Fifteen Western Tales, March 1954 — page 40: what you’re looking at

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

‘see the resemblance between his son and himself, as he had once been. It was a® long time ago, but he could picture vividly the swaggering bully with the gun on his hip. And from there it was only one more step to the killer. It had taken twenty years to live that down, twenty years of hard work on this ranch—without telling a man who he was or where he had come from. Even his son, Ben, didn’t know. Though it didn’t seem to matter; he was getting his ideas of what-a man ought to be from someone else—someone like Bal Kincaid. Jeff’s fingers tightened around the metal cup, then relaxed. The boy would learn; patience and kindliness would teach him. He finished the coffee and stood up. “It’s near ten, ma,” he said. “We'll _ have to hurry.” - self; He went into the closet and took down the freshly-pressed coat. It seemed to bind him a little when he slipped into it.. He moved to the dresser and found the Bible where he had left it the Sunday before. He stood for a while, adjusting the narrow crown of the hat and wondering which chapter he would read this morning. It wouldn’t matter, he thought, smiling to him- they wouldn’t listen anyway. He picked up the book, wedging it under his arm, and went outside where his wife and the buckboard were waiting. The street of Dolan’s Corner ran only five buildings long. Hardeman drove through it without looking left or right, ex- cept to notice that the stallion was at the rack and the door of Dolan’s Saloon was propped open. There were a_ half-dozen rigs in the school yard when he turned into it and reined the team to a halt. He helped the woman down:and stood for a few min- utes to shake hands and talk idly with his neighbors. Then the school bell began to ring and he led the way toward the door. Ege WAS no church building at The Corners, though the school sufficed to hold the services, and Jeff Hardeman to © ~ a; FIFTEEN WESTERN TALES conduct them. He had been chosen more for his ability to read than anything else, he guessed. Still, there was considerable satisfaction in the task, even if it sometimes made, him uncomfortable. Standing before the small congregation as he did now, only half-listening to his own droning voice, he wondered what the people would think if they knew him as he once was. many men in the valley could boast of a past that didn’t rise up now and then to - haunt them? The people settled uneasily within the confines of the small desks. Glancing up over the Bible, Jeff smiled inwardly at the Still, how sight of Parker Handley’s squeezing, sweat- ing form. A child began to talk and the people, twisting to look, sent the chairs to © creaking loudly. He raised his voice, an- nouncing each word in clear, ringing tones. The crowd quieted so that hé could hear the buzzing of the flies in the heat of the es doorway. Outside a horse tightened the traces and stomped the hardened ground. — He finished the passage and, carefully clos- ing the book, placed it on the desk. He scanned the congregation. “Anybody know A Mighty Fortress?” he asked. He pointed toward a man in the corner of the room. ‘You, Bill?” The man shook his head. Parker Hand- ° 99 ley’s wife said, “I do,” and stood up. “Lead away, then, ma’am,’’ Jeff told her. The woman started to sing. Her voice was faded almost to a murmur before the people took up the melody. Hardeman sang ~ with them; he put one hand in front of him and beat an out-of-time rhythm with an extended finger. The rough voices strag- gled through the hymn; it was almost over when the shot came. Another one followed immediately. The singing stopped and the “congregation turned, craning their necks toward the door. A man went to the win- 43 dow and peered out through the dust. i the silence he said, “Came from down the street. Near Dolan’s, I think.” Hardeman cleared his throat and drew -Gomicbooks = . - . a, ~ - Ts = te _* i Se a ee 8 eS eS ee eee ee a (E@) a a a