Fifteen Western Tales, March 1954 — page 61: what you’re looking at

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

So “a4 rete a 4s pr << LAW OF HELLFIRE RANGE _ 6r _“Three-four fonths ago.” The bearded man was wearing a slouch hat and a leather _ vest. “You knew him?” “T__” Sam faced_around to the bar- man— “heard of him.” He lifted his drink. The barman said, “He left the Broken Key to a nephew, name of Quinby.”’ “Who’s runnin’ the spread now?” The barman waited for several moments before he said, “Dave Drings.” Then he said, “And he don’t take to strangers.” - An uneasy cough sounded from the reat; a boot: scraped nervously. The bearded man said, “I don’t suppose you'd know this Quinby:? He was with the 18th Mississippi, according to the lawyer— You look like ‘you’d served with the Rebs.”’ Quickly Sam said, “My name’s Me- dary.” He finished his drink and added, “I was with the 5th Texas.’ He-waited, braced for trouble, but still it, didn’t come. The reputation of Sam Quinby, he realized, was already bad. It wasn’t because the Broken Key was reportedly the base of operations from which the wagon trains were being raided for their mine assays, which were | then sent down to Alabama for the Cause. He’d heard those things more and more frequently as he adventured west, and now that he was as far west as he wanted to be, all he -was getting was suspicious ques- tioning. 2 Bags DOORS flapped open and a short, stocky man with blond mustache walked in and nodded to those at the rear tables. There were no answering nods. He leaned on the bar, ordered sour mash and ap- praised Sam with a glance. “Ten cents,” the barman said. The talk at the tables was still dead. And then the bearded man rose and started to- ward the bar, fists swinging slowly back- ward and- forward, face down and eyes raised. Sam thought, Here comes trouble. The ‘stocky youngster with the. blond __.mustache paid for his drink but did not lift: it. He was watching Sam and, beyond him, the bearded man’s approach. He asked Sam pleasantly, “New here?” “Yeh. Lookin’ for work. Name’s Me- fry? “Mine’s Trask.’’ He nodded toward.the . bearded man. “An’ yonder you'll see Mis- tuh Quarles, the-local peace officer.”” Trask added under his breath, “Careful, Med’ry.” Quarles was standing next to Sam now. His black eyes were luminous and. his knuckles were gleaming white. There was. no badge on his leather vest, but he wore a heavy gun strapped low on his hip.. “Medary, huh?” Quarles asked. “I don’t suppose you know Dave -Dsings better’n you know Sam Quinby.”’ “Drings?” Sam’s heart was punipang loudly through his ears. “The foreman at the Broken Key.” any “Oh.” Sam.glanced at Trask for a hint - of help. “No, I don’t know him.” He didn’t either. Suddenly he asked, “Do you?” Harsh laughter sounded from the tables, and the barman smiled behind his hand. Then Trask swigged his sour mash, cracked | the glass down on the_bar and said, “‘Leave | him alone, Quarles.” Quarles glared at Trask. “Keep out of this, Lardbelly. Why hell, if you’d give some of that hog fat of yours to Jeffie Davis, he’d probably live longer than he would on raw*gold.”’ More laughter sounded—nervous laugh- ter, with no gaiety in it. Trask stepped to- ward Quarles but Sam got between them, facing Quarles. The laughter stopped as abruptly as it had begun: “Cook your temper somewheres else, Quarles. For a peace officer, you got a mighty low boilin’ point.” _ Quarles studied him for a moment. There . was no hatred in him, only anger. He was confronted in Arapahoe with a situation that he didn’t know how to con- trol—the Broken Key raids—so he blus- _ tered, he challenged, he dared, in the hope ~ of getting his hands on something concrete, on something beside rumors. Comichoo (s.c0 . -