Fifteen Western Tales, March 1954 — page 70: what you’re looking at

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

70_ Dane touched the heavy Spencer carbine that tfeaned beside him. The two of them could hold off a small party, but the Mo- haves were up in force from Fort Yuma north to the Mohave Mountains and east as far as Wickenburg. It was best not to take chances. Dane looked down at his faded uniform trousers. It was all he had left from his ten years’ service on the frontier, other than his Castellani saber, now wrapped in cham- ois on the back of the packmule. Whipple Barracks was far behind Dane now, with its memories of formal retreats and the brass tongue of the trumpet to regulate his life. Hank Mooney was the only friend he had left from all the comrades he had known. “Captain Dane York,” he said quietly “Cashiered.” The word rolled on _ his tongue like gall. He had known other of- ficers who had been cashiered and others who had been washed out by the Benzine Board of 1869. The incompetent and the unfit; the drunkards and the gamblers. Seven hundred and fifty of them had gone down by the boards, with a year’s pay in their wallets; resigned or dismissed for the good of the service. “For the good of the service,” he said aloud. It covered a multi- tude of military and moral sins. Dane walked slowly down the hill. He whistled The Rogue’s March. | Hank Mooney looked up from the well side: “Botherin’ you again, Dane? To hell with it.” | Poor old soldier, Poor old soldier, Tarred and feathered and sent to hell Because he wouldn’t soldier well. Dane’s baritone sent the old words ring- ing back from the rock walls surrounding the tinaja. He grinned at Hank. “Sorry,” he said. Hank cut a chew from his plug and stowed it in his mouth. “Just what did you do with that three E> 5 _mess. FIFTEEN WESTERN TALES thousand dollars from the squadron fund, Dane?” he asked, with a twinkle in his faded gray eyes. Dane rubbed his gray’s neck. “Spent it on red-eye and the hurdy-gurdy girls on Whiskey Row, Hank. Didn’t you know?” Hank chewed. “I wonder who did get all that dinero?” Dane shrugged. “Any one of two hun— dred men and officers at Whipple Bar- racks. He covered his tracks well, whoever he was.” “And left you holding the bag.” “Forget it. It’s all over, Hank. We've got some prospecting to do.” Hank nodded. The veteran scout, who had ridden with Dane’s Troop C for three years, had been the only man who had remained friendly to Dane in the whole Rough, uncouth and- sometimes quarrelsome was Hank Mooney, but his loyalty to Dane had never been questioned. — He had left government service as civilian scout to join Dane in his new fortunes. “There’s dust to the northeast, Hank,” said Dane, as he filled his canteen. “Mohaves ?” “Outen sabe?” Hank grunted. “You want to push on?” “Yes. We've got enough water to reach Osborne Well, haven’t we?” “Plenty. We can travel all night and get there after dawn.” ~ “Fair enough.” : Hank padded to the entrance to Spanish Wells and shaded his eyes, studying the dust. 3 “White men, Dane,” he said. Dane came up beside the scout. He didn’t question the man. Mooney had an instinct that was almost miraculous until you knew him well. He weighed and analyzed every scrap of evidence and then made a flat statement. He was seldom wrong. ! Hank slanted his battered hat lower-over _ his eyes. ; “Soldiers,” he said. He glanced at Dane. Dane tamped his pipe. Soldiers riding 2, bits — COMIcboOOKS-cO