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i ~T ' Tht Baniwll Ptopl»8—tl—I, Bmwll a C, Thursday Jannarj 14, 1937 GUNLOCK •RANCH- by FRANK H. SPEARMAN M- Copyright Vrmnk H. WNU B*nrlo* CHAPTER XIV—Continued —20— "What'« the matter?” stormed Den ison, wild with the delay. "Just a minute,” muttered Parda- loe. "Forgot something. Be right back.” Parrtaloe spurred back to the jail office while his companions counted time. He rejoined them after three minutes that seemed to Denison thir ty. "For God’s sake! Are you ready now?” Denison chopped off the words furiously. “AH set Bill,” returned Pardaloe peacefully. "You hustled me so, I got the wrong hat, boy.” Denison was waspish witty Impa tience. "Man alive, what difference does It make what hat you wear?” he demanded testily. "A whole lot of difference,” returned Pardaloe with warmth. "Had on my new hat. It might git plugged.” Three men rode with Denison that night—Pardaloe, Bob Scott, and Frying Pan. The ponies were fresh and the men eager. They stopped at Gunlock. A light was still burning In the living room of the ranch house. When the men pulled up In the yard, Denison Sprang from the saddle, ran to the door, and knocked. "Who’s there?” were the low words from within. "Is that you, Jane? It’s Bill." Bhe flung the door open. ‘ Bill,” she cried, “what are you doing here?” *1 think I’m needed here. How's Henry Sawdy?” "Oh, he's badly wounded, Bill How did you know?” "Bob Scott and John Frying Pan have strict orders to bring me ranch news of the kind that came today.” “Ben Page rode In to get Dr. Carpy.” “Tell me quickly, dear, what hap pened this afternoon,” he urged. "McCrossen rode out to get some things, so he said. It was sitting here sewing, Bill, when In walked McCros- sen. He said he was going away for good. I said I wished him luck.” Jane hesitated a moment "He asked me to kiss him good-by. I said no. He got angry and swore he’d take as many ss be wanted. I tried to run to the front door. He caught me, and I was fighting him In his arms when Henry Sawdy walked In at the kitchen door. “Henry told him to let go of me. That man acted like a tiger. "He turned on Sawdy. ’Get out of here, Sawdy,’ he shouted. I begged Sawdy to protect me. He drew his gun! " Let go that girl 1’ Sawdy said. “McCrossen turned on Henry, his gun In his hand. “Henry dldn t dare Are for fear of hitting me. McCrossen fired point- blank at Henry, and he fell In a heap. I screamed, tore myself loose, and ran oat the front door and hid behind a tree. McCrossen walked out as cool as could be. put up his gun, mounted and rode away. Bill, I’m glad you’re here I 1 don’t feel safe a minute!" He comforted her ns best he could. “I must see how had Henry Is hurt, then I’m off with Pardaloe and Bob Scott after McCrossen. He’s running off steers tonight.* With Jane, he went to the bed on Which Sawdy had been laid. Sawdy looked pleasantly surprised as Jane held up the lamp and he saw Denison. "Well, Bill,” he eal* coolly, “the old foreman Is shootln’ nft up today.” “Henry, where are you hit?” "In the side, Bill, hut It ain’t over- fcerlous. You see, McCrossen—" “Jane told me, Henry. Don’t waste any strength talking.” “When I seen his game to hold Jane for a shield; I made up ray mind to drop at his first shot—” “You did a good Job. Now keep quiet’’ He told Sawdy of the word he had from the Indians that a bunch of two- and three-year-olds were to be run off that night; that George Plenty Bear was watching In the hills, and that he, Denison, and Pardaloe hoped to pick up the trail without much delay. Over the rim of the hills a full moon was rising Into a cloudless sky. Jane, with tightened lips, her heart pounding in her throat, her straining eyes tear less, stood In the open doorway watch ing the ghostly figures of the four horsemen silhouetted against the sky, aa they made their way up the ridge that led to the hill divide. From the moment Denison and his companions crossed the divide, they were riding Into enemy country. Frying Pan was asked to strike farther down and across the reserva tion; the rendezvous had been fixed at a point on Deep Creek. With the hills behind them, Denison, Scott, and Pardaloe made their way down the creek breaks to the bench- lamia. They were aware of a rough eaqtle trail along the east bank of the cseek, brt the night, as they halted on Mm Mask beach, was silent conjectured vfrynglv