Fifteen Western Tales, March 1954 — page 45: what you’re looking at

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

THE weet TAKES: A GUN calling his name, and stopped when he saw the gun. He hesitated and went back into ™ the shadows of the store, and Hardeman could hear the men whispering there. He moved to the glass door of the saloon and paused before opening it. The gun felt un- familiar on his hip. He lifted it in the holster and let it sink back lightly. He listened for the sounds inside, but the place seemed strangely quiet. It wasn’t too late to back out, he knew, but now the anger had taken hold of him. He pushed open the door and stepped into the smoky inte- rior of the saloon. Bal Kincaid was standing in the middle of ‘the bar, a glass in his hands. Behind him the kid was drinking from a bottle. His eyes caught Hardeman in the mirror and he brought the bottle down slowly, his mouth remaining open. He stepped back, turning to look over Kincaid’s ‘shoulder. Behind the plank, Dolan gave one fleet- ing glance and retreated toward the end of the room. Hardeman moved to the bar and called to. him, “Bring me a bottle, Dolan.”’ Dolan came back slowly. He put a bottle and a glass in front of Hardeman. Jeff dropped a silver dollar on the bar and watched it spin and come to a stop. “Keep the change, Dolan,” he. said. “Youll need it. After tonight you’re go- ing to have one less customer.” He shifted his gaze to Kincaid and the boy. maybe two,” he added. Kincaid eyed him suspiciously and poured another drink. The kid moved back to the plank and stared at the half-empty bottle, not touching it. Hardeman made a slow, easy survey of the room. The saloon was almost empty. A few men sat at the tables along the wall. At the far end of the bar a man picked up his drink and casually moved away. Dolan dropped the dollar in his cash drawer, shook his head a little, and sauntered idly toward the back of the room. — eS _ Hardeman filled his glass. “Any time “And Reet ee ae = a = a Sa ane Cer at you’re ready, Kincaid,” he said quietly. Kincaid was leaning against the plank. He bent forward now, peering at Harde- man through half-closed eyes. “Meaning what?’ he said roughly. His mouth twisted into a smile, pulling his eyes into thinner slits. Hardeman took the whiskey down; it had a bad taste, burning at his throat. He set the glass back on the plank and turned to face Kincaid. “They tell: me Yates is dead, Bal. I’m takin’ you in.” “You're what ?”’ Kincaid said in disbelief. He tilted his head slightly and gave a high, hoarse laugh. “You're crazy, old man. Go back to your preachin’.” Hardeman ignored the laughter, He watched Kincaid with distaste. He said. “No, Bal. We're going to the jailhouse. You've got time for just one more drink.” | “Why, you. ’ Kincaid started for- ward. He checked himself suddenly. and straightened up, smiling again. said. He poured a glassful and brought it up to his mouth, and threw it without warning toward Hardeman. The liquid © spilled out over the vest and the clean — white shirt; the glass struck the dirt floor almost noiselessly. “You're ready now,” he told the = calmly, and moved toward him. * Kincaid’s smile faded. He took an un-— certain step backwards, and stopped. His - ‘ hand edged back toward his gun. “You're crazy, Hardeman,” he said men- acingly. but I'll fool just so long.”’ \ ae Behind him the kid eased sideways and moved clear of the bar, wide-sprung and darte] from Kincaid to the old man. Hardeman went past with- out noticing him. He came within ten feet — “T want the gun, | of Kincaid and halted. Bal,’”’ he said tonelessly. Kincaid locked at him for one instant, then he drew. Hardeman’s slug caught him in the stomach before he could bring the , CONNICOOOKES 45, “Sure,” he - “I don’t like to kill preaches, — His eyes were — Eo ca ~