Bay. The three
carried a sawed-off shotgun, rifle,
and six-guns.
"Here's a swell chance for Big
Chris to flash his badge,” Steve said,
“if he's got one."
The Brock-Bullock crowd was
shifting a ton of supplies from the
beach to the river bank. Bullock
was surprised at Steve’s unexpected
appearance, but he made no move.
Steve’s men loaded their few re-
maining supplies onto the sleds, left
enough to last the storekeeper until
the first steamer arrived, then
started back.
“We'll follow you,’ Boyer said.
The return was made without in-
cident. They unloaded one sled at
Paddy Creek cabin, then Steve took
over the tractor and drove away
while the others ate. When they
119
had finished he was back again, and
there was a very small, square load
on the sled. “Paddy and Pee Wee,
I can use you,” he said. :
"You'd better take some more of
us," a man urged. ^I hear Bullock's
tractors comin’ again."
“Listen, you fighting fool,’ Steve
said, “save it for later on.”
Pee Wee and Paddy climbed
aboard, and Steve drove the tractor
at top speed to the barricade. They
could hear the Bullock tractors com-
ing. “They’re wide open,” Pee Wee
said, “and draggin’ the limit load.
I can tell by their exhausts.”
“One’s ahead, two are quite a
way behind,” Steve said. “Boyer
hasn’t passed yet.”
Boyer came around the turn a
few minutes later. He stopped on
Steve’s signal.
“What’ve you got on the sleds?”
Steve demanded.
“Cases of canned goods," Boyer
answered. “Tools for my men, and
a few odds and ends.”
Steve brought the butt of the
shotgun down on a bulge in.a tarp
and a man howled. “You didn’t
mention having a phonograph with
a record on,” Steve said softly.
“If there's a man hiding in that
load, it’s a surprise to me," Boyer
shouted. He ran back, but Steve
made him return to the tractor.
“Come out of there," Steve or-
dered. “Hands up.” He stepped
back and a Bullock man crawled
out. “Now unlash that load.” The
man obeyed, revealing ten men
crouched on the last sled. A frame-
work supporting the tarp gave it the
appearance of a well-lashed load of
canned goods.
Boyer, with a show of indignation,
lighted into them. “You threw off
food I'll need and hid on my sled,”
he shouted. “What’s the meaning
of this?"
120
“Very simple, professor,’ Steve
answered. “The boys had an idea
they’d jump us from behind while
Bullock and the others kept us
busy in front. Go on, and don’t
stop.” He grinned at the men as
Boyer disappeared. “A fine lot of
suckers you turned out to be. You
don’t suppose we weren’t expecting
some such trick. Turn around and
get going.”
ACED with a sawed-off shotgun,
the men obeyed. The moment
they were out of sight, Steve and
his companions began digging holes
in the ice. He removed cases of
powder from his load, inserted fuses
in several sticks, loaded the holes
and covered the powder with ice and
snow, then tramped it down.
The three lighted the fuses,
hopped onto the tractor and rode to
the nearest bend, a hundred yards
away. It was midday and fairly
light in this part of the canyon.
Gray smoke rolled from the fuses.
It was still rolling when Bullock's
tractor came around a bend. He
saw the smoke and knew instantly
what was happening. A few seconds
Jater the blasts went off, almost as
one.. Ice filled the air, water gey-
sered up, then fragments tumbled
back and smoke slowly drifted up
the canyon.
Bullock and his men left their
tractors and came over the ice. A
yawning hole, a hundred feet wide
and extending from wall to wall,
separated the factions. Steve
Jooked at the hole, choked with shat-
tered ice, then at the men, then be-
yond. He noticed for the first time
that sheet steel had been attached
to the tractor cabs. Bullock had in-
tended coming through regardless
of shotguns.
Steve lighted a cigarette, watch-
ing the baffled expressions on the
STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
faces of the Bullock men. It was
slowly dawning on them just what
this meant. It was still cold enough
for the surface to glaze over, but the
ice would never be thick enough to
support a tractor.
* You're building up one hell of a
debt, McGraw,” Bullock said at last.
' “What with selling stock unlawfully,
resisting officers, and dynamiting
river ice, you're going to be in the
pen a long time."