that the cattle hid bees driven’past this point Working carefully downstream through clumps of willows and aldmt along the benches, Scott poshed ahead to locate the phantom Frying Pan. Tha lone Indian after a time came down from Hhe hill*. He waa taciturn. “No body go by,” waa all be said. Denison questioned him closely with out shaking his certainty that neither cattle nor horsemen had paased down the east bank. The west bank, where the pursuers were now halted, was impassable for cattle. “They’ve taken another trail,“ Bob,” declared Denison to Scott “There's an overgrown trail through the timber to the south. It's a long way around and rough, and they took It to throw off pursuit But that may beat them yet.” “How sof “They’ve got to double back, lower downstream to strike Deep Creek again with the cattle. We’ll play It so, anyway. It’s Into the brush for us. We can’t cross the horses here. If I’m wrong, and they’re above us yet it’s safer to stick to this side, any way." “Where can they strike the creek?” “About a mile above the old bridge.” “How we goln’ to get to them?” "We’ve got to cross that bridge.” Scott smiled a sickly smile. “That bridge’s been failin’ to pieces for 10 years.” “John,” said Denison to Frying Pan, “feel out the scrub for us. Let's go!“ The riding was rough and the pace through the chaparral grueling. The four men reached a point where the creek bottom opened from a canyon out on low, rough country, and the rising moon shed more light “We’re a mile yet above the bridge,” said Denison. “Yon and John ride up the canyon wall a ways, Bob, and take another look,” be suggested. The Indians came back with news. “There's somethin’ looks like what’s left of a campfire near the bridge—” “Push on I” exclaimed Denison. “They may have halted there.” The riding grew worse. Thickets be came almost Impassable. There never Their Hands Went Haltingly Up. had been a trail down the west bank, and the job called for dogged en durance. Scratched and torn, the four reached an open breathing space where rock and shale ended the fight through the scrub. The moon, clearing the moun tain peaks, revealed, at a distance be low, the abandoned bridge. Not far from It, Denison could discern embers of the campfire Frying Pan had re ported. "Where there’s been a fire, there’s been men.” said Denison. “They may be there yet But we’ve got to watch both sides of the creek. Suppose you. Bob, and Frying Pan get over to the east bank—” “How?” "The bridge.” Scott grinned but shook his head. “There’s ten feet of plankin’ gone In one place from the floor of the old bridge. Nobody can cross that We could maybe crawl across In the day time—not now.” “We’ve got to get across somehow/* Insisted Denison. "Bob, is there any place up or down the creek where you and John can get over?” "Not with horses.” _ "Well, we must stop the cattle and whoever’s with 'em. I’ll get over, some how, after you. Where’s the planking off the bridge?” "The east end.” “That’s bad. No matter—dust along. Two shots from you will bring me over. Anyway, you stop anybody that comes along with the beef. We’ll leave the horses here with Pardaloe, and while You’re getting over I’ll try to find out who these fellows are below at the fire. Bill,” he turned to Pard aloe—"If I need you. I’ll whistle.” ‘‘0. K.,” assented the lanky Pard aloe. Slipping off his horse and taking his rifle, Denison crept, crawled, and rolled down the slope towards the dy ing fire. For a little way he could be seen and heard. Then he vanished into the shadows. Denison, though anxious to get at what lay ahead of him, was forced to work down the slope slowly. Within n long earshot of the dying fire, he thought he heard volcea. Since the men were still there, renewed caution wt4 called for. Creeping over a sandy bit of bottomland, dragging his rlfla after him, ha could hoar tha volcaa quits plainly. Ha mads out two voices, bat this gave no assurance that one or more mm might not be asleep. Flattening on the send, he listened. Tha fire and the men were not over fifty feet away. Denison could hear thalr words. They were talking Eng lish, though one voice was guttural and revealed a Mexican. As they were ob viously waiting for someone who had felled to appear, cold, and too lasj to keep up their lire, Denison made no bones about Intruding on the pair and whoever might be with them. The first the two men heard from him