2-Gun Western, February 1954 — page 27: what you’re looking at

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

BUSHWHACKER'S BRIDE or after he'd branded calves all day. | He put his head against the back of the chair, not having enough energy to rock. It was good just to sit here and look out across the grass with the morning sun upon it. Enough to make a man proud. He'd . done it himself, and that was the only thing a man had a right to be proud of. He regretted that he didn’t have a son to leave his property to. If he had met Sally before she’d married Marty, or if she’d divorced Marty and married him, he’d have that son now. Too late. Those two words had been in his mind a lot lately. He didn’t see Marty come out of the bunkhouse until the man was within twenty feet of the porch. He caught two things about Marty in that first glance: the gun in his hand, and the wild, animal-like meanness that marked his set face. He thought, this is like Marty. It would take him _ three years to work up enough guts to do anything. For a moment he was afraid, the first time he’d been afraid for years. He remembered, so long ago it had been forgotten, back before he had been an important man. He’d come close to getting his neck stretched when he’d been caught with a run- ning iron. He couldn’t even remem- ber how he'd got out of it. He watched Marty come toward him, moving stiff-legged like a man hypnotized, and then he wasn't afraid. This was a good, quick way to go. If Marty had any sense, he’d let life go on through the last agoniz- ing weeks, but Marty didn’t have any sense. He heard Sally scream, “No, Marty, no.” He felt her hand on his shoulder; he heard the thunder of the gun and it seemed to him he was falling, but he had no place to fall. There wasn’t any pain, just the numb, empty feeling that spread through Il 27 his body like a sort of paralysis. For a moment he thought Marty was going to shoot Sally, too. But he didn’t. He waved his gun; he yelled like a crazy man, “You've wanted his money. All right, you can have it and him, too. And don’t call the sher- iff. Give mé a chance to get away.” Marty wheeled and ran, scurrying like a panicky rabbit. He had left his saddled horse on the other side of the bunkhouse. He swung up and put his horse into a run. “Sally.” Morgan knew her hand was still on his shoulder, but he couldn’t see her. He was glad. He didn’t want to see her cry. “I wanted to give 3. yO... His head dropped sideways. The drum of Marty’s hoofbeats faded. No sound then, no sound at all until the telephone in the front room be- gan to ring. Sally walked to it, empty inside, drained dry of all emotion. She took the receiver down from the hook;:said, “Hello.” “Hello, Sally?” “Ves.” She knew the voice—Mor- gan’s lawyer in Shavano. “Just called to let you know that I have the will drawn up. Ill be out in half an hour. All it needs is John’s signature.” “What will?” “John’s will. He called me yester- day and told me to go ahead with it, He’s leaving everything to Didn’t he tell you?” “John’s dead,” she cried, and hung up. She began to weep; she beat at the telephone until her hands were bloody. She screamed, “Three years of playing up to that old fool, wast- ed. Damn Marty, oh damn him. Just half an hour and he couldn’t wait...” The hysteria passed. She wiped her eyes with the hem of her apron. Sud- denly vindictive, she rang for the sheriff in Shavano.... @ END A) COMMICLOOOLK you, (C@