2-Gun Western, November 1955 — page 32: what you’re looking at

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

32 “Well, what happened?” “Nothing happened,” the saloon- keeper said tersely. “Except he ruined my business. He just sat there dealin’ cards and watchin’ the door. He drank one beer between eight and one and got up and left. I can’t fig- ure it out. Somethin’s up, but I can’t get the drift of it.” “I can’t either. I was certain he came here to kill someone and he acts like he did, but nothin’s hap- pened and he doesn’t go lookin’ for -anyone.” Jim got up and settled his hat on his head. “If he starts any- thing in here this morning, let me know and I’1l come runnin’. He didn’t ride clear up | here from Cheyenne for the exercise.’ “If he’s still here at noon, what’re you going to do?” Monty asked flat- ly. “Tell him to leave town.” “And if he don’t go?” “T’ll have to put him out. He’s done nothing I can arrest him for, but he’s disturbin’ the peace just the same, I gave him time enough; at noon, he goes.” “T don’t envy you the job. He’s a mean one, You look into his eyes and there’s nothing there. They’re as cold as a dead mackerel.” “So-long, Monty,’ Jim said and walked through the saloon and out onto the board walk. He was just up the street from the hotel now and Mojave Jack came out onto the porch. He looked up and saw Jim and a cold smile touched the corners of his mouth. It was less a smile than a smirk and Jim felt a cold tingle along his spine, almost like a warning. There was something evil about Mojave Jack, something missing that was found in decent men and it shook everyone when they saw it, Jim returned the stare and Mojave Jack nodded and turned off the porch. He went up the street and turned in at the cafe. Jim angled across the street to his office. He dropped into a chair and prepared to wait. Until Mojave Jack showed his hand, there was little he could do. He took out his .45, checked the brass butts of the loads, slid the gun back into hoister. Then he was pushed by a sudden burst of energy and got to his feet 2-GUN WESTERN and punched the shells out of his gun. For the next fifteen minutes, he practiced drawing and firing. He drew and snapped the hammer at pictures and reward dodgers on the wall. Satisfied at last, he replaced the shells in the gun and settled again in the chair. The morning dragged slowly by. By ten o'clock Jim felt as if he were sitting on a keg of dynamite. The whole town was waiting with a dread that was faintly mixed with anticipa- tion. Life in Bent Fork was usually pretty dull and Mojave Jack had wiped out that dullness. The people feared him, yet his presence fascin- ated them and they had passed the stories about him from mouth to mouth until now he was reputed to have killed a hundred men and was supposed to be faster than Wild Bill. In his office, Jim watched the hands of the clock crawl towards noon and began to think for the first time that Mojave Jack was not going to leave. It didn’t make sense, but that’s how it looked. T TEN-THIRTY, Jim heard a horse come down Main at the gallop and went to the window to see who it was. Johnny Benton, who rode for Pete Hanson’s Lazy 3, rode down the street and pulled into the hitchrack at the Palace. Johnny was twenty, slim and reckless and a little wild, but a good kid. He was wearing a gun, but Mojave Jack wouldn’t be after him. Jim returned to his chair- and settled down. He had barely got- ten settled when boots thudded along the walk and Ernie Shields © into the office. The old swamper was white and shaking with excitement. “Monty says to come quick, Jim. That killer’s got Johnny Benton cornered and’s givin’ him a rough time of it. It looks like Johnny was the one he was after.” Jim was out of-his chair and run- ning before the words were out of Ernie’s mouth. He aimed for the door of the Palace and ran hard, not stopping to think about this. In the back of his mind it seemed strange that a high-priced killer like Mojave Jack should ride five hundred miles to take on Johnny Benton. Johnny was no gunman. Anyone who hali- way knew how to use a gun could burst. Eomichbooks (© Ff)