was n low but plain command: "Pitch up, boys!" The startled pair Jumped to their feet “Up I Put ’em up,” came a sharp er order. Their Hands went haltingly up. They looked around to see where the voice came from, and while they looked they heard a short whistle and saw a man emerge from the chaparral not twenty feet away. “Who the hell are you?" demanded the smaller man of the pair, with n blaster. His voice betrayed; him to Denison. “I’m here, same as yon are, to meet some cattle coming down the creek," returned Denison. *Tm going to help yon, Clubfoot Hands up. Damn yon, keep ’em where they are!" While he spoke, he heard Pardaloe clattering through the thicket “Bill," he added, as Pardaloe appeared, “bring down the horses, will you? “Those boys are waiting for the cat tle, same as we are," explained Den ison when Pardaloe reappeared. "Wo don’t need fonr hands on the job. Take their guns. Tie ’em up till we get straight” Pardaloe, tying the mounts, stamped forward, gun In hand. He searched the pair, while Clubfoot protested pro fanely at the outrage. ‘Tm here to take over cattle that belong to me—bought and paid for," stormed the batcher. ■. Before Pardaloe had finished rop ing the butcher and his helper, a shot was heard from far across the creek. Denison started almost as If the ballet had struck him. While he listened with every nerve on edge, a complete silence followed. It was not a fight Was It a signal? Almost five minutes passed when a second shot rang Into the night. Den ison tried to read the riddle. The first shot had come from a revolver; the second, sharper and less open, had come from a rifle. It all dawned on Denison—they were signal shots. He whirled toward Pardaloe. “Hand me Clubfoot’s gun. Bill," he said. Se curing the gun, he fired It twice In the air. “Some guesswork here, Clubfoot," he remarked, emptying and tossing the gun on the ground. “I don’t know whether yonr answer was to be one or two.” Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when a spatter of revolvet shots rang across the creek. “Bill,” exclaimed Denison, “that’s a fight. If these birds make you the least trouble, shoot ’em. I’m golnf over.” • “How you goln’ over?” called Par daloe. “Quickest way I can. Bill," he shouted. “The bridge.” He was running for his horse. “You’re crazy. It’ll drop you a hun dred feet, man!” shouted Pardaloe. — “Watch your prisoners!” Denison was galloping away. Pardaloe. petrified, watched the dls appearing horseman. Nothing bnt the sharp echo on his ears of flying hoofs convinced him he was not dreaming, for he never would have believed sobei Bill Denison would take so slender a chance of getting across the creek alive. The clatter of hoofs grew fainter. At times they ceased, and the old frontiersman's breath choked him Then, as if In answer to his straining ears, came the hollow sound of hoof- beats on wood. Denison had reached the bridge. An Instant later there came Into Pardaloe’s sight, In the distant moon light, the ghostlike figure of a hors* flying across the rotten bridge. Par daloe divined at once that the pony had thrown his rider. Then, of a sud den, the riderless beast whirled with a spring and, as if somehow guided shot ahead again—he was a third ol the way over. Pardaloe’s jaws came together squarely and comfortably, for he now understood. Denison was on that horse, clingityg to its back like a pan ther. But there was still the east-end plank gap to cross. Scott had said the big one was ten feet, but he had not seen It for a year. It might easily be twelve or fifteen feet; suppose It were twenty? With Denison more than halfway across, the clatter of hoofs grew faint er. One, two, three rifle shots rang out In fairly quick succession. The rider was out of sight Pardaloe ran to higher ground. Try as he would, he could not see a thing on the bridge. But now and again be could hear the faint hoofbeats. They ceased. Then there wqs a silence; then a faint, distant shout To this day the gap that Denisov Jumped has never been measured. The reckless rider had been spotted when be was less than halfway across McCrossen, riding behind the cattle, had galloped forward when Rebstock ahead was Intercepted and questioned by Scdtt The half-breed’s gun signals hsd been taken by Rebstock as an at tack, and be had fired back. Before either side really knew what It waa all about they were exchanging shots. But the