2-Gun Western, February 1954 — page 45: what you’re looking at

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

THE TROUBLED GUN Cameron hit him and knocked him down again. Downey was sobbing with hurt and fear now. “Please, Steve, please,” he begged. There was no pity in Cameron, only an ugly relentlessness. He start- ed to pull Downey to his feet again. Downey’s face ‘was contorted with hurt and fright, his lips and nose were bleeding. . “All right,” cried Downey, his voice thick, “I’ll tell you how it real- ly was, Steve, only don't hit me again...” The dirty business was over, Cam- eron thought, and now there was nothing to hold him in Silver Hill any more. He had had his one last look of Lucy and, in addition, he had done something which he still could not explain. He had cleared the name of his enemy, the man who had framed him into the penitentiary, while his own name was still clouded with dishonor. S° CAMERON rode out of Silver Hill without waiting for any thanks which to him would be only sickening. Tom Holbrook had been released from jail and in his place was Mike Downey. Carey Rendler had not been apprehended yet. Cameron experienced a growing re- luctance. He coulu not quite under- stand it. There was nothing good for him in Silver Hill. There were only plaguing memories and regrets and the constant, heart-rending reminder of what might have been. It really was best for him to leave all this be- hind but he found it very difficult to do. Several miles out of town, he reined in the bay on top of a hill. He was sitting there in the saddle, quiet- ly contemplating the country, when he saw the rider emerge from a wash and start toward him. Recognition came instantly to Cameron and a cold hand seemed to caress his heart. The rider was Carey Rendler. He approached without hurry, al- most with indifference, but neverthe- less there was something portentous in the way he rode. He let the horse pick its own sweet time about com- ing up the hill. Rendler rode drooped a little in the saddle and he swayed 45 automatically with each movement of his roan. There was no sense of ur- gency about him except for the un- flinching directness of his gaze. It never left Cameron’s face. Cameron waited. He realized that he might be waiting for death but the thought neither frightened nor ex- cited him. He supposed that death held terror only when a man had something to live for. With him, however, there was little to choose between living and dying. When he was about ten feet away, Rendler pulled in his roan. Rendler did not speak. He sat there quietly in his kak, his glance fastened on Cam- eron’s face. Rendler’s mouth looked pinched in the corners and the mus- cles were taut along the ridge of his jaw as if he were forcibly containing a great, consuming anger. Cameron said not a word. There was need for none. The time for talk- ing lay in the past. What existed now between them could neither be removed nor alleviated by words. They each had a gun and it was these that would provide the final, conclu- Sive settlement to the strife between them. Cameron saw it come in a sudden heightening of the brightness in Rendler’s eyes. Cameron drew. He saw the gun come out of Rendler’s holster and rise and for a heart-chill- ing instant the big muzzle gaped at Cameron’s heart. Then Cameron’s .44 roared and swift on its heels came the bark of Rendler’s weapon but it was still an echo and the barrel was already wavering so that the bullet went wild. Rendler folded up in his saddle, slowly and gently, as if he were im- mensely tired. His head dropped first and then his shoulders began to sag and he bent all the way over until his stomach ground agains: the sad- dlehorn. Then his roan gave a sudden lurch and this unseated Rendler. He flew out of the saddle with an aim- less, grotesque flapping of arms and legs and he was already dead when he hit the ground.... HAT EVENING, Cameron camped at the foot of the moun- tain range. He was sitting there, star S Gomichoo (C@)