15 Western Short Stories — page 78: what you’re looking at

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

78 WESTERN SHORT STORIES grub in our bellies and ride on. We ought to hit the Hole-in-the-Wall by morning.” Big Mitch threw a glance over his shoulder. “I figure that long-geared United States marshal is about six hours behind us. Damned if he ain't a hard man to shake.” The Pronto Kid spoke to his mount and they moved down the slope to- ward the town. The Kid's gaze shift- ed to the low, sage-dotted hills off to his left and for a moment his bleak eyes were soft. There was a ranch over there, a spread that his father had worked hard to build into some- thing. It was the place the Kid had erown tired of and run away from ten years ago. He hadn’t written to his folks and he hadn’t heard from them since he left. He had smelled gunsmoke while he was away. He had raised hell down along the border. He had met Big Mitch and they had held up a gam- bling joint back in Alamosa. The law was on their tail now and they were heading for the safety of the Wyo- ming badlands. The sound of his saddlemate’s voice snapped the Kid from his reverie. “So bein’ back don’t mean a thing, uh? Then how come that dreamy look in your eyes?” The sardonic amusement on the big man’s face nettled the Kid and he snapped, “Mitch, you’ve got a bad habit of runnin’ off at the head!” Mitch’s face fell. “Now don’t go gettin’ your hump up, Kid. I didn’t mean to rile you.” The anger drained out of the Kid and he smiled thinly. “It’s all right, you big, dumb cluck. Quit lookin’ like a whipped dog.” They rode slowly down the single street of the little town and the Kid thought the place seemed unusually quiet. They passed a man in range garb, standing on the porch of the hotel, and the Kid smiled bleakly as he noted the baleful stare the man gave them. The Kid wasn’t worried about any- one recognizing him, for those knife- slashes he had gotten in a border can- tina had left scars that twisted his face into an ugly mask. They headed for the lights of Pop Rayburn’s Bar, and the Kid’s eyes roved the paint-peeled false-fronts. Ten years and that town had changed but little. He saw Swede Jenson’s blacksmith shop and old Abe Clos- sen’s bakery. He remembered how old Abe used to chase him when he swiped those pies and cakes. A wide grin caused the scars to writhe across the Kid’s face. Big Mitch shook his head and spat into the dust. ‘‘A two-bit town,” he growled, “if ever I saw one.” “Veah,”’ the Kid said. “You can see why I didn’t hanker to grow old in this place.” He wondered why he said one thing and thought something else. They went into Pop Rayburn’s place and had a drink. The Kid looked at the almost deserted barroom. He said to the little, pink-cheeked man behind the bar: “Business not so good?” Pop Rayburn gave him a resentful stare. “I cater to the cowmen and the business men, mostly, and they’re stayin’ indoors tonight.” The Kid’s eyebrows arched. “Trou- fone 2” Pop wiped at the bar. “Anse Bel- der and his tough crew are down at the Blue Mouse, gettin’ themselves likkered up, and spoilin’ for trouble.” The Kid frowned. “Belder? I nev- er heard of him.” Pop refilled Big Mitch’s glass, say- ing, “He moved in a couple of years ago and started gobblin’ up the range.” Big Mitch said, “Oh, one of them kind of gents, eh?” Pop nodded. “The little men can’t afford to hire gunmen like Belder has workin’ for him. The sheriff is doin’ all he can, and I reckon if it wasn’t for him, Belder would have the whole shebang by now.” “It’s tough,” said the Kid, and he flipped a coin on the bar. They went out and crossed the street to the Wagon Wheel cafe. There was a little yellow-haired wait- ress that the Kid thought was mighty pretty, but he knew he was too damned ugly to have a woman look at him twice. “He remembered that plastic surgeon he had heard of back East, and, briefly, he considered going there some day. oO CoOmiclbooks.€©