Cowboy Short Stories, November 1939 — page 70: what you’re looking at

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

DRYGULCHERS CAN'T QUIT! 71 wasn't all. He couldn’t hold his bronc’s reins with that hand. He couldn’t feed himself with it or pull on his clothes. He couldn’t do a damned thing with it. Chey- enne would never get over the humiliation of being partially helpless. He had been a two-gunman. Now he carried one gun. And he was a cripple. With all the bitterness in him, he cursed Tumbleweed Smith. If Tumbleweed hadn’t left him to fight his way out alone, this wouldn’t have happened. Two of them could have held the lawmen off so that they would never have gotten in close enough for hand-to-hand fighting. Cheyenne would have a strong left hand instead of a withered, nerveless thing that was worse than no hand at all. And if Tumbleweed hadn’t run off with the money, Cheyenne would have plenty for that operation he needed on his back without earning it all over again with blooa and lead. He chuckled mirthlessly as he thought how nearly Tumbleweed had come to escap- ing his vengeance-dealing gun. Cheyenne had been on the lookout for Tumbleweed for three long years. Now, by a lucky acci- dent, he knew where to find him, could settle the score between them. It seemed that fate was stepping in to help him play this sinister game. The Cheyenne Kid hipped in his saddle, peered along his backtrail, listening. Then he faced around. It was thunder, not hoof- beats he’d heard, he decided. The roar of gunfire came from behind. Cheyenne, jerked upright in the kak by a slug between his shoulder-blades, twisted around to face his ambusher. Dropping the reins, he snatched his gun free of leather, sent lead crashing at a moving shadow back there in the brush fringing the creek. ‘‘Jack Posson,’”’ he muttered. “Followed me to collect for his brother’s killin’. A cry of pain indicated he had struck a flesh-and-blood target. The dim bulk of a horse and rider plunged into the trail, hurtled back toward town. Flame streaked the night as the rider sent lead crashing at Cheyenne. Cheyenne’s bronc was bolting now. The Cheyenne Kid couldn’t reach the reins he'd dropped. He couldn’t do anything but hang on to all the leather he could find, to keep from falling off. The jolting sickened him. He wanted to fall in the trail and lie there, anything to stop the agony which held him, but instead, he clung to the kak, his face gray with pain. He lost track of time, distance. Lightning danced in crazy arcs before his dimming eyes. Then the rain came. Presently Chey- enne felt himself plunging down into thick blackness. Mud oozed against his face, squeezed up between his outstretched fin- gets. Then he no longer felt the cold, the wet. He didn’t feel anything. 4 we Cheyenne Kid opened his eyes. A straight furrow of perplexity divided his forehead as he stared around the room. His chest was one big ache, and he felt weak as a kitten. Dimly he remembered an endless interlude of pain and darkness. He saw the girl, then. A pretty, bright- haired girl with eyes as blue as a summer sky. She smiled. Cheyenne’s stern lips soft- ened a little, and a strange new warmth seemed to flow around his heart, driving out some of the coldness bred there by hate and contempt. “You'll be all right now,” the girl said in a low, pleasant voice. “My husband found you out on our east range, with a bullet wound in your lung. He operated, cut out the bullet. That was nearly a week ago.” The warmth receded from around Chey- enne’s heart. His face changed. “Yore hus- band?” he whispered. “Is he a doc?” “Yes. Doctor Jim Mackay. I’m Nancy Mackay.”’ 3 Cheyenne’s eyes flamed. He wasn’t go- ing to accept help—any more help—from Doc Mackay. He must get out of here. He tried to sit up, but savage pain and an overpowering weakness chained him. The girl came quickly to his side, laid a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘You must not move like that,” she said urgently. “You might open the wound.” “I can’t stay here,’’ Cheyenne muttered, not looking at her. “I’m ridin’ on.” Nancy Mackay frowned at him as she would at a wilful child. “You're staying,’ she said. “If you tried to leave now, you'd die of hemorrhage, or maybe get pneu- monia. Please don’t argue. I won't leave this room until you drop off to sleep.” The Cheyenne Kid turned his face to the wall. He knew he was too weak to get out of bed without assistance. It was a hell of a situation, being here in Doc Mackay’s house, but he’d have to make the best of it. The next time Cheyenne awoke, he felt a little stronger. He wondered how long he had been asleep, but he didn’t ask Nancy Mackay about that. Strangely enough, he GOMIGIOO S (C@