Western Story Magazine, May 12, 1934 — page 87: what you’re looking at

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

Fugitive’s Return 85 gainer. You say this fellow, Jade, was shot?” Old Remis nodded. “They found the bullet hole clean through the coat and vest. Some say— though it’s Ab Ferris mostly that makes the claim—that it was Jade who pulled the robbery of the bank in Little Pine that night; that he got a bullet wound and later, ridin’ up that narrow trail, fell off his horse. Ab couldn’t prove it, though. They couldn’t find no loot, there was Jade’s bones, and. there was plenty circumstantial evidence that indicated murder.” WIFT rage rose in Jade’s S breast. Ab Ferris, eh, trying ‘to lay suspicion on him, even after he was dead. Ab, who had been responsible for all Jade’s trouble. Jade cursed Ab, now, be- neath his breath. And yet Jade tried to curb the swift hot surge of blood within him that, turning his sears to fiery hue, might well betray him. : No one, however, seemed to-no- tice, and the other men were bid- ding Jim Freed welcome, as Remis turned away. Jade bought supplies and wandered, presently, along the street. Fate, he meditated, had played another gruesome trick— _ though in his favor, now, at last. There was no doubt but what old Lonnie Davis, flush with the money Jade had paid him, that August night, three years ago, had gotten drunk, and, riding home, had fallen ofi his horse on the narrow trail. That bullet hele through Jade’s old coat and vest was but a mere coin- cidence, Jade knew. He’d put it there himself, one night when he was shooting at a rat, and coat and vest were hanging on a nail. But anyway, Jade told him- self, murdered or not, Jade Hollo- way was dead and buried, and he was well content’ to let him rest there, undisturbed. . There was one final test, however, which Jade must make before he’d feel dead certain that he never would be recognized. He’d noticed as he rode through town that Mel Wiggins was still sheriff, as he had been three years ago, when Mel and his deputy, young Hal Olmstead, had discovered Jade making” his get-away from the rifled bank. It had been a pitch-black night, but in the gun play which had followed, with Olmstead down and groaning, Mel, with a bullet in him, too, had blurted: “Looks like you’d make your get-away, you dirty thief; but one thing certain, if ever I lay an eye on you, if it be in hell, Pll know you, and [ll get you yet.” Jade had thought of that a lot, tried to imagine what thing about him Mel might recognize, if he came back. Now, if there were something he had overlooked in those three long years of preparation? And yet, . Jade told himself, he had to chance it, and the sooner it was over with, the better he would feel. He wished he hadn’t killed Olmstead, but he guessed he knew a dying look in a man’s eyes. He sauntered up the street in the direction of the old brick building which a flapping sign announced as jail and sheriff’s office. When Jade went in, he found Mel Wiggins sitting with his heels cocked on his desk, as Jade had seen him sit a hundred times before. Mel said: “Howdy, stranger,” and touched one stubby finger to his — hat. “Complaint to make, confes- sion, or just pass the time of day?” Jade said, heart hammering: “I’m Jim Freed, sheriff, up at Holloway’s old place. Newcomer here; just thought I’d ask if I_had to get a.