2-Gun Western, February 1954 — page 21: what you’re looking at

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

BUT ONE MAN ALONE MIGHT.... berating him before shooting him down? Where a tiny spring gushed from a ledge, with a small amount of green grass around it, Lanwell stopped his pony. He had decided to camp for the night, though it was yet early, for he might not find sweet water and grass farther on. Before he dismounted,:he scanned the walls of the canyon, eyed the shadows, listened to sounds. He got to the ground, unsaddled and pick- eted his pony, took a pan and a small package of tea from a_ saddlebag, filled the pan with water ‘at the spring, and began gathering small dry sticks and bits of heavier fuel to make a fire. Hot tea and cold thick meat sandwiches would be his supper. He was kneeling, banking the twigs and sticks against a rock when he heard the harsh threatening voice: “Get your hands up! Reach for your gun, and you’re a dead man! On your feet!” Lanwell shivered at sound of the voice. He raised his hands, got to his feet and turned. A man had emerged from behind a huge rock within fif- teen feet of him, and stood with his feet planted far apart and his body bent forward slightly, menacing with a gun. Lanwell never had seen Wolf Clade, and the description of the out- law would have fitted a hundred men in the district. This man’s clothing was foul with dried mud. Black whis- kers streaked with gray covered his cheeks and chin. Long matted black hair fell about his neck. “Who are you?” Lanwell asked. “You aimin’ to rob me?” “I’m Wolf Clade. You’ve heard of me plenty. And I know you. You're Jim Lanwell, deputy sheriff.” “That's right.” “I’ve heard rumors you were comin’ to take me. You had no hand in sendin’ me to prison, wasn’t around here at the time. I didn’t have any intention of puttin’ your name on my list and killin’ you. But since you've come after me, that’s changed.” “I s’pose so,” Lanwell said. “Get your hands behind your head, and clasp ’em!” Slowly, Lanwell obeyed. This was 21 the perilous moment. If Wolf Clade kept to his pattern, he would com- mence a tirade now, work himself into a killing rage, then shoot. Lan- well had flashing confused thoughts— about death, the sheriff, Ella and the expected child... He spoke again, quickly: “If you aim to kill me, Clade, I'd like to tell you somethin’ first. Since I had no hand in sendin’ you to prison, maybe I’m entitled to that much.” “Do your talkin’.” Lanwell faced him squarely. They were not more than twelve feet apart now. Lanwell held his body erect and his head high, and spoke with some vehemence. As he talked, his eyes held those of the outlaw. His fingers came unclasped behind his head, and strayed downward to the loose neck of his shirt. They moved slowly as he talked, half an inch at a time, without his elbows and forearms moving the slightest. “When I came after you, Clade, I only did my duty,” Lanwell said. “You'd killed the sheriff and _ his chief deputy, and there was no other lawman left to come. What else could I do? The others wanted me to brifg a posse, and I refused. Didn't see any sense in lettin’ you shoot half a dozen men from ambush maybe...” The fingers of his right hand fi- nally touched and clasped what he sought in his cautious groping—the hilt of a throwing knife cleverly encased in a sheath fastened to his shirt between his shoulder blades. And suddenly his right hand shot up and out, and the streaks of Sunset glinted from steel. Lanwell dropped to one knee as the knife left his hand, and the hand flashed downward to his holster. The knife struck true. stress, Lanwell had done what Pedro Perez had taught him to do. The blade entered Wolf Clades right side. Clade squeezed trigger before the gun dropped from his hand, but the slug went wild. Lanwell hurled himself forward, his own weapon held up, until it slashed down repeatedly. As he pis- tol-whipped the mad killer into uncon- sciousness, he thought again of the (please turn to page 62) COPMICLOOKS Under | (C@)