Pulp Fiction, 1955 · page 37 of 101
15 Western Short Stories — page 37: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# Page Analysis This is a story prose page from a Western pulp fiction magazine, presenting the opening of "High Noon in Furnace City" by Dick Baird. The page depicts the arrival of protagonist Bunk Tressler in a dusty frontier town saloon, where tension simmers over a rivalry with another man, Luke Caster, concerning a woman and gold strikes. The narrative establishes the impending confrontation through physical description of Tressler and the anxious reactions of the saloon patrons who anticipate the imminent showdown. A small illustration of horses and riders appears mid-page.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
ELLOW dust devils spurt- ) ed in the smothering air that sheathed the main street of Furnace City. The tired clopping of Bunk Tressler’s bay caused a stir on the porch of Dutch Holland’s saloon, and the tense cur- rent carried through the batwing doors. Dutch’s blond head, the size of a bear’s, wing collar wilted around a thick neck, was thrust toward the gaping loungers. Turk Harms leaned forward in his chair and threw his hoarse voice at the sa- loon keeper. “Bunk Tressler’s back!’ Dutch re- peated Turk’s words and shook his head as if to deny what his ears told him. - “Yep, he’s back, Dutch, and looks like he’s headin’ straight for here.” The skinny, grizzled prospector spat over the rail, and the dust jumped in the dead-dry street. “Better tell | of the boys we're li’ble to have ay little Satiddy entertainment.” Dutch’s head dis- appeared into the “ts saloon. Bunk Tressler rode up before Hol- land’s bar, swung down, and tied the eh laieadi bay to the rail. He Jepued his — crowned Stetson against his leg and wet desert-dry lips with the tip of his tongue. Brown hair sweat-curled on his forehead; gray eyes were expres- sionless holes set deep in the hickory leather of his face. Tressler moved with the easy grace of a gaunt cat, and his long legs seemed to split him almost to his shoulders. He wore a Colt strapped down, the holster cut low around the trigger guard. The skinny grubber nodded as Bunk halted in front of him, and raised his hand in greeting. “Howdy, Bunk. We heard you was comin’ in from Seeping Wells, but we figgered not for a week or so. You look a mite done in. I'll buy one.” A crooked grin split Bunk’s face. The inch-long scar at the corner of his mouth shot upward toward the cheekbone. “I'll let you buy one, Turk, then I'll return the favor. How’s the missus and the kids?” Turk started to answer, but Bunk pushed his way inside and went HIGH NOON JRNACE CITY by DICK BAIRD straight to the bar. He held up two fingers, and Dutch Holland poured a couple shots of whiskey. “Reckon you're lookin’ for Luke Caster,” the blond bear said. ‘“He’s about due—usually stops in around noon on Saturday.” He looked at the gold turnip-shaped watch he carried in his vest pocket. “Quarter ’til twelve now.” The bar was lined up two deep. Bunk pushed a whisky over to Turk and downed une /~ other one. He nod- (i y~, ded at Dutch, and ye “the sweating bar- Sve Wa keep poured two ba Vidi dust e., .- more. The line at rewin - the bar watched every movement in the long mirror be- hind the tier of bottles. A spur clicked loudly against the brass foot rail. Everyone in the room knew that the showdown between Bunk Tressler and Luke Caster was long overdue. Both had struck gold in the hills; both had gone after the same girl (before she married the banker); and both had touchy tempers. They’d once been close friends, but that was obviously all changed now. The tension between them had built steadily in recent weeks. Silent men, neither would talk about it. | Showdown between Bunk | | Tressler and Luke Caster | | was long overdue. Every- | ibeody knew that but} |nothing more. Silent men, | neither Bunk ner Luke | | would talk about it... : CO MICOOLK CO