2-Gun Western, February 1954 — page 78: what you’re looking at

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

78 as a low sound came to his ears. He knew that sound—the squeaking of the corral gate. The pole corral was down by the barn; and inside the corral were a dozen big, long-legged, thoroughbred horses that he’d bought two weeks ago. Tom was proud of those blooded horses, and he'd been afraid that someday somebody would try to steal them. Now, quick alarm stabbed at him. He knew from the squeaky sound that the corral gate was being opened —and he’d left the gate securely barred! Swiftly Tom Horn pulled on trousers and boots. He buckled on his gunbelt and cat-footed along the hall- way to the open front door. He stood there a moment, strain- ing eyes and ears. And he knew sud- denly that his suspicions had become reality. He saw a moving -shadow down there at the corral gate, and heard a low, impatient voice say, “Hurry, damn it—we got no time to lose!” He heard a rope swish through the air and slash across a horse’s rump; heard the horse grunt, and a sharp, pistol-like report as the horse’s hoofs hit a corral pole. Another swish, and an angry snarl, “Try to kick my head off, will yuh?” Swift anger hammered at Tom Horn. Thieves were trying to steal his thoroughbreds! Silently he crossed the porch and leaped to the ground and a few sec- onds later he crouched behind a tiny shed and peered around a corner. The shed was no more than seventy feet from the corral gate. There was no moon, but enough light came from the starry sky for him to see clearly what was happening now. Three saddled horses stood near the corral gate. One man was holding the three horses; two other shadowy fig- ures were inside the corral, easing the restless horses toward the gate. The two men inside the corral had ropes in their hands, and the man at the gate was urging them profanely to hurry. The rage deepened inside Tom Horn, Three to one—but he had the shed in front of him. Gun in hand, he called, “All right, you horse rus- tlin’ skunks—freeze!” 2-GUN WESTERN The man holding the horses spat a startled curse, whirled. and a crim- son steamer of gunflame lashed out from his hand. The bullet slashed into the shed wall three inches from Tom Horn’s head, spraying him with flying splinters. Then deep-throated thunder from his own gun roared out, and he saw the man holding the horses stagger, clawing at his stom- ach, then tumbled forward on his face and lay still. The saddled horses reared and whirled, trying to break loose from the dead man who had the reins wrapped about his left. hand. Eas TWO shadowy figures lunged from the corral. A deep voice yelled, “Gunter, what’n hell’s happened?” Tight-lipped, Tom Horn called, “T’ll show you what happened—if you don’t drop your guns and stand hitched!” The man who had spoken whirled toward the shed, spitting like a cor- nered cat, and explosions from his gun pounded a crimson, devil’s tat- too in the night. Deliberately, Tom fired. The gun stopped blasting, and the man holding it wilted slowly to the dusty ground. The third man was trying to get away. In his confusion he was run- ning toward the ranch house; run- ning with a weaving, reeling gait. Tom thought, “Might as well make a clean sweep!” anc triggered his gun again, aiming deliberately at the run- ning man’s legs. The man stumbled, and fell for- ward on his face. As he fell, Tom Horn heard him yell, “Tom—Tom, for God’s sake, let up!” That voice pounded at Tom Horn like a mighty fist. Gil—that was Gil Farnol’s voice! He left the shed and ran to the fallen man. It was Gil. Gil sat there on the ground, silent, clutching his hurt leg. Tom lifted him to his feet. Gil Farnol tried to shove him away. Bitterly, he said, “Damn you, Tom—you shot me!” “I didn’t know it was you, kid!” Tom said dazedly. “Here, I’ll get you into the house—you’re not hurt bad.” Gil didn’t want to go into the ECOPMICLOOKS (E©)