Fifteen Western Tales, January 1953 — page 60: what you’re looking at

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

60 FIFTEEN WESTERN TALES shadows between. His breath was long and even. Always calm, .always smooth, was Begbie, the man from the East, the man from Chicago. “Barney leaned back against the wall by the window, and after awhile he realized that his right hand was gripping the butt of the big .45 he’d thrust into the waistband of his levis. The gun felt clammy and cold under his palm. He felt his fingers curl slowly until he was gripping the butt tight and hard. He stared at the closed door; he couldn’t take his eyes off of it. The sounds of the saloon below seemed to fade. The sounds from the roaring hell of Front Street, that faded too. Nothing existed anymore but that door, and a few scattered memories, the things a man always wants to remember before he dies. The things Clara had said: “Barney .. . I’ve never even been on a farm. ...I hear it’s awfully wild out West. ... but I know you can handle anything, Barney ...I know Pll never have to worry as long as I’m with you... .” Barney’s lips moved in the dark. ‘“Re- member when you said those things, Clara. And then remember tonight. But forget what happened in between.” He remembered the scattered advice Old Seth Brackson had given him, like he would have given it to his own son if he hadn’t fallen in bloody Georgia by a blue coat’s rifle. “Every man’s a coward up until his first shoot-out. Some men never have that shoot- out, and they never know whether they’re strong or weak ... when a man really dies, it’s clean and quick ... but a coward dies every minute of his life .. always lives too long... .” Barney whispered silently, the words echo- ing back into his brain. ‘“‘Where ever you are, Seth, help me. Just stand by; that’s all. Just watch, and if some- thing starts goin’ wrong, tell me, Seth.” Footsteps went up and down the passage- way beyond the door. Voices faded off and on, money-talk. Ten thousand dropped with one card. Twenty thousand on the barrel- head. . — lips stretched petatully, Sweat trickled down his ribs. Again and again he had to swallow to open up his throat. And he finally released his grip on the Colt .and a coward | handle, and found his fingers paralyzed, numb. He was flexing that hand when the door opened abruptly. — The broad stetson, the broad shoulders, the tall, rawboned frame. The vest and hat would be gray if it were light. Jethro... The big gunman hesitated, then came for- ward and closed the door. He stood, breath- ing heavily, adjusting his eyes to the dark. Barney slid the heavy Colt free, lifted it. He drew in a deep silent breath, sweet .rare breath when it’s a man’s last. And he thought of all the things he’d wanted to do, the big plains farm he was going to build, the waving oceans of wheat that were to be his . . . the kids, wild free sun-blackened kids, they would have been his too. And the thought of Clara made a_ throbbing vibrant ache in his head. He waited for that sick, empty fear, that helpless vomity fear. And it didn’t come. There was no feeling at all. Just a gray vest and a gray stetson coming toward him through the last twilight. He heard his voice say. “No use walkin’ any further, JeuMs. Might as well die right there.” Jethro’s huge frame seemed to freeze, then shrink down into a dark tense blob. His voice was harsh. ‘“What’n billy hell,” he said. | “It’s me—Barney Stevens—the stubble- jumper you never gave a chance to stubble- jump. One afternoon I ran down Front Street without any boots on. A certain wild Texan was shooting at my feet. I’m going to kill you, Jethro,” Jethro’s laugh was short ani low. “It _takes practice to deal that hand, clod-hop- per.” “The way you dealt it out to Seth Brackson, shooting him in the belly while he had his hands on the top of his desk.” “Any ole’ way at all, clod-hopper, it all plays out the same.” HE DARK blob moved, tiger-fast, swooping to one side, and there was the slap of flesh on leather. Barney had never shot a revolver, even in the light. He’d had practice with a squirrel rifle, that was all. All he could do was stand and keep slam- ming in shots, slamming them blindly and fast, and he did that. He’d seen the blasting orange stabbing at him, and dimly- heard the blare and thun- CoMmicboooks CO