2-Gun Western, February 1954 — page 40: what you’re looking at

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

40 long and lonely journey to the peni- tentiary. There was no one to greet him. He had not notified anyone of his com- ing but then he supposed it would not have made much difference. He had been a criminal and, according to the letter of the law, punished. The fact of his innocence seemed not to have mattered. He took a room in the Lamar House and lay down at once thinking he was so tired he could sleep. But sleep did not come. The old mem- ories did, though, they came with a needling persistence until he could have cried out in anguish against them, but he clamped his teeth to- gether and forced himself to recall the many useless times he had sobbed out his frustration in prison. Finally, when he was convinced that sleep would not come for quite a while, he rose and went to the window that looked down on the main drag of Silver Hill. The town had grown. It sprawled over a neigh- boring hill and he counted three new tailings dumps that he couldn't re- member having been there before, He supposed the railroad had aided Sil- ver Hill’s growth. He still could not understand why he’d come back. There were no thoughts of vengeance in his mind. He had not even seriously considered trying to clear his name. He sup- posed he came back here because it was all the home he ever knew. With a sigh, he turned from the window and picked his shell belt from where it hung on the brass bed- stead., He buckled the belt and hol- ster about him and adjusted the hang of the .44 Colt and then he went out. On the street he mused that ten years was not such a long time so far as memory went but it did cut a plenty big slice out of a man’s life. He was thirty-five now and those were ten youthful years that could never be replaced. It was this that made him feel grim and even mean for a moment. He started slowly down the street. He saw again the places that he had known and whose memory had tor- mented him those long and lonely nights in prison. Some of the places 2-GUN WESTERN had weathered the time well, some seemed to have wasted as his own life had wasted, here and there a new structure reared. This then was Sil- ver Hill after ten years and he still ' did not know why he had come back. ae SIGN of the Longhorn Bar had been freshly painted and in- cluded the name of a proprietor he did not recall. Nevertheless, he went in here, because he had always fan- cied the Longhorn over the other saloons in town, He had never seen the bartender before. He ordered a beer and stood with his elbows hooked on the ma- hogany bar while he sipped slowly at his drink. He was aware of a few oth- er drinkers in the place but he paid them no heed, If no one remembered - after ten years, he felt it was all for the better. . Someone said, “Hello, Steve. It’s been a long time.” He came to with a start. It had been almost like a dream this moving about without hearing the sound of a friendly voice. Now it was reality again and for him reality was seldom pleasant. He was slow in responding and turning around. “You’re Steve Cameron, you?” the voice said. He turned now, thinking that pris- on must have changed him a lot, per- haps more than he had thought. He knew he was gaunt and he remem- bered seeing himself in a barber’s mirror, all hollow in the cheeks and tight about the mouth and maybe even mean in the eyes unless the squint there was something he had picked up in the gloom of the many prison nights. He looked at the other and re- membered instantly. “Hello, Carey,’ he said. Carey Rendler stuck out a hand and smiled. “Welcome back to Silver Hill, Steve,” he said. “Welcome home.” Steve Cameron took the hand. He did not speak. His throat was sudden- ly too full. Carey Rendler ordered two beers and picked them up in one hand and with the other he led Cameron to a table in the rear. He waved Cameron aren't COPMICLOOKS (G(@)