Pulp Fiction, 1953 · page 32 of 116
Fifteen Western Tales, January 1953 — page 32: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# Page Description This page contains story prose from a Western pulp fiction magazine titled "Fifteen Western Tales." The narrative follows a woman who has manipulated a courthouse clock by adjusting its hands at different faces to show different times—apparently as part of a scheme involving a man named Dell and a character named Andrew Cameron, who appears to be her husband. The text describes her anxiety about the plan, her observation of a horse tied outside a bar, and her return home to prepare Andrew Cameron's noon meal, where he arrives carrying a gun. The page is primarily dense text with no illustrations visible.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
32 FIFTEEN WESTERN TALES an aperture just big enough for a man... or woman ... to thrust out an arm and reach the hands of the clock. She felt for the hands. “Tt might—yjust — might work,” she muttered as her fingers closed over one of the big metal hands .. . the long one . . . the minute hand. She pulled stoutly on the hand, moving it forward a few inches. tugged it a little further. Then she snapped shut the little door and turned to the south face. Opening the little door facing south she peered out, searching. In front of one of the bars and saloons along the south side of the square she saw what-she sought. Bob Dell’s. big red chestnut gelding with the white stocking on its right rear foot was tied to the hitch rack in front of Tim’s Bar. She rec- ognized the horse instantly because it was famous for its speed and Bell was mighty proud of it. She made a clucking sound with - her lips. If the horse was there, Dell was bound to be inside . . . where he could see the South face of the clock . . steps of the court house every time he looked out. Even if Dell owned a watch he wouldn’t bother to look at it with the big clock staring at him from across the street.’ She reached out a hand that trembled a little, grasped the minute hand-of the clock’s South face and pulled it back . .. hard. Then she slowly closed the little door and climbed down the ladder and LE out of the courthouse. — | If anyone had seen ‘her ferpenting ‘with the clock, there was no way she could know. She just had to take a chance on that. Sooner or later someone would notice the clock faces did not show the same time but it might go undetected for a day or- two . at least long enough for her purpose. With renewed hope she made a dignified circuit of the square, covertly observing each of the four faces in turn, trying mentally to estimate how many minutes it took her to walk around the little square. The hands on the South face showed ten- six. Those on the North ten-fifteen. Allow- ing a minute or so for the time it took her to walk around that meant the North face was approximately ten minutes faster than the South face. | . There was nothing more she could do just then, so murmuring a little prayer she turned North and walked the three blocks to her She paused, . and the South -. home, where Andrew Cameron, according to his custom, would eat his noon meal at his own table. As she walked swiftly, gazing straight in front of her, she hoped she had: not over- played her scheme, had not changed the time so much the difference would be obvi- ous. She realized her entire plan was founded on a slender thread of Time—ten minutes— and if the thread snapped— She shook her head, refusing to think. She had his meal ready even before she heard his firm step on the little front porch. Then there he was, looming big and tall in the tiny dining room. “Howdy, honey,’ he greeted her quietly and she ran for his kiss, holding him to her, feeling the hard muscles of his arms and chest. Then she backed off, looked up at him, a hand on his right arm. today, Andrew?” He was taking off his coat, then the heavy belt with the big gun and cartridges. He laid the gun carefully on a chair before he an- swered. “Better,” he said. ‘Almost well.” But she knew it wasn’t true because she’d felt him flinch a-little when he held her to him for that kiss. She turned away lantly, bringing food to the table. She hurried because she knew he wouldn’t eat until she had everything on the table and was seated with him. That was just one of the things about Andrew she liked, a quiet, natural courtesy. S SHE brought food to the table she studied this big beloved man of hers. At thirty-two, Andrew Cameron was easily the best looking man in Painted Rock. There was a clean, rugged strength about him that revealed itself in‘every little gesture. Now, he was offering her the meat platter, holding it carefully in a big, brown hand. Not awk- wardly but competently and carefully. It was his way. She looked at his broad forehead. Wide jet black brows, over deep-set intensely blue eyes. Rather long naturally wavy black hair. The long, hard jaw, the strong tanned neck. But the nose was what marked him. It was a strong man’s nose, high arched but perfect- ly straight. And on each side of it, two faint lines were beginning to etch themselves down the cheeks toward the corners of the wide, firm mouth. It was the face of a strong man, a leader, the face of a man to inspire con- oO comicbooks “How is it. (CO