Fifteen Western Tales, January 1953 — page 59: what you’re looking at

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

DRAW FAST—OR DIES 59 was trapped ... and alone . . . forever. With Seth Brackson dead and gone, Bar- ney realized how much strength the quiet old man had given him, how much Barney had depended on Brackson. And: he re- membered what Brackson had said once to him: “You're something like my son was to me, Barney. He looked a lot like you. He was very young, like you, and he hadn’t learned yet to be tough. He never got a chance to learn. A Sherman man shot him down by Kennesaw Mountain.” Maybe he thought Barney’d grow into something, like he knew his son would have if he hadn’t been shot down at Kennesaw Mountain. Barney’s breath choked in his throat. He was almost glad Brackson had been dead, because now Brackson would never know that Barney had come seeking up here earlier to try to steal a sheaf or two of dirty yellow bills. Barney stopped, and Begbie went on down the passageway toward Brackson’s office, where Bat Masterson and his deputies were looking around. Who had murdered Brack- son. Who could have—? {t didn’t matter, because they’d stick him with it. Maybe they would; maybe they wouldn’t. But anyway, Brackson was dead, - and hadn’t deserved to die. Barney couldn’t face him now, even dead. He slipped out of the passageway into an empty” card room. T WAS DARK. He stumbled — the dark toward an open window. It was a - twenty foot drep or so to the ground. He’d run for it, tell Clara—what would he tell Clara? No—he’d go on anywhere, fade out. Maybe that would be good for Clara. Then she’d know for sure what he was. He tipped over a box by the window. He started to climb out the window, and his hands brushed against the canvas sack, tied up fast and hard. He knew what was in it, he knew where it came from. He crouched down, his eyes growing accustomed to the light. Hig--fingers fumbled at the heavy cord, and then he spilled the thick sheafs of tapped currency. Minutes marched past through the dark- ness of the room as Barney crouched there, a sheaf of yellow thousand dollar bills in each hand. The killer had cached it here, temporarily, hidden it in that box, waiting to make a getaway. Someone in the saloon, one of the gamblers who knew they wouldn’t be using this room for a spell. He stuffed the money back in the sack and started to tie it up. The door opened slowly. A ray of light fell on Barney’s hands, on the sack. In silhouette, he saw a tall thin outline, and then the door closed and Begbie was standing over him. His jeweled belt glit- tered, as did the pearl handle of his .41 Colt in its studded holster. Barney half rose, on one foot and knee, still clutching the sack. He had the money now. All he'd ever need. He could still try to get Begbie, and if he did, he could run with the money. With Clara, he could get out of town tonight. They’d never suspect Barney, not for a while. Maybe he could get free, live free, give Clara all the gold of heaven— Begbie said. “They’re taking his body out now, Barney, carrying it on a door. I didn’t say anything to Masterson. I didn’t know—but now—” “IT didn’t kill him,” Barney said. “I couldn’t. I was scared and stepped in here because I thought you were going to tell the Sheriff I’d killed him. I was going to, try to get away. I found the money and— Begbie’s laughter came down softly through the dark. “You can’t even lie strong, Barney. You sound guilty, guiltier than hell.” Barney dropped the sack. He stood up. “Don’t try to jump me, Barney.” Barney saw the pearl-handied gun slide free, heard the oi’y click of the hammer going back. “Wait a minute, Begbie. I’m tellin’ the truth. You got to believe I’m tellin’ the truth. Whoever killed him brought the money here to hide it until he could get it out of the saloon. Whoever did it will be here to get the money, tonight, right soon probably. We'll wait here, Begbie. We'll wait together and he'll show up. Then you'll know. If I’m lyin’, no one will come.” Begbie was silent for a while. Finally he said. “All right, Barney. A skunk deserves a fightin’ chance. We’ll wait a while. But not too long. Masterson is the prowling kind.” They waited for what seemed several hundred years. Begbie had moved back into a corner, and gradually Barney could dis- tinguish the highlights of his face, the white shiny bone structure and the hollows and CoMmicbooks CO