“Tt had to be done, Bullock,”
Steve said. “You should look upon
this as a beautiful compliment. It
indicates I have such a wholesale
respect for your dirty fighting that
Im trying to head it off. You're
right. I’ve troubles enough deliver-
ing tin as per contract without tak-
ing you on, too.”
Bullock made no answer. He
stared long and hard at the ice, as
if speculating on means of getting
across, then he started to look at the
canyon rim, but changed his mind.
“Tt’s winning the last battle that
counts, boys,” he said finally. “Let’s
go back.”
Steve listened until the roar of the
tractors had diminished, then he
went back to Paddy Creek Canyon.
The men there swarmed around.
“What happened?” they asked. “We
heard a blast.”
“What you heard,” Steve an-
swered, “was an early break-up.”
TEVE left two men to guard the
break in case it froze thick
enough to bear a man’s weight. He
didn’t want the Bullock crowd sift-
ing across and scattering in the back
country. All the others moved to
Page City in the next two days.
The dredge passed the small settle-
ment and moved on to the south
side of the South Fork.
Steve opened a case of whiskey
and told the boys to use their own
DARK FRONTIER 121
judgment by way of ‘celebration.
Within an hour their judgment was
sound or unsound, depending on the
viewpoint. Not a quartet, but a
male chorus, sang “Sweet Adeline”
and “Little Liza Jane" as they had
never been sung before.
Voices carried - far on the cold, still
air and presently Dorothy stood in
the doorway of her shack, listening.
Boyer came out of his cabin.
“A lot of fine-feathered cocks are
crowing too soon," he observed.
“And we know it, don't we?"
“That’s the way it usually works
out,” the girl answered. “But what
can Bullock do now? He's stopped
dead in the canyon, and in a few
weeks it will be white water."
“I don’t know what he'll do,”
Boyer answered, “but I know he's
one man who's never stopped dead.
Damn it all, if Steve McGraw
hadn't looked into. that sled load
we'd be sitting pretty right now."
*But Steve did," the girl said,
“and he'd have been much dumber
than I think he is if he’d let you get
away with anything like that.”
The male chorus stopped while
the members argued over the next
number. Pee Wee’s voice booming
like a rapids, came clear and sharp,
“Hey, Ed, none of this sissy drink-
in’, Drink ’er straight, like a man.
Or if you must have water, drink
the water first. Bottoms up, boys!”
A period of silence ensued, followed
by what appeared to be violent
coughing. Then there was a burst
of laughter, and Pee Wee bellowed,
“Fine work, Ed. We'll make a man
out of you yet."
Hours later, the voices had been
reduced to three. Dorothy, growing
curious, made her way down to the
South Fork, then walked along the
ice for some distance. On the high-
est part of the dredge she saw three
figures silhouetted against the sky,
*"The sur-
“Steve,
singing to the moon.
vivors," she said softly.
Paddy and Pee Wee."
Even they faded before dawn, and
the silence on the South Fork was
impressive for the next twelve hours.
Steve was the first up, followed by
Ed, who muttered and held pieces
of ice to his head.
“Tm dying of thirst, Steve,” he
complained. “I thought men only
died of thirst on the desert.”
"Heres an eye-opener,” Steve
said, pouring him a small drink.
“Toss it off. Well, boys, the party
is over. We start hitting the ball
again." '
Everyone in the region watched
the days lengthen, the sun grow
warmer and winter gradually fade.
The creeks began gathering melting
snow and spilling the water into the
forks. It spread, crusted over at
night and made dangerous over-
flows. Dr. Zednick formed the habit
of following Steve about and Pee
Wee nicknamed the serious, explo-
sive man Shadow. In time, Boyer
followed Zednick, explaining that if
Steve uncovered any anthropologi-
cal evidence of the frontier that was
once dark, he wanted to be in on it.
Steve explained that he was
checking over the ground once more
in order to be ready to work that
which thawed first. The break-up
was near when a snowslide slipped
from a bank, dragging hundreds of
ton*of dirt with it and exposing an
unusual stratum.
Dr. Zednick stood stock-still,
gasped and stared. He said some-
thing Pee Wee didn’t catch and
stepped closer, then he turned and
glanced sharply at Boyer. Pee Wee
caught Steve’s arm and whispered,
“Wait, your shadow’s just spotted
somethin’ in them layers of dirt.
