15 Western Short Stories — page 88: what you’re looking at

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

88 “Vou loco?” I snarls. “Them two hombres is liable to shoot.” Two horses is tied to the hitch rail in front of the hotel—Gordon’s and Ollie Jensen’s—and Mabie and Dil- dock are leggin’ it towards ’em as fast as their boots can kick up dust. At the sound of Windy’s yell, however, they pull up and stare back pop-eyed with astonishment. Droopy’s gun is liftin’ when my pardner fires from the hip. Dust spurts up at thera outlaws’ feet and breaks ’em outa their tracks like a pair of startled jackrabbits. They start firin’ wildiy all over the place, and duck behind the horses which are rearin’ up on their hind legs. A crowd starts pourin’ out of the Moosehead and somebody on the porch of the ho- tel begins yellin’ murder. Takin’ advantage of the uproar and my loosened grip on the seat of his pants McCarthy leaps from the jail door and flattens out ina gully along- side the board walk. I dive right afcer him like a bull-frog goin’ after a min- now. Windy’s smoke-pole lets go with a regular broadside as he hits the ditch, but that’s about all he does ‘iit, out- side of maybe one or two Moosehead customers who are a little slow divin’ back into the saloon. McCarthy ain’t discouraged that easy, though. He tries a second salvo, and there is a mass retreat off the veranda of the hotel. “Can’t seem to get the range,’ Mc- Carthy complains irritably. My right ear is practically outa commission by now as a result of his bombardment, “You'll get the range if you're not carefuler,” I yelps. “You'll get the whole danged Poco Pisada Range!” Droopy ODildock is returnin’ Windy’s fire while Mabie is tryin’ to quiet the spooky cayuses, but the more he fires, the more them horses rears and bucks. . Lookin’ up the street, I lets out a yell of alarm. A woman is drivin’ down towards us—a woman in an old rattletrap of a buckboard—headin’ straight into the line of fire! Windy sees her at the same time, and jumps up wavin’ his arms wildly. “Luella!” he bawls. “Turn around! Go back! Go on back!” ety 8 -in’ for a man,” I mutters. I am bendin’ S WESTERN SHORT STORIES UT LUELLA GORDON, sittin’ in the middle of that saggin’ old buckboard, don’t seem to savvy her danger in time. She is tryin’ to pull up her bronec when Bill Mabie springs up alongside of her and grabs the reins outa her hands. He whips up the knock-kneed old skate and at the same time Droopy Dildock gives a flyin’ jump and scrambles aboard from the back. The overloaded wagon rocks crazily down the street. The bronc is gallopin’ straight for Sneed’s Grain & Feed Store, scatterin’ dust like a stam- pedin’ steer. Twenty feet from the loadin’ platform of the feed store the skinny old flybait veers suddenly and slams right through the gate adjoinin’ the buildin’. The gate is just wide enough to let the horse through, but not the buck- board. There is a sound like a whip crack as the harness snaps, and a crunchin’ sound as the whiffletree splinters like a kindlin’ against the sides of the gate. The buckboard up- ends and hurls all three passengers into a nearby hay mow. By now half of Tanktown is runnin’ after the runaway, with me and my pardner in the lead. McCarthy skids up to the hay mow just as the hatchet- face of Droopy Dildock comes pokin’ cut and looks around in a kind of daze. Windy shoots out his fist, and Droopy never comes out of the fog. Then Luella and Bill Mabie come crawlin’ out of the hay, and I have to haul McCarthy back so he won’t go for the big bird too. I get hold of the backside of his britches with my left hand, and with my right pull out my smoke-pole and bounce a fast one off Mabie’s top-knot. Mabie sags back in the hay with a contented sigh. “Gosh, Luella,” blurts Windy, “yuh sure do look fancy with your yella hair all mussed up thataway!” Luella swings her arm kittenishly, and it catches my pardner square on the kisser. Down he goes, out like a light in only the first or second round. “Now yuh done it!” I bleat. “If yuh gotta spark, whyn’t yuh play gen- tee” “Tt was just a love tap,” Luella Gor- don says regretfully. “Why—” “I’d hate to see you get a real crav- COMmiclhoo (CO