15 Western Short Stories — page 38: what you’re looking at

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

38 When Bunk had left for Seeping Wells a month before, he stood at this bar and said: “Look, Luke, this thing has been draggin’ along for a blame long time. When I get back from Seeping Wells we're going to settle it once and for all.” “Suits me.” Luke words.. never wasted As NOW, suddenly, Luke Caster was in the saloon too. He stood just inside the swinging doors for a half-minute, then walked straight to- ward Bunk. He was big, with heavy, grim features, and the thick black hair around the temples accented the width of his face. His eyes were level with Tressler’s. “I see you made it back, Bunk.” The words were not unfriendly, but spoken in a flat tone, like a statistic, or a remark about the weather. “I killed a rattler while you were gone. Guess we might as well get this over with.” Tressler eased his gunbelt. “Any- time, Luke. No hard feelings, you un- derstand, just something that has to be settled between us.” “Sure, Bunk.” Luke waved his hand in agreement and headed outside. Holland’s saloon emptied quickly. Even the striped alley cat stayed close to Turk’s heels. The two men walked directly to the center of the dusty street. The sun blazed down perpen- dicularly. It was high noon. At night the streets of Furnace City would be crowded, but now the heat was too much to fight. Then, as if at a signal, the street was lined with town folk. Bunk Tress- ler and Luke Caster stood back to back, shirts dark with sweat, in direct WAY OF DYING faced Kid and plucked the empty der- inger away. “Had it taped atween my legs, close up where you feilers missed it-—got it out through a busted seam in the crotch of my pants,” the Kid boasted. Then slower, short-breathed: “No hard feelin’s, Hardy. I even got a fool notion I orter thank you. ’Cause I... sure like it better...this way...” The Sheepfaced Kid was dead with starting its downward path. WESTERN SHORT STORIES line with Dutch Holland’s batwing doors. Both men drew their Colts and cocked ther. “Ready?” asked Bunk. “Ready,” replied Luke. They stepped off together and started to count. The numbers came simultaneously with each step: “One ...tWwo., three...” The sun scorched the town. Sweat ran freely. The spectators held their breath. Turk Harms finally exploded: “What the devil is goin’ on? They’re already up to thirty. This blasted heat has knocked ‘em both plumb loco!” Then it happened. Bunk Tressler turned and fired. His .44 belched blue smoke. The shot echoed down the street. Luke jumped, but didn’t turn around for three or four seconds. Then he whirled, and his sixgun spewed a sheet of flame. Both men were still on their feet. They hol- stered their guns and headed back to- ward the center of town. Luke’s face held a look of complete disbelief. Bunk was the first to speak. “See what I’ve been telling you for six months, Luke? It’s a blame sight far- ther from Holland’s saloon to your livery stable than it is to my feed store. If we’re going to be partners in this new freight line and assay of- fice, it’s only common sense that we use the place closest to the center of town.” Luke still looked surprised. “Reck- on you're right, Bunk, but I’d have sworn your feed store was farther. Come on inside, boys. The drinks are on me.” Bunk took Luke’s arm and led his partner into Holland’s saloon, just as the red ball of the midday sun was ®END (cont'd from page 36) the trailing off of his voice. A posse- man muttered, beside Jess Hardy in the moonlight: | “Y'know, I feel just like after we dug out that den of rattlers above my place, last year.... At that, he came near getting you, hey Jess?” Jess Hardy ignored that. He was thinking: I reckon the Hardys owed him that much choice. To die with a gun in his hand, @END ElDOO (CO nn) SS (CO