He’s tremblin’ like a bird dog on a
point. He called it some kind of a
122 STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
word that sounded as if it meant
things a million years old.”
Ly ZEDNICK wiped his fore-
head, put on a pair of glasses
and continued to look at the
stratum in a fascinated manner.
“He’s goin’ to start purrin’ in a
minute,” Paddy whispered.
“Danged if I can see anything but
dirt, stones and somethin’ that looks
like a tin nugget.”
Suddenly Dr. Zednick’s: attitude
changed. He whirled, scowled at
Boyer, then his eyes narrowed.
“Bah!” he snorted. “Bah!”
“Black sheep, have you any
wool?" Paddy chuckled. “This. is
goin’ to be good. A fight between
two sissy anthro . . . anthrop . . .
grave-diggers.”
“Fraud! Impostor? * Zednick
raged. “So you're an anthropolo-
gist, Boyer?”
“Who're you talking to?” Boyer
demanded.
“You!” Zednick shouted. “One
of the greatest discoveries in its field
in years, and you don’t even see it.
And all the time you’ve been trying
to cut in ahead of me. Amateur!
You might have ruined an impor-
tant discovery with your blunder-
ing!” The very thought seemed to
make him white with rage.
“Why, damn you!” Boyer
shouted. “Calling me a fraud!”
He looked at the stratum, but could
see nothing, and he knew he “was
trapped. But he decided to bluff it
through. He made his way through
the mass of snow and muck to the
stratum, saw a piece of fossilized
bone protruding, and started to
heave away on it.
Zednick took off his glasses and
carefully tucked them into his
pocket. He walked over to Boyer.
“Drop that!” he said thickly. “Drop
iu
Boyer whirled and let fly with his
fist. Zednick ducked the blow, but
the second one caught him squarely
on the nose. Then they were at it.
Sometimes they were in the mud,
rolling over, sometimes standing up.
Zednick was the smaller, lighter and
older of the two, but his fury offset
Boyer’s physical advantage. He
never let Boyer get set, and pres-
ently Boyer began retreating. He
looked around wildly for a club.
It was then that Pee Wee stepped
in. “Fight fair, you,” he ordered.
“Tm refereein' this brawl.”
“Nobody asked you to,”
snarled.
"Pm asking you now,” Zednick
shouted. He knocked Boyer down
and the latter got up again. Zed-
nick had found a combination that
worked. “Remember your prom-
ise," he yelled at Steve. “You said
if I showed this man to be a fraud
I'd be given the ice man.” He made
the amistake of looking at Steve, and
Boyer nailed him.
Zednick went down, and Bover
started to kick him in the stomach.
Pee Wee shoved him back. Zed-
nick got up and went after Boyer.
Both were tiring, and their punches
lacked steam. But Boyer was dis-
couraged and Zednick wasn’t. Then
Boyer went down and didn’t get up!
“Anthropologist! Fighter! Bah!"
Zednick panted. . His.knees buckled,
but he managed to remain upright
until he found a rock to sit on.
“The winner and still champion,”
Steve shouted, “and the owner of
the ice man—Raw Meat Zednick.”
Then Steve turned to Boyer, who
was getting up slowly. “You're a
fake, Boyer,” he said sternly. “I’m
sure of that now, thanks to Dr. Zed-
nick. Paddy, take this cuss into the
brush where he can’t be seen. If
he opens his mouth, knock him cold.
Dr. Zednick, you get out of sight.
Boyer
DARK FRONTIER
Pee Wee, leg it up to Boyer’s head-
quarters, mobilize his grave diggers
and tell "em their boss has made a
great discovery. We'll find out
whether they're anthropologists or
not."
Everyone complied with enthusi-
asm. Boyer’s men, eyes alert for
danger, muscles tense, followed Pee
Wee to the slide.
“All right, boys," Steve said,
"here's a great. discovery—the story
of this country when it was the dark
frontier. Hop to it, get your speci-
mens before another slide comes
down and covers things up.”
Maes men had fol-
lowed the Boyer group down,
and were standing around, trying to
decide what was going on. The
Boyer men approached the slide and
studied the dirt, asked questions, an-
swered them and triéd to carry out
a bluff.
