2-Gun Western, February 1954 — page 65: what you’re looking at

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

THE KILLING AT SPANISH LICK wish old man Bartow had never sold it.” His voice took on a hard edge. “I wish I’d never seen a .44 in my life.” The bluing was worn from the sides of the barrel and the cylinder now, and there were little scratches around the loading gate. The old cherrywood butt was polished from contact with Vern’s hand. “Go ahead. Pick it up.” I felt a fun- ny kind of pride, because I knew I ~ was the only man on earth to whom Vern would ,have made such a ges- ture. I helfted the gun. In Vern’s hand it had seemed so light, so much a part of him, that I was surprised for a moment at the weight of it. Vern looked at me with a crooked smile. “There’s a big reward, Harley,” said softly. I looked up from the gun into Vern’s eyes, pale and steady, and I thought about that night of the first killing, when Vern had come to me like the scared kid he was, and I’d given him my _ saddle-bags, and sneaked down to Bartow’s and filled them with grub for him. It had hap- pened along toward twilight. Vern was walking down Main Street, wear- ing his gun. The miner was half drunk, and he made some crack about a little boy with a big gun, and then he saw Vern’s face. The miner drew fast, there were two witnesses to that, but he never had a chance. Then when Vern saw him dead on the street, he came to me. I remember I tried to get him to stay and face it. “I know my father better than you do,” he had said, and then “Goodbye, Harley,” and his horse kicked dust in my face and he was gone, into the hills, into Chey- enne, and Laramie, and Salt Lake; into a string of towns and a string of gunfights. Now he was back. he I LAID THE gun back on the ta- ble. Vern picked. it up, and once again it was weightless. It slid smoothly into the worn holster on his thigh. He rolled a cigarette and scratched a sulphur match under the table. The smoke burned my nose, Like powdersmoke. 65 I saw Vern’s eyes narrow, and then I heard the footsteps too. But it was only a boy, the kid who worked around the marshal’s office. He stood just inside the swinging door, scuf- fling his feet. He was a skinny kid, and his overalls were a size too big. “You—Vern Sanders?” he stam- mered. “Yeah,” said Vern, wearily. “I reck- on I am.” The boy came closer, slowly, awed by the presence of the great Vern Sanders, the man whose reflexes were a fifth of a second faster than other men’s. “The marshal—he says t’ tell you— he says he’s comin’ t’ git you!” the boy blurted. He started to back to- ward the door, but as he turned to go, Vern stopped him with a word. “You,” he said, not loud, but the kid stopped in his tracks and his knees began to shake. “You're not to watch this, understand?” “Y-yessir.” “Go tell the marshal I’m waiting, and then go home. You’re not to watch.” Vern’s voice was savage. The boy backed out the door and ran. We watched him go up the street and into Jed’s office. He came out after a bit and disappeared around a corner. Vern sighed. “He'll watch, They all watch.” I didn’t say anything. The door of Jed’s office opened and he came out, a worn old man, do- ing his job. I watched Vern’s face, but there was nothing there. He stood up stiffly. He caressed his gun-butt with a slim hand, like a lover touching a woman’s cheek. He lifted the gun an inch and let it slide down again. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Vern, you don’t have to kill him.” My throat was dry; my words tum- bled over each other. “Don’t do it. There’s still time. Go out the side door. I’ll bring your horse around. For Judas’ sake, don’t do it.” He gave me his crooked smile. “He’s a big man,” Vern said, may kill me. He stopped for a moment at the door. (please turn to page 69) “He CORMICLOOOKS (C@