Western Story Magazine, May 12, 1934 — page 38: what you’re looking at

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

36 Street & Smith’s Western Story Magazine “Tl meet him,” Dan answered. He hastily examined his weapons. The cartridges were new, and the guns appeared to work smoothly. E stepped outside. It was ri light enough to see a hun- dred yards away, but be- yond that it was indistinct. A deadly calm possessed Dan as he walked up the alley, and his mind eroped for an answer to Beasley’s sudden decision to come directly to him. “It’s no hunch he’s following,” he told himself; “it’s a hot tip from somebody. If I can’t shut him up without a gun fight, I won’t have much chance to clean out the bank. _ There he is!” Beasley carried a .45 in his right hand; his left was resting lightly on the butt of a second weapon. Dan walked stiffly, with head slightly bent, hoping to carry out his role of an old prospector. A hundred feet separated them, then Beasley’s hand came up. “Stick ’em up,” he snarled. “I know you. You’re——” Dan’s gun leaped, and flame stabbed into the dusk. The roar of the weapon silenced Beasley’s words; dust spurted from the front and back of his shirt, then he pitched forward. Though the man had had Dan covered, yet the latter had drawn and fired before Beasley’s brain could catch the movement and telegraph the order to pull the trig- ger. His gun remained silent. - “You got him, Dan,” AI cried. “Better light out; the whole town will be here in a minute.” “Listen, Al; I came here to rob a bank.” Dan’s fingers grasped Al’s arm. “You’ve made a lot of cracks about what you’d do for me. You said you'd die, if need be, and that’s. the right spirit. You've a chance to prove it. Take my gun!” He pressed the warm weapon into Al Ford’s hands, then yanked one of Ford’s guns from the holster and thrust it into his own holster. “Stand up to it, tell any yarn you want to, Al, and, leave it to me to get you out of this. Savvy?” “Yes,” Al Ford answered in be- wilderment. People were running, and before he could offer further comment, Dan had slunk into the shadows and was making his way to the cabin. A ring of guns hemmed Al in a moment later; unfriendly eyes peered into his face. “Say,” a man shouted, “this is Al Ford, one of Sanchez’s gang. By gosh, he came here to get Beasley, and he got him.” “I—I—came here for—for medi- cine,” Al said. uncertainly; “my sis- ter’s sick. Beasley got the drop on me. I told him I'd quit, but he said he’d fix me so I couldn’t get away again. I knew he was going to shoot. He could call it self-defense and get himself in the clear. No- body would believe me, so I beat him to #t.” | “Nobody believes you now!” a voice bellowed. “String him up, boys. Up with him!” . “Just a minute,’ a shaky voice objected. “It won’t look so good, boys, for us to take the law into our. own hands.” Dan Stuart, bent and apparently feeble, was trying to make himself heard. “Who are you?” some one de- manded. “Just old Hi Manning. but I know how things like this turn out,” Dan said. His words had no influence, except'to delay matters, but the de- lay proved sufficient. A brisk individual, wearing a deputy sheriff's shield, pushed his way through. So you killed Beasley. eh?” The _