“Here’s tin nuggets,’ one said
when the silence grew painful. It
was the only reaction.
“It’s no use, boys," Steve said,
“you aren't up to it. But I admire
you for trying. Paddy, bring the
professor here.’ When Boyer was
brought up, Steve continued,
“You're all wearing the Brock-Bul-
lock brand. Get your things and
start hoofing it down the river."
*Hold on," Boyer protested hotly.
“You can't do that. We can't get
across the place you blew up and—"
“We'll get you over that," Steve
told him. “The rest of the ice is
safe. A little mushy in spots,
maybe, but in better shape than
when we made it up here."
The McGraw-Page men herded
the others back to their cabins and
shacks and gave them time to pack
up personal belongings, a week's
grub, and sleeping bags. Dorothy
Sheldon came out in the midst of
123
it. "What's wrong, Steve?" she
asked.
*Cleaning out the Brock-Bullock
bunch," Steve said briefly. “The
professor is going, and I suppose his
secretary had better go along, too."
She looked at him quietly, but
made no protest.
“Aw, Steve, let her stay if she
wants to," Pee Wee pleaded.
*No dice, Pee Wee," Steve said.
*She's been in the thick of this with
the others."
“Youre right there," Dorothy >
told him in a low tone. "You'd be
astonished if you knew just how
much I've been in all this, in more
ways than one. Some day— Oh,
well" She shrugged and turned
away.
“Good-by,” Steve said. For a mo-
ment he almost faltered. Then he
put personal feelings aside as he had
done from the beginning. ^You're
going down on a tractor," he in-
formed the waiting men. “Pile on."
He waved his hand toward the sleds.
The tractor stopped at Paddy
Creek, picked up several long
planks, then continued on to the
break in the ice. Steve thrust the
planks over the spots where the ice
seemed thickest, then tested them.
They held up, but he ran a hand
rope across as an added precaution.
Grasping the rope, the Bullock
men and Dorothy crossed the break
one at a time. They gathered on
the lower side, picked up their be-
longings and started off. The rest
of the way was a matter of hiking.
Steve waited until they were out of
sight, then he picked up the planks.
“That’s that," he said. “But it isn't
the end of the fight."
“Tt kind o' hurts," Pee Wee said,
*to think Dorothy was a spy all the
time. I always figgered she was one
of us. I told her plenty."
“So did I,” Paddy said. “But
124
Steve kept his trap closed, I'll bet
you."
*No, not always," Steve said qui-
etly.: “Now that I look back, there
were times when it seemed I was
ready to open it and Dorothy closed
it for me."
CHAPTER XVIII
ICE JAM
R. ZEDNICK was apologetic
when Steve and the others re-
turned to Page City. “I made a
regular savage of myself,” he said.
“I don't know why I lost my tem-
per so completely."
“Don’t worry about.it," Pee Wee
told him. “I’ve a new respect for
college doctors. You certainly
showed Boyer up. Me and Steve
don’t know anything of the fine
points of your work. There was
times when he didn’t ring true, but
we didn’t know he was puttin’ over
a Bullock trick. He must’ve been
the one who dug the ice pit for the
dredge.”
“Who else?” Steve asked. “Dr.
Zednick, we'll show our appreciation
by calling you if we see anything
that looks like dark-frontier evi-
dence. Naturally, the most impor-
tant thing to us is to mine, but we'll
try to co-operate with you as much
as we can."
The anthropologist thanked him
profusely. Then Steve gathered his
force together.
“There’s work to be done,” he
told them, “between now and the
next freeze-up."
Where the sun beat down hard
near the bench the ground was
thawing steadily. Some time in the
distant future this would be dredg-
ig ground and Steve was anxious
to clear away the portion above
high-water level as soon as possible.
The creek which he had explored
the previous summer was frozen to
STREET & SMITH'S WESTERN STORY
the gravel, but melting snow water
was tumbling over the falls and run-
ning over the surface. "That indi-
cated that plenty of water was in
the lake above the falls. Steve's men
had installed a pipe line from the
lake, carried it along the bluff above
the bench, then dropped it to the
bench proper.
Steve ordered a monitor con-
nected to the pipe line and the water
turned on. The results brought
broad grins to the faces of Steve,
Pee Wee, and the Alaskan miners
they had included in their gang.
