Fifteen Western Tales, January 1953 — page 93: what you’re looking at

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

GUN-MEETING AT MIDNIGHT 93 Con Pardee, he knew, comparing his gun- speed with Pardee’s, making bets on the man they thought would walk away alive. And though he couldn’t make out individ- ual words, Steve Jordan knew that most of the bets would be on Pardee. Con Pardee had ridden into Fever Wells late that afternoon, and since that time the hell-roaring railhead town had talked of nothing else. The town loved a fight like this, the meeting of two quick-draw artists like Con Pardee and Steve Jordan. Pardee, whose specialty it was to let an opponent clear leather before going into his own lightning draw and killing him. And Jor- dan, the hated lawman, the town-tamer whose reputation stretched back to Dodge and Abilene, whose guns had met and beat the best. Steve, a tall man, thinner than most, with eyes old beyond his years, pushed away from the front of the Paradise and shouldered through the batwings. An instant hush came over the Paradise. All motion was suspended. It was a small place, hangout for hardcases, saddle tramps and percentage girls cast off by other saloons. . | He moved across the sawdust to the bar. A space opened up for him, as it always did. They hated him, but beneath the hate lay their fear, and they paid him the respect due his reputation. The barkeep set bottle and glass before him and moved away. Steve poured a drink, sipped it slowly, thinking this drink must be his last—until after the fight. Or maybe, simply his last drink. After a mo- ment, the piano started up again and talk along the bar was resumed. But the talk was quieter now, most of it in careful whis- . pers. The man beside Steve said, ‘Evening, Marshal.” : Steve nodded. “Evening, Lou.” He knew the man well—a man dying of con- sumption, a soured, bitter man who liked nothing better than to taunt other men, knowing his sickness was protection from both fists and guns. Steve cursed softly, wishing he’d picked another place at the bar. “T reckon you'll be drinking light to- night, Marshal,’ Lou said, loudly enough to carry the length of the crowded bar. The murmur of voices stopped again, and Steve knew they were listening, enjoying this. He said nothing. | “T reckon a man facing up to Con Pardee would want all his wits about him,” Lou said thoughtfully. “Folks say he’s even faster than you are, Marshal.” “Folks talk a lot,” Steve said quietly. “You, especially.” “They do for a fact,” Lou said. “They even say you got Con sent to the pen, just so’s you'd have a clear field with Iris Man- ning. Mind you, I couldn’t much blame you. That Iris is about the prettiest little haggage to hit this town in-——” “Shut up,” Steve told him, not raising his voice. ““You’ve said about enough.” But he knew he was bluffing; he couldn’t hit a lunger, a dying man. He glanced at the leering, mocking faces in the yellowed bar mirror, and then back at his drink. “Don’t get riled,” Lou said. “You had_ a job to do, being marshal and all. You was the only witness to that little trouble Con had. You swore he shot that gent down in cold blood, and that’s good enough - for me.” - “There’s a limit,’ Steve said. “You’re pushing it pretty hard, Lou.” Lou pretended not to hear. grew louder. “Guess that judge wasn’t none too sure, though. He gave Con a mighty short term.” He coughed into a handkerchief. “Even so, Con got out a heap quicker than most of us His voice figured he would. Two years. ’Course he got time off for behaving himself.” He shook his head sadly. “Damn shame he’ll have to go right back for killing another man.” “Shut up!” Steve said again. MICLOOK CO