Cowboy Short Stories, November 1939 — page 73: what you’re looking at

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

14 COWBOY SHORT STORIES “Draw!” Cheyenne snapped viciously. Bardell’s hand slapped leather. At the same time he leaped aside to crouch behind his desk. And then gun-thunder filled the room. Lead whipped past the Cheyenne Kid from behind, nd he whirled, saw a table- lookout standing in the doorway, squinting at him along the barrel of a scattergun. Bardell, sheltered behind the desk, was triggering now. One leap took Cheyenne to the side window. He scrambled out onto the low roof, dropped off the edge to the ground. | That exertion opened the wound in his chest. He could feel the wetness of the ban- dages. Feeling faint, he stumbled along the alley toward Main street. A few buildings to the left was the livery, where he’d left his horse. Cheyenne turned on Main street. He coughed, wiped blood from his lips. Weak- mess surged over him and he sank back against a shadowed wall. He looked up as the soft clop clop of hoofs came along the moonlit street. Four riders drew up. Grim-looking men with hats low-drawn over their whiskered faces. Racking their broncs in front of the Para- dise, they sat their saddles in silence, their hard-eyed glances fixed on the saloon bat- wings. The doors swung open, and Rance Bar- dell strode out, his big face a-scowl. Turn- ing to the gun-hung individual who was following him, he issued a swift order. “Clayton has sneaked out of town by now. He'll probably hit for Apache Pass,” Cheyenne heard him say. “Get some of the boys and head him off. And don’t bring him back alive.” The man topped a horse and_ hurtled away. ‘‘Let’s get goin’,” Bardell snapped at the riders waiting at the hitchrack. Cheyenne watched him mount, lead the four men out of town. He saw them turn northward into the Angel Creek road, head- ing for Doc Mackay’s ranch. He smiled grimly. Bardell would kill Mackay. Chey- enne told himself he was gtad. On lagging feet, he went and got his horse. As he rode out of town, he felt of the money in his pocket, and the bulk of it reassured him. He looked off to the west. There lay his gateway to freedom. Sun Pass, far to the west of the spot where the gun- man-posse would be seeking him. He sighed. Now he could have that slug cut out of his back. Then he’d put away his gun forever and forget the men he had killed. The Cheyenne Kid bowed his head. Could he ever forget those hollow-eyed ghosts? And could he ever forget young Jimmy Mackay, with his wide, sightless eyes? Or Nancy Mackay’s earnest voice tell- ing her husband how much she loved him? Cheyenne tried not to look down the road that Bardell and his men had taken. The distant pounding of hoofs was like a dirge in his ears. In a little while now, those kill- ers would ride up to the Three in a Box. They'd call Mackay to the door, then they'd blast him. And Mackay’s wife, his kid— would even they be safe from a callous devil like Bardell? Certainly not if they re- sisted him, Cheyenne knew. But even if Bardell left them unmolested, what then? If Mackay died, the light of happiness would be gone from Nancy Mackay’s eyes forever. She and Jimmy loved the medico. Nothing could change that. Cheyenne groaned deep in his throat. There was one way to insure the happiness of that clear-eyed girl and her little blind kid. The way of no-return—for Cheyenne. He pulled up abruptly. For a moment he sat there, brooding. Then he wheeled his bronc, galloped after the five gunmen. Presently he turned off the road, took a short cut across the hills to the Three in a Box. HE Cheyenne Kid stood in the shadow of a tall cottonwood and looked across at Doc Mackay’s little ranch cabin, peaceful in the moonlight. There was a soft, dreamy light in Cheyenne’s eyes, a light that van- ished as he heard hoofbeats. When Rance Bardell and his men rode up, Cheyenne walked out to meet them. “This is my party, Bardell,”’ he rasped. “Come and get it!” Bardell ripped out a startled oath, clawed at his holsters. ““Get him, boys!”’ he yelled. “Get the dirty—” The roar of Cheyenne’s gun cut him short. One of the horsebackers turned tail, spurred away in a panic. When Bardell screamed, slid backward over his bronc’s rump and crashed to the ground, a second gunman, triggering a pair of wild shots at Cheyenne, laid low on his kak pommel and quirted his bronc back the way he had come. The third gunnie was pouring a hail of lead at Cheyenne. Cheyenne staggered as a hot slug tore at his hip and another GOMIGIOO S EO