A jet of water two hundred feet
long shot from the nozzle and
knocked sod, dirt and small stones
into the air. A skilled man, han-
dling the stream, could undermine
small boulders and keep them mov-
ing.
The men moved
the stream
- slowly, clearing everything down to
the frost line and knocking out pro-
truding objects. The dirt, carried
by the flood, flowed into the sluice
boxes and spilled onto the river ice.
Disposal of the tailings brought a
smile to Steve's face. Sometimes
the costs of tailing disposal eats
deeply into the profits. Here, every-
thing would be carried down to
Schooner Bay with each break-up
and during the high-water season.
Men moved slowly along the
sluice boxes, dislodging boulders
that had jammed. Dr. Zednick was
working on the slope exposed by the
slide. He had found part of a mas-
todon bone and was excavating in
the hope of finding the remainder of
the skeleton.
Zednick had converted a couple
of fuel-oil drums into boilers and
was thawing ground. He was so ab-
sorbed in his task that Steve had to
remind him he had better shift food
for several days from Page City to
the scene of operations.
“When the break-up comes,”
Steve warned, “we won’t be able to
cross the stream for several days.
When things quiet down Ill build
a bridge."
TEVE held clean-ups frequently,
sacking the tin nuggets and
caching them well above high-water
mark. It was necessary to shift the
monitor often, for the ground had
thawed but a few inches. The pipe
line was extended and carried close
to the bluff, but on the bench. This
brought it under Zednick's opera-
tion.
“Cover it up,” Steve said. “Don’t
try to keep the pipe clear. I doubt
if we move the line unless we make
a big shift and run out of pipe.”
There was a stub nearby fitted
with a valve, and Zednick kept this
clear of muck. And it was well that
he did so. The climax Steve had
felt was certain to take place was
rapidly approaching. So far as he | ——
knew, every man in the vicinity was
a hundred percent loyal. He had
even made quiet tests of Zednick’s
men. There was no doubt of it.
Every man was an experienced an-
thropologist enthusiastic about Zed-
nick and his work.
Steve made a quick trip down to
Paddy Creek cabin and found no
evidence of recent visits. He swung
over creeks ready to go out and
found nothing to arouse his suspi-
cions. He returned to Page City,
wading through water in the upper
canyon. "It must be plain nerves,"
he told himself ruefully.
Paddy had Ed on the monitor
nozzle when Steve arrived on the
job. It was tough work, even
though the nozzle moved on a ball-
bearing assembly. The pressure had
a tendency to whip the nozzle
about.
“We've just about stripped this
ground," Paddy reported. ‘“‘What’ll
we do? Make another shift, or wait
125
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still the break-up is over and we
know where we stand?”
“Wait! It won’t be long now.
Warm winds and rains will move the
ice,” Steve predicted. “How much
tin have we got?”
“A ton,” Paddy reported. “Now
if that was only gold.”
“There’s more tin, though,” Steve
consoled him. “Turn the stream
into that bluff just below the high
part of the bench. We'll prospect
the ground afterward and see what
it's got."
The stream hit the bench well
down, cut a trench into the frost
line, then moved slowly upward.
Presently a mass tumbled. Ed kept
the water eating into the mass.
“Let me have it,” Steve said. He
had hydraulicked thousands of cu-
bic yards before he was twenty and
had learned a few tricks. He kept
large masses moving. Everything
fell away, leaving a sheer wall of
frozen gravel a hundred feet high.
Then Steve saw something curved
and dark protruding from the wall
and turned the stream aside.
"Get Zednick!" Steve yelled.
“Hop! Ed! Don't stand there gap-
ing!”
"You're gaping, too,” Ed snapped,
showing more spirit than Steve had
seen in him in a long time.
Water had stopped running by
the time Zednick and his men came
panting up. There were pools,
masses of muck and muddy. boul-
ders scattered all the way to the
sluice boxes. Several tin nuggets as
large as a man’s head were visible,
but none of the scientists paid the
metal the slightest attention.
“Mastodon tusk,” Zednick said.
“And in fine state of preservation.”
He could hardly talk. “A ladder,
boys. Hurry.”
“The thing’s been there thousands
of years," Pee Wee observed, “and
now you fellers are in a hurry."
