Cowboy Short Stories, November 1939 — page 81: what you’re looking at

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

82 be, would most certainly be blotted out of the picture quickly. And Lois loved Jack... Tombstone Frane spun his horse by short rein. He flung the bag of money into the dust before the hoofs of Callon’s mount. “Listen, Callon an’ Heardell!’’ he ordered in his cold, deadly voice. “I’m the special marshal of Selby, an’ I’m warnin’ you two to be outa town by twelve o'clock. Tonight! Pack an’ get!” ‘So you changed yore mind, eh?” Har- dell questioned. Some throat ailment dimin- ished his voice to a hoarse whisper. But a deadly whisper! “You two heard me! Outa town by twelve oclock! If you're still here, I’m usin’ lead force! T’ll wait up in my room, an’ on the stroke of twelve I start out look- in’ for you!” Callon dismounted and picked up the bag. He didn’t raise his eyes or his voice, but his words were clean-cut and sharp as a pistol shot. “At twelve o'clock, Frane, Hardell an’ I will be in the Northern bar there down the street! An’ we'll be waitin’ for you!” ANE watched the hands of the clock, dimly illumined by the light of a smoky kerosene lamp, creep towards the twelve mark. With twenty minutes to go, he began to inspect his gun. At ten minutes to midnight, he'd made sure that his wea- pon would not fail him; he got slowly to his feet, strapped the holster about his hips, and thrust the dully-gleaming .45 into it. He tried his hand a couple of times, and was satisfied with his lightning draw. Until this moment, as was his way, he’d been icy cold and emotionless. But now, with the ivory butt cuddled in his palm and the hands of the clock meeting towards midnight, he felt the thrill of the killer— a sensation he hadn’t experienced in years. His breath shortened; his heart tumbled wildly. But he did not permit it to grip him; outwardly nothing appeared—this man with the half-closed eyes was a hard and ruthless statue of granite without feeling of any sort beneath. Which was the reputa- tion by which the lawless knew him, and a reputation he’d uphold within the next few minutes. He went downstairs and into the moon- lit night. There was a barrel of water and a dipper near the door; he drank deeply but not too deeply to cool the fire that had roused in him. He went along the street. COWBOY SHORT STORIES Flame jumped through his veins. And then he calmed himself with the realization that this was his job—this killing outlaws after he'd warned them. There must be none of the killer-lust within him. He shot to up- hold Jaw and order. After that, he strode along as uncon- cernedly as a man going to his daily work. But the steps that followed weren’t so un- concerned; they pattered nervously along the board walk and came to a halt beside Frane. Lois! The moonlight touched her cheeks and hair, and the slender length of her body. Something within Frane shook at her beauty—and the fact that she could never be his! “Oh, Frane, I—I heard about you! Cal- lon’s been bragging. Are you going down to the Northern and shoot it out with him?” ‘That's what I contracted to do!” Frane said harshly. ‘'P-please, Frane, be careful! Callon is a killer !”’ ‘So am I!” Frane reminded her. “Frane, I—I think it was wonderful of you to refuse that bribe—” Frane said nothing. He couldn’t. Some force tugged at his throat, and muted him. So he walked on, ignoring her and never looking back, and presently her footsteps followed him no more. Then Frane ven- tured to glance back; sight of the empty, moonlit street made him feel queer inaide: He went swiftly to the Northern, and with his boot crashed open the swinging doors. He was unnecessarily violent, for the killer-rage had roused again, and he wanted to diminish it with a show of physical force before the final gun-flame showdown. Inside the bar, the place was hushed and strained; the card tables were empty, with most of the men gathered at the bar. Frane saw why, and his lips were touched by a grim grin—the way to a swift retreat was open from the bar. Behind the mahogany top the keeper was swabbing glasses ner- vously. His eyes jerked shiftily when Frane entered. Obviously, he didn’t want to ap- ear nervous, and began to hum a tune which lifted sharply above the subdued hum of half-whispering men. “The grass of old Montannay— Is green as green as can—” The words froze in his throat when Frane, stepping into a place magically clearéd for him at the bar, ordered a drink. “Yessir, yessit, Mr. Frane! Comin’ up!” Frane turned to face the room. He saw nothing of Callon the mild, or the whisper- CoOnniclooo S Go