Cowboy Short Stories, November 1939 — page 77: what you’re looking at

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

718 COWBOY SHORT STORIES but snarled back like some animal when Frane seized his arm and shook him. “See here, kid, what’s the idea of tryin’ to kill me?” “C-Callon told me to!’ Tombstone Frane stiffened. Callon! The naine held a familiar ring. Frane’s eyes, invisible behind the squinting lids which gave to his wind-burnt face a dangerously sleepy expression, gleamed. He remem- bered. Callon’s name had been mentioned in the letter he’d got from the mayor of Selby. Callon and WHardell. The men whom Tombstone Frane had come north from Arizona to drive out of Selby—or kill! He muttered to himself, “So thet’s the kind of coyotes they are, sic a kid onto me to do their dirty work! Wall, Callon an’ Hardell, we'll see... .” He was suddenly a little tired of all this death and dangerous life which made up his profession. He was giving up after this one last job—this task of cleaning up Selby. He was storing away his gun for good. He'd lost his taste for the wild music of gunplay. Besides, the coun- try was changing; organized law had en- tered, and Tombstone Frane was of the old order that settled with powder and steel. He pushed the kid forward, and grunted, “Better go back to yore nipple, son, an’ wait a few years before: yuh try gunnin’!” He was turning away, acutely conscious of the ache all through him which cried for rest in a soft bed, when running footsteps jerked him alert. He spun, his tall, limber body tensing like a steel rod. A girl had darted through the weeds and was sobbing against the kid’s head, which she’d drawn to her breast. A young, slender girl, body vivid with life. RANE — glimpsed her eyes, - shiny through tears. The kid’s sister, he thought. Those eyes pierced through him, pleaded with him. Manifestly she’d seen what had -happened. Her voice shook. “Oh, please, ne didn’t mean it! Hon estly he didn’t!’ “A lead slug ain’t easy to swaller, an I came blamed near swallerin’ one!” Frane commented dryly. ‘“But—oh, sir, it’s all Callon’s fault!” Her cheeks flamed in anger. ‘I—I’d like to kill him!” Frane heard his dry, hard voice remark, “That’s what I’m here for, so don’t you bother yoreself !’’ ‘‘Are you Tombstone Frane?”’ Her eyes searched his face, seeking he didn’t know what but surmised to be confirmation of some hope. “Are you the man the mayor hired from down south to clean up Selby?” “Reckon I am, ma’am—’ “I'm Lois Thompson. I teach school here. This is my brother, Jack!’ She released the kid and took a step forward, to Frane. She was small, Frane saw; her head came scarcely to the knot that held the dusty neckerchief around his throat. The trust suddenly roused in her eyes caused the Arizona man’s pulse to throb with ex- citement—an emotion that not even danger could rouse in his cold, calculating and measured disposition. No person had ever before put the faith in him which she seemed to do. | “I’m so glad you're Frane! I—I was afraid you'd be like those other men the mayor got up here, brutes, all of them, who didn’t think of a thing but their guns and earning money on the side. Two of them hired out to Callon and Hardell after the mayor had called them in!” ‘An’ what happened to the others?” Frane asked. He saw fear leap into her eyes. Her cheeks whitened and a small hand went to her throat. ““They’re dead!” she whispered. The hand came forward; Frane felt it quiv- er against his arm. “You won't let them kill you, will you?” “Not if I can help it!” Frane returned, in his hard, level voice. ‘“This is my last job. I’m quittin’! Settlin’ down, mebby. . . . Nope, I reckon I don’t want to git killed right now. I aim to run them two skunks out of town, but if they won't run, I aim to kill them! I'll git them like I got others—let ‘em draw first an’ then smear ‘em out!” He said it simply, without boasting. He scarcely knew what he said; his voice was a far-away drone of sound. The exhilara- tion of the girl’s interest in him was run- ning like alcohol through his veins. He knew now why he was weary of the life he led; he wanted things that didn’t go with death and killing, and foremost among them was the love of a woman. “You don’t look good to me!” the boy Jack cut in. “I reckon Callon’ll polish you off jest as if you never was here!” “You see?” Lois Thompson whispered. CoOnniclooo S Go