The ladder was brought and Zed-
' nick climbed up. “No doubt of it,”
DARK FRONTIER
he said. “I wonder if in that ice
and gravel we'll find a perfectly pre-
served mastodon. I’m afraid even
to dream it."
“According to legend,” Steve said,
“one came down. An ice jam, turn-
ing the river, might have washed out
the bank and released it. As it did
the ice man.”
“We shift our operations here,”
Zednick declared. “The other can
wait."
TEVE left Zednick and his men
working on the mastodon and
checked on Power Creek. An ice
jam had formed in the canyon
above the falls, and he decided to
cash in on it. A few cases of pow-
der started a slide that almost filled
the canyon. The intake to his wa-
ter supply was beyond the slide, and
unless the run-off was too great and
water poured over the slide, washing
it out, he was assured of a season's
water supply.
“Things are goin’ pretty slick,"
Pee Wee said. "Zednick's got his
break. You've got yours in all the
water you need. In a few days
Power Creek ice will go out, then
you can put the dredge to work.
Hadn’t we better move it onto the
job?”
“No,” Steve answered. “We'll
leave it where it is until after the
break-up.” They had left the dredge
on the south side of the South Fork
on a low bench a quarter mile from
Power Creek. There were no signs
that water had ever reached that
level in recent years, and Steve felt
it was safe.
"They did turn water into the
powerhouse turbines, and the elec-
trician who had installed the small
plant during the winter made his
first practical tests. For the first
time electric lights glowed on the
dark frontier.
127
The electrician was as interested
and enthusiastic as the rest of them.
“Everything O. K.,” he announced.
“Now all we need is the break-up,
and then we can clean up, and I
ain’t tryin’ to be funny.” Steve
nodded and went outside. 3
“Boss seems down in the dumps,”
the electrician remarked. “Seems
like he's fearin’ the worst. I reckon
he misses Dorothy Sheldon."
"He sure is on edge," Pee Wee
agreed. But he wasn't sure Doro-
thy was responsible. Steve appre-
ciated Bullock's uncanny ability to
snatch an eleventh-hour victory,
and hé.had. discussed the matter
with Pee Wee many times of late.
The latter: knew Steve's chief con-
cern was the possible loophole he
might have failed to plug.
The flow of water over the South
Fork had increased during their in-
spection. Several very small creeks
emptying into Power Creek were
now flooding its ice to a depth of
several inches, and Steve concluded
it was no longer safe to use the
South Fork ice in reaching Page
City.
Everyone ate in the tent cook-
house they had erected near the
monitor. “After the evening meal
they sat around and listened to the
gradually increasing mutter of the
water.
“By morning,” Steve predicted,
“it'll be a roar.”
After: months of dead silence the
sound of water was.weleome, but it
awakened them at four the follow-
ing morning. The ice was tumbling
through the South Fork; and those
in Page City signaled. that the
North Fork ice was beginning to go
out, too.
Everyone dressed, wolfed down
something to eat, drank hot coffee
and hurried down to the river bank.
To those who hadn't seen it it was
128
a stirring sight. To those who had,
it was almost as thrilling.
“River’s just getting warmed up
to the subject,” Steve said. “In a
couple of hours you'll see real ac-
tion.” :
Even Dr. Zednick had left his be-
loved mastodon and was staring,
fascinated .by the spectacle. Paddy
started to climb down the bank, but
Steve grabbed him by the collar and
hauled him back again. “Trying to
commit suicide?" he demanded.
“I saw a piece of tree," Paddy
said, “and it had ax marks on it."
*How could it?"
“That’s just what I’m wonderin’,”
Paddy declared. “There’s another
hunk of wood. It’s gone! Sucked
under!” They watched, and pres-
ently saw splinters. "Trees didn't
Jast long with the ice grinding away.
The river was jammed now, the
water high, and the ice piling up.
Slabs fifty feet in diameter turned
slowly and on edge like three-foot-
thick cartwheels. Some would jam
and break off, others would move
on, shattering smaller slabs. The
roar was tremendous, and men
shouted to make themselves heard.
A ROS the fork, those in Page
City had lined the bank and
were watching. The volume in-
creased until some of the slabs were
higher than the bank itself. They
swept along, striking the edge of
the bank, ripping off rocks and
blocks of half-frozen sod and gravel.
