Life — May 3, 1928 — page 31: what you’re looking at

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

With Apologies to Lariat With the savage scream of a wild animal trapped at last, Hawkins had started fanning. But Black's pearl-handled smoke wagon was even quicker. The high-pitched scream of roaring guns, the thunder of steel-clad hooves on the up-trail, the acrid scent of danger and sudden eath, and at the end of it all, a ‘“‘wonder girl.” ;Such was the lot of Black Dick in the performance of his duty, Black Dick, the salivatin’est, bone- crunchin’est waddy that ever forked a bronc. ITH a jingle of silver spurs, the tall, lean, bronzed hombre entered the confines of Ye Olde Gila Monster ‘Tea Shoppe and Waffle Bazaar. “Miss Molly Pierson, I believe?” The light gray two- gallon hat swept the floor in an elaborate bow. Butch Hawkins, foreman of the Triangle-Circle-Triangle-Circle- Triangle sprang to his feet, hissing like a varmint rattler. “None of yore Greaser’s ways around hyar, stranger,” he snarled, “this hyar is White Man’s Land!” The blue in the questing eyes of the stranger held the chill of steel. Into his hand leapt a gun. Lead sprayed at the five of diamonds pegged on the farther wall. When the smoke cleared away, the five of diamonds had changed into the queen of spades. “ !” gasped Butch. “There’s only one hombre I ever heerd could pull that trick.” Suddenly a look of mortal fear came into his eyes. The stranger and Molly Pierson had disappeared. “Miss Molly,” the voice, oddly gentle, rose softly above the padding of the cayuses, “I’m a-askin’ you to believe ain't a-meanin’ y’ no hurt. Will y’ trust me, gal?” “Stranger,” Molly's voice was steady with the confidence of brave womanhood bred under the Western stars, “I don’t know whut yore game is, but I trust y’. Y’ look like y’ had a mother somewheres...and mebbe a little sister....” For a moment the chill blue cyes of the stranger deep- ened and glowed. “Come, Molly gal,” he said in a husky voice, “this ain't no time fer foolin’.” They rode in silence to the top of the next ridge. Sud- denly the stranger reined in. From the trail below came the faint sound of creaking leather. “The posse!” whispered the stranger, “—after me!” “I'll hold it,” whispered Molly. ‘Make yore getaway.” “You'll do that for me, gal?” Molly nodded. Quickly pressing her gauntleted hand, the stranger slipped silently into the sage. Near and nearer came the posse, bits tingling softly. It was now or never. “Here, posse, posse!" called Molly in a low, clear voice. Mewing with recognition, the posse burst through the underbrush and fawned at her feet. She had saved the stranger—but why? A mantle of crimson slowly crept over Molly Pierson, enveloping her from head to foot. “T tell y’,” Butch Hawkins was holding forth inside the Gila Monster, “only one hombre can pull that thar card- shootin’ trick and that hombre’s Black Dick—th’ man that killed James Pierson.” “That's a lie!” A cold voice spoke up behind Butch Hawkins. It was the tall, lean, bronzed stranger. Hawkins whirled. “Black Dick!” (Continued on page 80) comicbooks.com