2-Gun Western, February 1954 — page 29: what you’re looking at

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

TOMBSTONE STORY Tom’s Jekyl-Hyde disposition, and some lively tussles ensued, which Tom, with his two hundred pounds of bone and mus¢le, invariably won. Then the day came when Ton, having won a wad of money at the games in Corrigan’s Saloon, ambled down to the general store and bought himself a black and white checkered shirt. Actually, the “black”’ squares were a very dark navy blue, but their shade really wasn’t impor- tant since, before the day was over, the shirt was a solid, slimy red. Torg liked the incredible garment so well that he promptly took off his old shirt, then and there, to the consternation of the clerks and the blushing indignation of the ladies, and donned the new one, swelling his massive chest in pride. With an expansive smile Tom paid for his new toga, consigned the old one to the fireless stove, and stalked back down through town like an animated checkerboard. Tombstone had come to know Tom well enough, it thought, and hailed him with a lot of droll banter, but this apparently didn’t ruffle the big sport and he’d josh right back. The day wore on pleasantly enough, with big Tom back at Corrigan’s bar, tak- ing his ribbing in a good-natured way and leisurely drinking up a lit- tle of his recent winnings. He re- fused to join in any more games for a while, feeling the urge for liquid relaxation. He had been drinking for about an hour, intermittently, and the ma- jority of the saloon’s patrons had made their jokes about the shirt and shut up. However, every once in a while a newcomer would stroll in, squint under the dazzling impact of the black and white checks and, roaring with laughter, made some re- mark. FTER A while, though, Tom found that the jokes, invariably the same, became a little monoto- nous. Then too, he had consumed quite a neat little amount of “Taos Lightnin’.” Instead of going home prudently, big Tom finally turned away from the bar and glared at 29 the most recent patron of Corrigan’s to remark on his attire. “If there’s somebody in here who don’t like my shirt,’ he boomed, “let the lousy son stand up an’ I’ll break his back with my hands!’— A feat quite possible to the massive Tom. Naturally, no one stood up, feel- ing the indispensibility of a sound backbone, if for no other purpose, to assist in holding the body erect while leaning against the bar or sit- ting at a poker table. Besides, the shirt didn’t matter that much, Tom turned back to the bar and had a few more drinks. Needless to state, he was left strictly alone and had ample elbow room on both sides of his section of the bar. For some little time there seemed to be no imminent disaster and even big Tom’s wild eye was mellowing a little, when his pardner stepped through the swinging doors, and, see- ing Tom and the spectacular shirt, grinned widely at his friend and spoke in a joking away about it. Without any warning at all, Tom struck out with all he had. Ed Brad- shaw collapsed in a heap, blood cas- cading freely from a bad gash over his eye. Swearing violently, Tom Waters stepped over the unconscious form of his pardner and stalked out of the saloon, a trifle unsteadily, and crossed the road to Vogan & Flynn’s Saloon, where he stood wide eyed and spraddle legged in the doorway and roared: “Is they a dirty son in here as don’t like my shirt?” Startled, to say the least, but wise in the ways of the frontier, the pa- trons of Vogan’s & Flynn’s place gravely shook their heads in silence and kept a wary eye on the infuriated hulk in the doorway, hoping it would go away. Tom eyed the silent cus- tomers for a long, baleful second, found he had nothing but inarticu- late admirers there, spun on his heel and was stalking back through the doorway when a cowboy by the name of Ferris, whom he knew, smiled up at him, en route to the interior of the saloon, eyed the shirt, and quipped. Tom lowered his head and rolled conmicbooks (C@