Fifteen Western Tales, January 1953 — page 96: what you’re looking at

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

96 FIFTEEN WESTERN TALES ing insistence that left him a little dizzy. Blood surged through him, pounded his temples, and for a long, abandoned moment Steve was aware of nothing but the burning» lips against his own. When he finally let her go, her face was flushed. Her green eyes seemed darker somehow; they were heavy-lidded, veiled with the dark tangle of her lashes. He watched the rapid rise and fall of her breast as she tried to catch her breath. He was filled with a sense of wonder. He had kissed her many times before, but: never had she responded like this. She brought one hand up to smooth the blonde hair back from her forehead, smiling at him now with those strangely darkened eyes, her lips a little swollen looking. “Please, Steve . . . don’t go out there! Don’t fight with Con! Please!” So that was it! She’d thrown herself into | the kiss because she wanted to soften him up! She was afraid for Con Pardee! She had wanted to get him off balance so she could plead with him to back out! His lips formed words, but he couldn't speak them. The sudden white anger in him choked him, numbed his lips and tongue. He stood there, feeling the cold sweat crawl across his shoulders, his big hands balled into hard fists against his thighs. | Her eyes widened. Her lower lip quiv- ered. “Steve! Why are you looking at me that way?” Slowly, very slowly, he brought his hands up to the butts of the .44’s tied low on either leg. He tapped his fingers against the cut-out holsters, his eyes locked with hers. “Tt didn’t work, Iris,” he said tightly. “There'll be a fight.” His eyes darted quickly to the clock on the wall and back again. “In less than five minutes. In front of the Inferno.” The tight knot of anger in his chest made it hard to breath. “And listen, Iris. I’m going to kill Con! He may | get me too—but I’m going to take him with 17? me! “Steve! Don’t go!” “What do you want me to do? Run?” “Yes! Run—do anything—but don't fight with him!” He turned and walked to dhe door. “Sorry, Iris,” he said. “Running from a fight is one thing I just never learned to ' do > Y ‘HE swarming, noisy street seemed even more crowded than before as Steve stepped to the boardwalk and turned his steps toward the Inferno Saloon. He walked with eyes straight ahead, not speak- ing to anyone, vaguely aware of the curious faces that peered at him from beneath the wooden awnings, catching now and then the guarded mention of his name, and sometimes the names of Con Pardee and Iris Manning. | He came abreast of the Inferno. The street in front of it was deserted, as he had known it would be. This was to be the stage, the arena. He paused, looking across the wagon ruts at the garish front of the Inferno. On either side of the ornate bat-— wings had been painted a red devil eight feet tall. In the wavering, blood-red light of pine-knot flares, the devils seemed al- most alive. It was midnight. A bright mass. of brass-colored curls and a white, powdered face appeared over the top of the batwings. “Tell Con he’s got company outside,” Steve yelled at the girl. “And tell him his company’s already tired of waiting!" His hands went down his holsters once more, checking the position of them against © his legs. He dried his palms on the sides of his levis and forced himself to take long, deep breaths. He was thinking of nothing but Con Pardee now, and of the one chance he had to live beyond the next few seconds. Con Pardee was faster, he knew. He was the | oO COMmichoOoks.c©