Cowboy Short Stories, November 1939 — page 82: what you’re looking at

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

SPAWN OF THE GUN-LOBO 83 ing Hardell. But the eyes of many men were hostile, and their faces contorted with hat- red. Frane swept them indifferently; he knew the breed, and knew that once he had killed Callon and Hardell these men would be as faithful to his law and order as they had been to the outlaws’ disorder and crookedness. “Any of you hombres seen Callon an’ Hardell?” he inquired of them at large, “I’m special peace officer here an’ I give them two hombres until twelve to pack outa town. It’s twelve now!” When no man vouchsafed an answer, he turned to the barkeep and repeated the ques- tion. That individual seemed almost in a faint, but mustered enough energy to pipe, “Nosif, nosir, ain’t seen ’em!” “I reckon mebby they’ve left town, then?” Frane pursued. “I—I couldn’t rightly say—” The man’s lips froze; his eyes stared with peculiar intentness and affright past Frane’s head. And simultaneously the men at the bar began edging away. Frane laughed. He was cold as ice, with the killer- just gone; filled only with his desire to have a disagreeable job over with. He knew what was happening—Callon and Hardell, hidden up to this point in a back room, were advancing on him from behind. “Yore licker is good, barkeep. Seein’ as how I’m the special peace officer around here, I reckon I rate a drink free, eh?” He leaned over, the bar top hard against his stomach, and poked the keeper in the chest. The man leaped as if shot. “Nervous, barkeep? Take my advice an’ sleep more! Sleep'll settle the nerves like nothin’ else!”’ “A good, long sleep is goin’ to settle yore nerves for good!’’ Callon’s soft voice purred behind him. ANE spun, in exaggerated surprise. “Callon, I didn’t figure to see you here!” he ejaculated, “I figgered you an’ Hardell would be outa town by now!” ‘Jolly old cuss, ain’t you?” Hardell whis- pered. He was a little behind Callon, and to one side. His eyes were harsh, as com- pared with the bland but dangerous gleam in his leadet’s coyote look. “Well, well!” Frane permitted a thin, hard smile to ripple along his lips, ‘I don’t exactly aim to spread sweetness an’ light, but I aim to git on the best I can!” Then suddenly he made his voice jerk like the lash of a blacksnake, “I thought I told you an’ Callon to be outa town by twelve!” “An’ I said,” Callon reminded him soft- ly, “that I'd be here at twelve!” Frane was acting now. Acting as he'd acted before, a prelude to gunsmoke and lead. He said, “You boys are plumb tough about it, ain't you? I jest ask you peaceable to leave town, an’ now you git nasty!” ‘‘Mebby we'd better jest turn about, an’ invite you to leave town!” Callon suggested. “Ain't you boys jest uppity mavericks!” Frane jeered, “You can’t be serious, can’t you? Don’t yuh remember it was me or- dered you to leave town?” He pushed himself away from the bar with his elbows. He took three apparently aimless steps to the left, placing distance between himself and the two men. A sin- ister movement; the onlookers recognized it, scattered, and the barkeep ducked. ‘So you boys are intent on stayin’ ?” Frane said. Callon stiffened, an imperceptible tensing of muscles that presaged explosive action. His fingers twitched. It wouldn't be long now. In a second Callon would draw. Then it occurred to the Arizona man that he might himself be killed. It had al- ways been thus—no thought of self until this last moment of action. And then a mo- mentary dread of death, a brief moment when vision of himself lying silent on the floor tormented him. Visions and thoughts that vanished in a cool, merciless rage which found climax in the throb of guns. Never once taking his eyes from the two, his fingers fumbled for tobacco and ciga- rette papers. He rolled a white cylinder ex- pertly, ran his tongue along the edge, and with his left hand groped for a match. In his right he held the cigarette, steadied chest-high above the butt of his gun. Failing to find a match, he withdrew his fingers and held them out. “I’m needin’ a match. Got one, Callon ?”’ The man snarled out, his soft voice for once breaking, “I wouldn’t give you any- thin’, LTombstone Frane! Hell, what we standin’ here for? You ordered us out of town. What you aim to do about it?” ‘“Nothin’!”” Frane returned. “Jest stand here an’ wait fer a match—until you crack an’ go for your gun! Then I'll kill yuh!” Callon seemed to freeze, but his fingers continued to twitch with a slow, water-rip- pling motion. Behind him, Hardell tensed. GOMIGIOO S Go