instant McCrossen saw the horse dashing along the rotten bridge, his sixth sense of danger guessed the rider for an anemj, and without a mo ment's hesitation kia trained a rifle an him and fired. ' (TO BE CONTINUED} * * * * it it it it it STAR DUST ★ ★ it it ★ ★ ★ it it * .M.ovie • Radio $ VIRGINIA VALE*** O F COURSE you’ve seen Sid Silvers, and laughed at him, in many a movie; now you’re going to hear him on the air with A1 Jolson, whom you’ve also seen in pictures, but not recently. Silvers is something new tinder the sun. He writes the very funny lines he speaks; that is, he makes them up, but he doesn’t put tH’m laciest down on paper. He just says them. Somebody else takes them down. And if he gets a very funny idea during the final filming of a scene, in it goes and the scene is done over again. But what havoc that will cre ate if he forgets himself and does it on the air, since radio scripts have to be written and re-written, and then approved. Claudette Colbert Now it’s Claudette Colbert and her husband who are going to adopt a baby from that famous orphanage in Chicago. Irene Dunne and her hus band were the latest couple to do it—and Irene, worse luck, had such a bad cold during the first few days of the little girl’s presence in her new home that she couldn’t go near the infant. Meanwhile Claudette has been given the lead in the screen version of “Tovarich,” the successful stage play; she should be grand in it. —*— Claire Luce, who was Fred Astaire’s first dancing partner after his sister deserted him for matri mony, is in Hollywood, with yearn ings to become a motion picture actress. On the stage she got along beautifully with the nimble Fred, but she’s not making tests for RKO, so apparently she isn’t being con sidered for his partner on the screen. Practically everyone else has been, apparently! The blonde Miss Luce has a life time on the stage behind her—that is, she has her lifetime, as she started at the age of four. She was one of the six or eight chorus girls in the musical show in which Mir iam Hopkins and various other cel ebrities were also chorus girls—and what tales they all tell about each other in private! It looks as if James Cagney would break oat again—not in a fight with a motion picture company this time, bnt in a new venture. He is talking of reviving the theater in small towns, so yon may see him in per son before long. It is said that Robert Montgomery and Pat O’Brien may appear with him, as well as his brother Bill. Meanwhile his first picture for Grand National, is completed at last. —*— How do you like the idea of a picture with Robert Taylor, Spencer Tracy and James Stewart in it? The picture will be “Three Comrades,’* and the author is the man who wrote “Journey’s End,’’ so the story ought to be good. Once upon a time studio executives would have screamed at the idea of putting three such players in one picture, but nowadays the big companies plan to give us as much for our money as they can. —*— Have you been missing “Minnie Mouse” from the screen? If you have, don’t worry— she’ll return. You see, her voice—that is, the young woman who plays “Minnie’s voice — got married and went off on a honeymoon. Being the voice for one of Walt Disney 7 ^ popular characters is a pretty good job —and it means a contract for the actual owner of the voice, too, because the public is so familiar with the sounds that Mickey and his co-play ers make. Maybe some day we’ll see that Disney feature-length picture that has been talked about for so long, “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.” ODDS AND ENDS . . • Ever tine* he finished u The Gay Desperado" Nino Martini has been traveling around, giv ing concerts, and flying east ewh Wednesday for his broadcast—so im agine how thankful ha is that tha opera season has started in New York, keep ing him home for the winter , , , B. P. Schulberg, the movie producer, finally admitted that ha and Sylvia Sidney will probably marry when his marital affairs ora straightened out . . . Ha and Mrs. Schulberg have been living apart for soma time . . . Richard Dix is taking out a patent for a thornless rose which he has developed at his ranch . . . Rob art Young will appear with CleudeW Colbert in "She Met Him in Paris,' which may console him for losing out on "Love on the Run," the Crawford- Cable-Tone picture . . . 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