Paddy suddenly jumped down,
leaped to a cake and gave a mighty
heave. Both hands were clutching
the stub of a limb. The ice shifted
and he brought out a two-foot
length of tree, the upper. portion
chewed to a pulp by the ice, the
lower showing ax marks.
He struggled to the bank with it,
and Pee Wee lifted him up.
STREET & SMITH’S WESTERN STORY
“No doubt of it," Steve said.
“They’re ax marks. If this were the
North Fork and the wood older, I'd
say it was a souvenir of Jerry Page
and Sam Taft’s operations. But the
wood is freshly cut. Someone is up
that canyon.”
“Maybe a trapper over from the
upper country,” Zednick suggested.
“We know no one passed through
here.”
The day slipped by before they
knew it. Everyone turned in late,
only to be awakened at two o'clock
by a diminishing in the grind of ice.
Steve and Pee Wee ran down. The
river was dropping rapidly. Ice
was stranding everywhere. An hour
later the flow increased until the
banks almost overflowed.
They returned to bed, but the si-
lence came again at five o’clock.
Water in the South Fork was a tenth
of normal, the largest flow coming
from Power Creek.
“There’s a jam up the canyon,”
Pee Wee declared, “and it’s a honey
to stop the river like that.”
"We've got to break it," Steve de-
clared. “How much powder have
we left?"
“Plenty. We used some to blast
the ice downstream," Pee Wee an-
swered. “If we can shatter the key
ice in the jam, pressure will do the
rest. It dropped down to freezing
last night, which means it's colder
higher up. That should tighten up
the run-off and help us that much." .
Steve called his men together and
asked for volunteers. “I’m not or-
dring any man into that canyon,"
he said. “No married men can go,
either. If the ice let's go, it's cur-
tains, no need of kidding ourselves."
He looked at Ed, but the man would
not meet his eyes.
There were plenty of volunteers,
however. Steve led the way to the
powder cache. When each was
loaded, he outlined his plan of ac-
tion. “It'll be a case of crawling
into holes and out again most of the
time,” he explained. “Again, we
can jump from slab to slab. But
it’s risky business. And watch out
for small pieces that'll drop you into
the water. We'l keep pretty well
apart, just in case somebody slips
and his powder goes off.”
“Make Ed go," Pee Wee urged.
“He might fold up on us. Pass
out from “fright,” Steve explained.
“Then we'd have to pack him out.
I can't take that chance."
“Tm glad his old man isn't here
to see it," Pee Wee said. "There
was a man I'd go to hell for."
"And maybe that's just what
you're doing, Pee Wee,” Steve said.
The final plan of action was clear
in his own mind. He would check
on the time consumed going up and
allow that much for the return. He
would send the others out, and when
the time had nearly elapsed, he
would light the fuse and try to race
back before the ice let go.
They plodded steadily and in sin-
gle file a short distance, and sud-
denly a rifle cracked too close at
hand for comfort. Steve stopped
dead in his tracks as the bullet
kicked up. the muck a couple of
yards ahead of him.
“T got him spotted,” Pee Wee said
in a low voice. “He’s up there in
the first tunnel Zednick drove into
the bluff.”
ae turned and saw a man’s
face in the vague light. He no-
ticed the man had built a protective
mound of rocks across the tunnel
mouth. Looking the other way,
Steve realized the man commanded
the canyon mouth. He turned his
gaze back to the man again.
“McGraw, you're in a jackpot,”
the man shouted. “The first man
startin’ up that canyon gets a .30-30
bullet in the dynamite he’s carryin’,
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We had one hell of a time jammin’
that ice, but there she is. Just keep
your shirts on, gents, and it'll break
of its own accord —when there's
enough water behind it."
Pee Wee looked at the tunnel cu-
riously. “Two or three guys up
there could hold off an army. You
can't attack 'em from in front or
behind, or any other way. And if
we don't get rid of 'em and hurry
up and blow the dam when she does
let go—" . He shook his head and
shrugged his shoulders...
They all knew what would hap-
pen when the jam finally let go.. A
wall of water a hundred feet high
and perhaps several miles long
would be released. And .as the flood
burst from. the canyon mouth it
would hurl thousands of tons of ice
at everything in its path. Dredge,
townsite, monitors, and. in fact ev-
erything not carried to high points
would be lost. :
Looking: across to Page City,
Steve could see that the men over
there bad already sized-up the situa-
tion. They were beginning to move
food and supplies to higher ground.
