Fifteen Western Tales, January 1953 — page 80: what you’re looking at

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

80 ing had been accomplished. And, he had saved a good woman from a bad man... . But there’d be hell poppin’ in the morning, when the folks found their beloved Mayor dead as hell in his bed! IM KENNEDY slept late the following morning. By the time he reached his favorite hangout, the Long Branch Saloon, he realized that the évident grief of the people, gathered along the streets in large and small groups, was more than he had bargained for. Even the men in the Lang Branch seemed unduly sad about the pass- ing of one Dog Kelley. There were tears coursing down the weathered cheeks of the bartender. “What’s everybody so gloomy ahout?” asked Jim Kennedy Somebody kick the bucket?” The barman nodded silently. “Must be somebody prominent.” Kennedy, playing it cagy. “It was somebody real prominent,” sniffed the bartender. “We all loved her, toc. There wasn’t nothin’ we wouldn’t have done for her. She was so good to everybody—” Kennedy stiffened. “Her? What d’vou mean—-Her? You mean him, don’t you?” ‘“No—her. Dora Hand was murdered in hed, last night. Poor Dora!” Kennedy braced himself. He knew the answer before he asked, “What the hell you talkin’ about. It was the mayor—” “No,” said the bar man. He was too grief Stricken to realize the slin Jim had just made. “It was Dora Hand. The bullets was prob- ably meant for the mayor, because nobody would want to kill Dora. But Dora was sleepin’ in the mayor’s bed—”’ “Did she always sleep in—” “No!” the barman shouted. “It ain’t what you're thinkin’. See, at the hotel where Dora lived thay been paintin’ and fixin’ up her room to make it suit such a pretty wom- an. Meantime, Dora had to have a place to sleep. Well, the mayor had to go to Omaha, Jor several days. He left yesterday. So, as long as his house was vacant, he told Dora to use his bed while he was away—until her room was ready for her.” Kennedy, in a horrified daze, had heard said enough. The enormity of his crime weighing - heavily upon him, he plodded around town until he found Bat Masterson. Calling Bat aside, he said to the famous lawman, “Bat, FIFTEEN WESTERN TALES I want you to shoot me dead. Right here, Right now.” Masterson, always a cool head, said, “Sim- mer down, sonny. I got enough trouble here this morning. What’s wrong with you?” Quietly, then, Jim Kennedy told Bat Mas- terson the entire story. At this point Bat Masterson made one of those highly original decisions for which he was famous. “Son,” he said, “these folks would lynch you right off the minute the news was out.” : “Phen tell them 7 killed Dora.” said Jim. “J deserve to die. Let them string me up pronto.” Bat shook his head. ‘‘Wouldn’t do no good. either wav. I don’t held with lynchin’s at all. And they wouldn't let us hold you for a trial. You sure did wrong——but it wasn’t a deliberate killing. Now, you go to the livery barn, get your horse, and light cut of town. Go beck to Texas. This thing is Just hetween veu and m. This way, it’l] save touble all around. Now, be a good feller a -and git!” “But I want to die,” persisted Kennedy. » ft \ “YT killed Dora---and JT loved her.” “Maybe dyin’ would be too good for you, son.” said Bat. “You'll be payin’ penalty enough just by thinkin’ what an awful thing you done. Git your horse and git out afore I change my mind.” Masterson went along to the livery stable and waited while Jim saddled up. Then he rode to the outskirts of town and watched Kennedy disappear down the trail. Two days later a farmer, bringing vegeta- bles into market, stopped his team on the road and scrambled down a small hill to get a drink of cool water from a little stream about three miles from Dodge City. But he didn’t get the drink. Lying in the water was the body of Jim Kennedy. He had shot himself through the head. A clear case of suicide. Bat Masterson brought to light the fact that the whole thing might have been a tragedy of error. Mayor Kelley emphati- cally denied that he had ever been known at Pitch Willser, and claimed he had never seen Jim Kennedy before. “Not only that,” insisted the Mayor, “but I absolutely never held up a stagecoach... .” He was silent for a moment, then added thoughtfully, “In Texas, that is.” 8 @& G COmiclbooks.Gom