Fifteen Western Tales, January 1953 — page 88: what you’re looking at

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

88 | FIFTEEN WESTERN TALES a powerful argument for the prosecution. - Nor had Clint Farley, at his trial, denied that he had visited the Cross L man shortly before- he was killed. Denial would have been useless, anyhow, for Jim Blaney, Mc- Caulley’s partner in the Cross L, and Ed Seminole, a puncher for the outfit, had met Farley as he rode away from the Cross L. Riding on, they had found Jess McCaulley dead beside the gate. So they had testified at the trial. Accepting the evidence at face salu Sam Fenton had taken for granted the guilt of the man who once had been his partner. Now, looking into Farley’s blood-shot, glar- ing eyes, the deputy remembered that Far- ley, throughout the trial, had steadfastly maintained that he was innocent of the mur- der. Clint Farley had been plenty wild. He had drunk too much, gambled too much, but he had never been a liar... . “Clint,” said Fenton suddenly, “you got no chance to get away. This canyon’s bot- tled tighter than a drum. Give me your gun. If you didn’t kill Jess McCaulley, I give you my word I'll never quit until I clear you.” The fugitive’s lips curled back in a sav- age mocking grin. “Go to hell!” he snapped. “T want no favors from you——now or ever! You and me got all our business caught up long ago. You whipped me once, but this time I got the drop! Cut loose your gun belt!” “They'll get you, Clint. chance.” “Let ’em!” Farley was snarling now. “TI won’t go to the pen. Unhook that belt. Td hate to have to drill you.” You got no E HAD taken his stand in a hollow in the rocks at the gulley’s edge, with the ten-foot high cutbank behind him. Now, suddenly, watching that passion-torn face, Sam Fenton caught his breath. At the edge of the cut-bank behind Farley appeared the face, the figure of a man. Jim Blaney! And a great wave of relief swept over Fenton then, for he saw that they would be able to take Farley in alive. Covered by Farley’s gun, he watched dispassionately while Blaney leaned far out over the bank. He watched the six-gun level in the big man’s hand. He waited for the crisp com- mand that would end the situation. Clint Farley moved impatiently. you, unloose that gun belt!” he snapped. His “Damn gun lifted menacingly. again!” Still Blaney did not announce himself. Leaning far out over the bank, gun. poised in his hand, he still delayed the sharp com- mand that would make Farley prisoner. Then, all at once, Sam Fenton realized _that there would be no command. There would be no word of warning for the man who covered from behind. Blaney’s face was a dark mask of hatred, and his mouth was set in a cruel line. He was going to shoot Clint Farley in the back! His thumb was on the hammer— No time, then, for Fenton to shout a warn'ng. Hardly time for thought. Swifter than thought was the deputy in action. Ignoring Farley’s gun, leveled at his breast, the deputy stabbed for his Colt. The gun came up spouting. Blaney, the avenger, smashed off balance by the slug, let the gun slip from his fingers, and stumbled at the very edge of the bank. He grasped desper- ately for a handhold as he tottered, then tripped and pitched head foremost into the gulley. Blaney threw out an unavailing arm in the instant before his ucad struck against a rock. Then the big Cross L man lav quiet and still. | Farley had spun around as Blaney fell. Now he looked at the deputy. A long mo- ment of silence, and Sam Fenton spoke erimly; “He was going to plug you in the back.” “T had a dead drop,” said Clint Farley, and there was a queer look in his eves. “You went for your gun. You knew you was taking chances. Why did you do it, Sam?” Sam Fenton grinned at him. ‘You didn’t know Blaney was there,’ he said. “You must have figured I was drawing down on you. Why didn't you shoot, Clint?” They studied each other in .that sun- drenched hillside. Slowly Climt Farley shook his head. “Let it go, Sam. I’m obliged.” He dropped his Colt into the holster. “Call the sheriff and let’s get back to town.” San’ Fenton stooped and turned the un- conscious Blaney on his back. There was a bump on the Cross L man’s forehead where he had brought up against the rock; blood was slowly blotting out the color on the right sleeve of Blaney’s shirt. The deputy slit the sleeve, folded it back. His hasty shot had torn a jagged hole through Blaney’s upper arm. With a bandage he stopped the COmiclboo SS “T won’t tell you CO