Fifteen Western Tales, January 1953 — page 41: what you’re looking at

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

THE BUSHWHACK BARGAIN 41 _ She returned the stare and moved up to the counter. “Here,” she said, picking up the watch. Her smile broadened. ‘You'll need this. We're having a dance tonight, down at the. old barn near the river. It’s at eight o’clock. You'll need this to tell the time.” He looked at the watch as though he had never seen it before, and then up into her eyes for a moment, hesitating, forgetting for an instant that he hadn't the choice of yes or no. . “That’s a right nice invitation, Miss Clay- burn,” he said slowly, “but I can’t accept.” “Then take the watch anyway, Mister . . Mister?” She looked at him questioningly. “Thanks, Miss,” he said. He ignored her request for his name. She would know it soon enough, he thought. She would hate him then, and hate herself for having been such a fool. “I always pay for what I get,” he said, and started for the door. | “But come anyway,” she said. “It’s your choice.” She wasn’t urging him now, only being friendly, warm and friendly in a way - that he had forgotten. He stopped, turned about, and for a fleet- ing instant met her smile. “There zs no choice,” he said and went cut the door. UTSIDE the sun had left the street and off to the west, in the foothills, it was going down in a red-orange glow in the sky. There were a few men on the street now, hurrying to their homes or toward the saloon. Old Mark Clayburn should be around somewhere. He shouldn’t be hard to find. Harder hitched at his gun belt and started wp the sidewalk, his face tightened now and his eyes narrowed a little against the final brightness of the sun. But he was careless. The job had seemed too easy at first. When he came to the cor- ner of the alley and stepped off the high way with a thud he saw too late the group of men standing by his horse. His hand made an instinctive movement toward the holster but the men had their guns out and he stopped short, cursing to himself. “That’s the man,” he heard someone say. He recognized the little storekeeper and his companion of that afternoon in the saloon. There were two or three other men, men that he didn’t know. He tried to back up a step, but he collided with the walk and stopped abruptly. © “Let him have it,” the storekeeper said. A man next to him raised his Winchester and Jesse started to leap aside, toward the corner of the building. The shot went wide but his boot heel caught on the edge of the walk and he crashed into the building and rolled back again into the street. The man levered home another shell and Harder got to his knees, his hand jerking at the Colt, when he heard the voice yell, “Hold it men!” He looked up and saw Mark Clay- burn coming up the alley from the rear. He had his gun out, held steadily in front of him, and there was a look of quiet anger in his eyes. Jesse got to his feet and Clayburn came toward him, then stopped half-way between him and the group of townsmen. “Since when do you coyotes do my fight- ing for me?” he said back over his shoulder. “This man’s a killer, Mark,” the store- keeper said. ‘He’s Jesse Harder, a hired gunny.” “Sure, and I know who hired him,” Clay- burn said quietly. ‘But I’m the law in this town, not you. This man ain’t done nothing but talk and it’s my job to see that’s what he keeps doing.” ‘Don’t count on it, Sheriff,” Jesse said, his eyes fixed on the muzzle of the old man’s Colt. Clayburn noted the direction of Jesse’s eyes, smiled, and slipped the gun into its holster. ‘‘Lookee, Mister,” he said. ‘““‘We all know you. [ got a.dozen posters ‘on you down at the office. You’re a tough man. But there ain’t no man so tough that he needs killing as bad as these fellas think you do. For me, maybe I would a thought different twenty years ago, but times have changed. I’m old now and I’m peaceable. Yoi’re no pup yourself. There’ll come a time when killing. a man won't be so easy to swallow. It'll stick in your craw; it won’t go down and you won’t be able to spit it up. You'll learn that. Right now, I’m givin’ you your chance. Get on that horse and start riding. And some- day give a man the same chance that I’m givin’ you.” “You don’t give me any choice, Mister Clayburn,” Jesse said, shrugging his shoul- ders indifferently. ‘“That’s right, son, there isn’t any choice.” Harder looked at the old man once and then moved passed him, pushed his way cComicbooks CO