2-Gun Western, February 1954 — page 32: what you’re looking at

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

32 word. They are bound for Oregon and have no time to listen to lame excuses.” “But I am a riverman. I don’t know the ways of landlubbers—” “Sheriff, take him away.” The lawman had been standing in the door of the log courtroom. Just as he advanced, Windy had a vi- sion of a girl. She seemed pretty. But with his mind on the hanging in the morning, women had smail place in his soul, “Come along,” said the sher- iff. He had a saddle leather face and shoe peg whiskers. “Let’s have no trouble now, son. You liked to white- eyed me in the chase. I’d hate to shoot you now and ruin the show in the morning.” The jurymen were already dispers- ing to the huge park of covered wag- ons at the edge of town. Everywhere were the smells of emigration—dust, sweat, minute particles of pulverized manure, and the towny smells of rot- ting fruit and vegetables. The sheriff took Windy to the cala- boose out back. He locked him up. He admonished, not without a father- ly touch, “Don’t let’s us have no trou- ble now, son. I ain’t a man to prank with.” Windy sank on the bench that served as seat and bunk. He groaned and ran his long fingers through his black hair. This business of hanging had happened so suddenly that he just couldn’t get accommodated to the thought. Not over an hour ago he had plunked down $100 in gold for a sound, sleek roan to ride West where fried pigeons flew in your mouth and gold climbed into your pocket. The drover had no more than got out of sight before the sheriff laid a heavy hand on him. . It took a little while to impanel the jury. They had harness to mend, wagons to grease. The Judge prom- ised a good show. Now it was all over except the event. He was dazed. He was actually going to be lynched for stealing a horse. Why, he’d only tast- ed the rim of the wineglass of life. They could hang a man as young as himself. He got up stealthily and tried the iron bars. They were solidly set in foot-and-a-half cottonwood logs. The 2-GUN WESTERN chain was beyond breaking. His cell Was some six by eight feet, with an- other door which probably let into an adjoining cell, in case there were two horse thieves. The lock on it was half as big as the door itself and it would take a key as big as a bowie knife to unlock it. “Whut you doing in thar?” the sheriff asked, sticking his nose in the bars. “Exercising,’ Windy said. . “You'll get enough of that kicking your legs in the air in the mornin’,” “Going to feed me?” “Shore. Nigh sundown.” “How about a drink of water?” “Jug right hyar.’” He passed a gourd through the bars and filled it from a jug. The stuff was green and hot. “TI keep telling you I bought and paii for that horse! The drover stole it, if anybody did. Why didn’t you go after him?” “You had the hoss. The Jedge iden- tified it. The jury found you guilty on the evidence. 1 never retry a man after he’s had his day in court.” “His quarter of an hour, you'd bet- ter say!” Windy was bitter. He lis- tened. “What’s all the hubbub about?’ He referred to the rumble of whee!s, the mutter of voices, the sound of brutes, children and dogs. “That thar’s the exodus fixing to travel.” That was the outfit Windy had expected to ride with. “They waitin’ for the moon to rise, the cool of the night, and the dust of the last outfit to settle.” He spat and acded another mite. of interest- ing gossip. “Jedge Bradshaw fixing to ride. Him and his gal.” “But he has to be here in the morn- ing to sentence me—” “Don’t you take up no false hope from that. He’ll stay over to tend to the last job of his office. Then he'll ketch the caravan. He’ll ride that fine hoss you stole—” ; “But I told you I didn’t—aw the devil!” 2 Se SUN sank in a murky cloud of dust. Wood smoke from sup- per fires drifted in. With dusk there came laughter, song, and the scraping COMIC OOOKS co