“The first thing they're takin’ is
them skin boats you brought up,
Steve," Pee Wee said. *Figger we'll
need ’em to get out of He country
after the flood.”
Steve didn’t hear. He was ae
ting to himself, reluctantly, that his
men could neither get up the can-
yon, nor shoot the Bullock men in
the tunnel. à
"You know you're ticked, ” the
man jeered, waving the rifle barrel
back and forth. “Better make up
your mind what you're goin’ to do
next.”
“I have,” Steve
What will happen to Steve and his men
when the ice. jam breaks? . Will Steve be
able to fulfill his contract? Has Dorothy
Sheldon left the Dark River country?
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‘Sos what gou gei-
Gels what you see!"
THIS MAN DIDN'T BELIEVE HE
COULD LEARN MUSIC BY MAIL
you have undoubtedly heard of the U. S. School
method of teaching music by mail. This remarkable
em of instruction has been in operation for over
forty years and more than 700,000 people in all parts
of the world have enrolled for it. Men, women and
children of all ages and from all walks of life have
taken up their favorite musical instruments this con-
venient, money-saying way. They have studied the
piano, violin, guitar, accordion and, in short, every
kind of popular instrument.
Many of these pupils did not know one musical note
from another when they enrolled. Many had previ-
ously tried other methods of instruction without c-
cess. And not few frankly skeptical. They
doubted whether it v )e to- learn music by
mail, just you may doubt i
To some of these “Doubting Thomas
the surprise of their lives when they actually heard
themselves playing. Simple, popular melodies at fi
then more and more advanced pieces, all the w
Grand Opera
One after another, pupils testify to the amazing
ase with which they learned, and the fascination and
they found in the lessons. They say it was
A-B-C”——“sọ simple that a child could un-
-that “with all the wonderful photographs
grams to guide you, you simply cannot go
that “it’s really fun to learn music this
scinating wa.
it came as
to
wrong"
easy, fi
The experience of thousands upon thousands of people -
should be proof positive that you, too, can learn to
play your favorite instrument by the famous print-
and-picture méthod of the U. S. School of Music. Is
it not a pity, then, to deny elf all the enjoyment,
the good times and popu J sie offers? Do
you not owe it to yourself, at lea to examine all the
facts, and to decide, once and for all, whether you
can afford to pass by this opportunity to enrich your
life with music?
THIS MAN DECIDED TO TRY THIS
Y, SHORT-CUT METHOD!
= You should hear him play now!)
If you really want to play
you are willing to devote
to learning, not through tediou: shioned prac-
tice, but by actually playing s—then you
should mail the coupon at once. It will bring you an
interesting illustrated booklet and free Print and Pic-
ture Sample that tells all about this wonderful way
to learn musie at home—without any special talent—
without any previous knowledge
of music at amazingly little cost.
Read it carefully and earnestly
and act upon it. If interested,
tear out the coupon now, befor
a musical instrument—if
ust a few minutes a day
INSTRUMENTS
As a special accom-
modation to our stu
dents we can sup-
you turn the page. (Instruments ply instruments at
Supplied when needed, cash or à spe discount.
credit.) U. S. School | Liberal terms ex-
tended. For partie-
ulars, inquire In-
strument Dept.
e, 5 Bruns
New York. N. Y.
(Established 1898)
vick Build-
U. S. SCHOOL OF MUSIC, 3595 Brunswick Bldg.,
New York, N. Y.
I am interested in music study
ec below. Please send m
How to Learn Musie at Home'
particularly in the instrument
your. free illustrated booklet,
and free Print and Picture
Piano Saxophone Mandolin Clarinet Ukulele
Violin Cello ‘Trombone Flute Organ
Guitar Hawaiian Cornet ^ Piccolo ^ Modern Elemen-
Piano Accordion Guitar Trumpet Drumsand tary Harmony
Plain Accordion Banjo Harp Traps — Voice Culture
NOME rm
S^ ll MEC PERPE EEEEECETTTT D IEEO LIO DD o
Town. State
heck here for Booklet it under 16 years of age.