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Fear Ranch

by Lester Dent

Sephus Titus was this ranny's name. A funny name, and this hombre had a funny face, but there was nothing funny about his guns. When he took the job to run down the mysterious masked rider of the High Hat range, he bucked the bitter dregs of an ancient hate. His face didn't help, but his guns?

THE puncher was long and lathy, somewhat mulelike of face. He was shaking brown tobacco flakes onto a brown rice paper when it happened.

Two shots banged, filled the canyon with clamor like rocks in a rolling barrel. A woman's cry, a frightened wail like a hurt puppy, splintered into the thumping echoes. Then hoofs beat a mad rattle.

The puncher's piebald gelding spooked at the uproar and tried to buck. He kept the animal's head up so it could only prance, grunted: "Whoa, you jughead!"

Around a bend in the canyon popped a small, dappled gray bronc. A woman folded over the saddle horn, looking back. Her right hand quirted the gray steadily. Her left hand, holding the reins slack over the gray's whipping mane, also gripped a short Winchester.

A hundred feet from the lathy puncher, she turned her head and saw him. She pulled up, jerked the Winchester against her shoulder.

She was young, twenty or less. Her small cowman's boots and corduroy riding skirt had seen a lot of use. A black John B., nearly new, was jerked low over her eyes. Below it, her features were fixed, pale as a sculpture in marble.

"Keep your hands away from that gun!" she snapped, then demanded coldly: "Hanging around to see that your friend did a good job?"

Price: $0.99

Format: Electronic PDF File
11 Pages
First Published: 1932

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