Cowboy Short Stories, November 1939 — page 53: what you’re looking at

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

54 COWBOY SHORT STORIES it; to reason against it. Time and again he'd thought he’d licked it... . He didn’t hear June until she spoke to him, and he turned, startled. “I’m sorry, Dan. . . . Dad tried to warn vou. I didn’t know. .. . Would it help to—talk about ite She sat down close to him and Dan saw that she was wearing that same coat. He hated it! Except for it, he might not have recognized her a while ago; might not have known. ... Not that it made any difference, now... ! “I’m just—what Spade said I was, June. A cowatd! Talking won't cure it.” “But, Dan—! It didn’t hurt you, really. It couldn’t have! It was only a kitten. . . .” “Sure! Only a kitten! Harmless as a kitten! That’s—funny! ... All I know is, once when I was little I picked up a cat and I must’ve hurt it some way because it struck at me; ripped my face wide open. Mother went crazy for a minute; thought | was blinded. Maybe it was her fear that did it; I don’t know. . . . Only, ever since then, I’ve been afraid of cats! Deathly afraid! . .. “The kids at school found out, and made life hell for me. I'd fight ’em, and then somebody’d toss a cat at me—and I'd run! I've never been in a fight since—a real one —that I haven’t been: licked because I was expecting somebody to throw a cat in my I’m—yellow!” “Don’t be silly, Dan! Yellow—you? Look, Dan; I saw you ride the Mad Hatter right after he'd killed Eddie Marlowe. No- body can tell me you're yellow! You've got a—a complex; a phobia... .” “Whatever you call it, it’s—hell!” “I know; but—if you’d force youtself to fight it . . . make yourself fight it—’ He stood up suddenly. ‘‘Sure! All it needs is—guts! Guts enough to make my- self beat it! Sure; that’s right! Only—I haven’t got ’em! I've tried. . . . And to- night, when that cat came at me, I went crazy! You can’t fight a thing when you're crazy with fear, June; when you can’t con- trol yourself... .” He wheeled, striding away from her. Later, she heard the hammer of his horse’s hoofs... . HERE was little talking among the men who gathered for breakfast at Coward's Circle Six table next morning. Those who had been to the dance kept si- lent because they felt the grouch of a sleep- less night, for one thing; but that was only a part of the reason. Talk must inevitably swing to the subject of what had happened last night; and they liked Dan. His shame was theirs. Even Dan’s foreman, hard-bitten veteran, was willing to overlook a fault in a man he liked. Coming hone from the dance last night, he’d said, ‘“There’s a streak in evety man, I reckon, you take the trouble t’ find it. Me, I’m scared t’ death o’ frawgs! Some folks eat ’em! But they give me the shivers.” Dan, too, had spent a sleepless night in spite of his early departure from the dance. And—he had reached a conclusion. It was not an easy conclusion to reach, nor a happy one; but it was made. He'd sell his spread; clear out; start fresh somewhere. The Circle Six had been worth a nice sum when he bought it, and was worth more now; enough to set him up in the cattle business elsewhere. It would be easier, he thought, to live where he'd not be seeing June Turner. Easier to live where, for a while at least, the men he’d meet wouldn’t be hiding—or not hiding—their sneering laughter... . The town of Tecumseh, twenty miles westward from the Circle Six, sweltered under the white heat of the early summer afternoon when Dan rode into it, and the gray dust of the street spurted up like smoke about his horse’s hoofs. A buckboard stood in front of the hotel and a collie dog under it was panting even in the shade. In the shaded sanctuary of the hotel porch, men sat tilted far back in easy chairs, torpid with heat. One figure there caught Coward’s eye and he reined his buckskin to the hitching rail and dismounted. Pop Turner spoke as Dan came up the steps. “Hi, Dan. Hot, eh? ... June dragged me into town, durn her... . Sit down, Dan; take a load off yo’ feet.” Dan nodded. ‘Storm brewin’, I reckon. . . « Pop, I want to sell the Circle Six. I rode in, figurin’ to list it with Parsons; but I saw you, and I thought you might be interested. I'll make you a price, if you want it... 2” Pop Turner removed his Loots from the porch rail and let his chair down carefully. Beyond that rail, swift shadows fell across the dusty street and a sullen rumble of thua- der sent a faint tremor through the build- ings. . e Look, Dan,” Pop Turner said, ‘Don’t be a fool! This thing—this thing that’s CoOnniclooo S (©