Western Story Magazine, May 12, 1934 — page 77: what you’re looking at

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

Quick Sixes 75 and he leaped to the right, gliding down along the wall toward the rear. But it was treacherous wall: a wall of iron bars with four-inch openings between. A whisper of movement at his back warned Vestry, but not in time. He flung up his arm as he turned; took the smashing impact of the blow on arm and head. As he fell, he heard the deafening roar of a point-blank. shot; knew that the very blow had saved his life! He rolled, flinging his body clear of the wall and back. A door opened just ahead—the door to Dean’s private office. Vestry had a glimpse of a man in a trim gray suit standing there. He lurched to his knees, stabbing two swift shots at a man inside the cage, before the vault. This time there was no sound to warn him; nothing to deflect the blow that slashed down across his skull. He saw a mighty pinwheel of exploding stars. Through the . ynuffling blanket of unconsciousness he heard dimly the sound of voices; of hurrying feet. He fought back the smothering blackness, matching his will against the dead inertia of his legs. Somewhere, a man’s hoarse voice yelled a curt command: “Come on, you fools! The whole town’ll be on us in a minute! Drift!” ESTRY struggled up. A tall man with broad, stooped shoulders slid through the bright rectangle of the front door, and Vestry saw that he bore a weighty sack. Vestry yelled; swung his gun up; saw it waver uncertainly in the light. He held his fire, surg- ing forward in pursuit. He stag- gered crazily as he ran toward the street; heard the sudden thunder of departing hoofs. His own big sorrel stood at the rack outside, and Vestry clutched at the saddle horn as the horse swung out—found a stirrup—felt his body jerked into the saddle as the sorrel lunged away. The dust from _the preceding riders boiled up in Ves- try’s face, choking him. Guns barked in scattered volleys from either side, and Vestry knew that the townsmen were up in arms. A bullet sang too close for comfort past his head, and he swore me- chanically. He raked his mount with steel-fanged heels, and took a grateful breath of cleaner air as they left the dusty street for open prairie sod. He could see the men ahead of him now; grinned as he saw their lead cut down by the sorrel’s reach- ing stride. They saw him, too, and he saw the red tongues of flame stab back at him as they worked their guns. It ended with startling sudden- ness. The big sorrel stumbled heay- ily, and Vestry knew that a slug had found its mark. He kicked his feet clear of the stirrups as the big horse dived nose-on in a smashing fall. He landed clear, striking on his head and shoulders with force. He rolled, bringing himself to a stop in a sit- ting posture, heels braced. The sor- rel struggled briefly and lay still. Vestry laid his one remaining gun across his knee and thumbed the -hammer back until it fell on empty brass. Even as he fired, he knew the hopelessness of it. He was half sob- bing as he turned at last to stare at his fallen mount; cursing in a strange, tight voice. “The murder- in’ sons!” Horsemen clattered toward him from the town in a little while, and Vestry stood up. “Long Tom” Travis rode in the lead, his sheriff’s star agleam in the sun. The riders drew in, forming a tight circle, hem- ming Vestry in. He.stered ot them,