Fifteen Western Tales, March 1954 — page 71: what you’re looking at

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

from that direction might be from Camp Verde or they could be from Whipple Bar- Pons. - E “You want to pull leather, Dane?” For a moment Dane almost said yes. He relit his pipe and eyed the dust-shrouded riders. The sun glinted on brass. | “No,” he said quietly. He didn’t want to leave Arizona Territory. He couldn't go on forever avoiding the military. He would be known wherever he went, for he had served at a good many of the scattered posts of the Department of Arizona. Hank slapped Dane’s back and went back to the horses. There was no need to say any- thing. pD**s E WAS cleaning his Spencer when he heard the clatter of hoofs on the rock of the passageway that led into the wells. Dust-hoarse voices echoed between the walls. With a jingle and a clatter the ‘troopers rode into the wells and drew rein as the officer leading them thrust up a gauntleted hand. He eyed Hank and then glanced at Dane. His back seemed to stif- fen. He pulled down the yellow scarf that was bound about his nose and mouth. The black eyes of First Lieutenant Stuart Clif- ton held Dane’s. He had been second-in- command of Dane’s C Troop. Behind the officer were eight men of the troop—the old familiar faces—the thirteen dollar a month faces. Corporal Dennehy, with a prodigious thirst and a Congressional ‘Medal of Honor to show for eighteen years’ service as a yellowleg. Hagan, Rustames, Blanchard, Hardin, Kerr, Schmitz and Shorrs—snowbirds, drunks, gamblers and fools some of them, as well as hard riders and expert marksmen. There was no expression on their saddle-leather brown faces as they looked at their former troop commander. But it was the rider just behind Stuart Clifton that centered Dane’s attention— Marion Lake, only child of Colonel Sabin Lake, Perched on her auburn hair was a ~ ao 7 ee ee ae ‘on A. WAR AT SPANISH WELLS teetotalers, | ' 71 forage cap, ornamented with the crossed sabers of the cavalry. Her blue military style, riding habit was gray with dust. Her mare nickered and thrashed her forefeet as she smelled the water but Marion’s gloved hands brought the horse under control with the touch of a perfect equestrienne. Her gray eyes clouded a little as she saw Dane. 7 “Hello, Dane,” she said quietly. Dane stood up. He pulled off his hat. “Marion,” he said. She was another of the memories of Whipple Barracks—the most poignant of them all. Stuart Clifton turned in his saddle. “‘Wa- ter up, Dennehy,” he said curtly. “We've a long way to go before sundown.” The troopers swung down at Dennehy’s command and led their horses to the tinaja. They grinned as they saw Hank. Dennehy wiped his red Irish face. ? “Would ye be havin’ a bottle, Mooney ?”’ he asked softly, with a surreptitious glance back over his shoulder at Clifton. Hank winked and nodded. ; “You've come from the barracks?” he asked the non-com. “Aye, and a damned hard ride it has been.”’ : Dane finished cleaning his repeater and slid it into its sheath. He slowly filled his pipe, watching Marion as she sat down in the shade. There had been a friendly rivalry among the officers of the squadron for Marion’s attentions when she had ar- rived from the East the year before. Slow- ly Dane had gained the inside track. Stuart Clifton had gradually become bitter about Dane’s success with Marion, to a point where he barely spoke to Dane other than in line of duty. Clifton was said to have cut quite a swathe with the ladies at Fort Lowell, until he had been transferred suddenly to Whip- ple Barracks. The gossip had it that Clif- ton had been involved with the wife of a higher. ranking officer at Lowell. He was the typical picture of a cavalry officer. A = -comicbooks.com *