Fifteen Western Tales, January 1953 — page 55: what you’re looking at

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

DRAW FAST—OR DIE! 55 at the end of the sawdust floor. Several gamblers came from the card rooms upstairs ‘and sauntered down the bar and stood be- side Seth Brackson to order drinks. Barney served them and his heart swelled and his ‘stomach felt empty as he saw their rolls of green and yellow bills, big enough to choke a longhorn steer. One of the gamblers, a lean tall dude in a frock coat, with a bowler hat set back on his bald head, was Corey Begbie, Brackson’s partner, an Easterner who had helped finance Brack- son’s saloon venture. He was the brains. Brackson the front. As a tip, Begbie contemptuously tossed Barney a ten dollar bill. Barney slid the wet paper off the bar and stuffed it under his apron, into his levi pocket. ‘Another gambler, a whiskey peddler who made his pile sneaking in sugared alcohol to the Indians, swore and pounded the bar. “Lost my damned dirty shirt ag’n!” he yelled. | Barney stared at the big roll of bills another gambler was counting off casually. His fingers twitched on the bar rag, and he licked his lips. lost sneered at Barney. _“You got a real good racket, you have, Barney. Can’t recall Brackson or Begbie _ here ever hiring a dude tinhorn for a bar- jumper ‘afore. Don’t even carry a gun, do your A fine racket. Big tips every night, all the free rotgut you want, maybe filchin’ the till here an’ then. What a setup, Barney. You know, I think Ill get me a nice little wifie, an’ spread the word around that she’s fainty-sick near to dyin’; then, maybe, Brackson’ll take me in, an’ set me up with a soft job. If—” Brackson’s usually kind face went hard, and his blue eyes iced over. His right hand flashed across the ‘air, the heavy diamond ring glinting. The gambler who always lost swore and stumbled back, a red gash ap- pearing across his forehead, blood running down into his eyes. Brackson rubbed his ring thoughtfully. “You been riding the kid too much,” he said. “Go out an’ peddle your alcohol, and stay out a’ here. The kid’s all right, but youre not. Now, keep yore claw away from thet hoglaig—and git!” But Anson didn’t move. Instead, he bent in a half crouch, snarling, his hand hooked above the walnut butt of his six-shooter. The gambler who always ‘honest man seldom crossed. Barney’s throat was dry as his hands clenched the bar. Then he saw Begbie and the other gamblers step back out of range’ as Brackson flipped back his coat and dropped his hand to a double-barreled der- ringer in a shoulder holster. An expectant quiet filtered down the length of the long room and slid up the un- painted stairs above the piano. The little fat man who had been playing the same jig tune over and over, stopped and turned around. Tables and chairs in the mud- colored sawdust of the ‘floor scraped back. Men backed away from the bar. The busy roulette wheels and dice tables in the far corner went momentarily out of business. Barney felt sick in the stomach. In his nostrils, the smell was thick and rancid and hot, the small of Dodge, the smell of death and stale beer and bad whiskey. A drunken woman with faded blond hair looked up from a table and laughed tonelessly, then dropped her head back down in her arms, overturning a bottle of whiskey. Barney had seen it too many times to be bothered much, except that now he thought _of Seth Brackson going down with a bullet in him, and it made him cold inside. He thought about how now, if he had any guts, he might step in and repay Brackson for all he’d done for him. A .45 was under the bar. But Barney just stood there, frozen, his hands gripping the bar edge. And Anson said. ‘Your crooked house- boys have high-staked me to hell fer the last time, Brackson. You’ve taken me fer every cent I ever hauled in here. You run a crooked game here, Brackson, an’ I’m callin’ your dirty hand!” Barney took a sharp breath. Everyone | knew Brackson and _ Begbie’s honesty. Everyone knew what happened when Brack- son was accused of the contrary. He was honest and square, and handled his own scrapes, though there had been very few run-ins between him and Dodge. He wasn’t a gunman, and he wasn’t the type of man to draw the fire of others. Just a fair and But now the showdown had come. Anson was lightning fast on the draw. And Brack- son was short on practice. ARNEY’S hand crept down beneath the bar. The .45 kept there by one of the other bar-jumpers touched his wet fingers. comicbooks.com