2-Gun Western, November 1955 — page 48: what you’re looking at

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

43 did not believe they were helpless. There was no hope for these people. Lately, in Wyoming, he’d hired out his gun to the cattlemen fighting back a wave of settlers. The fight had been bloody, and the homesteaders beaten. Here, with a handpicked sheiiff, the homesteaders had no chance at all. They could not fight the run of the cards. He reached in his pocket for a half- eagle. He shook his head at the wom- _an’s quick protest. “For feeding a stranger, even if you was afraid.” The boy walked to his horse with him. Jesse’s eyes were on the bone handle of the pistol. “You like guns, boy?” “I got a dollar,” the boy said. “You want to sell that gun, mister?” “Afraid I couldn’t get along with- out it,’ Grinnell said. “What do you need a gun for?” “Maybe the Indians will come snooping around. I could shoot Bayer and his whole gang of mangy riders, too!” Grinnell chuckled. “You save that fight, boy, you may need it.” He looked down at the house when his horse had climbed to the top of the grassy chute. Again he felt irri- tated at their helpless stubbornness. Bayer and his handpicked riders would force them to move, and they would go on and on, pushed by the same bitter fate that pushed him. Y NIGHTFALL he had ridden several miles to the north without seeing another human being. The des- ert had given way to the deep soil of _ the Palouse hills and the wild -grass, rolling in the wind, brushed at his hips as he rode through. At sundown a sage hen ran through the grass be- fore him, dragging a wing in imitation -injury. Grinnell took a quick glance at one of the balls of fluff which were her chicks, decided they were old enough to fend for themselves, and blew off her head with his forty-four. Before dark he descended to the Palouse River, gathered a few limbs and roasted the sage hen on a stick. The meat was tough and stringy and tasted strongly of sage. Supper over, he untied his horses’ picket rope from a sage and retied it to his wrist. Then he lay with his head on the saddle, 2-GUN WESTERN covering himself with the stinking saddle blanket, and with his pistol in his hand, fell into a profound sleep. He was awakened some time later, about midnight, he judged by the slow wheel of stars, to the sound of a half-dozen horses trotting some- where up on the coulee rim. He lay tensed, head lifted, with his pistol cocked, until the sound of the horses died out in the distance. He awoke again in the first silver light of dawn with the sharp feeling that something had gone wrong. He did not move, other than to put his thumb over the pistol hammer. “You can quit playing possum, Slick. Right now you're cold turkey,” a faintly amused voice said. Grinnell sat up slowly, tilting the gun barrel toward the sound of the voice as he did so. “Dent try it.” Grinnell pulled his hand from un- der the blanket. “Shorty Morcross,” he said. “Ain’t seen you since Wyo- ming.” The short man sitting in the saddle, with the carbine centered on Grin- nell’s chest, grinned with mirth. “The name is Dyke, Ted Dyke, Slick. Shorty Morcross never got out of Wyoming.” He pointed to his chest. “Ted Dyke is sheriff of Colfax County.” Grinnell shook his head as if to clear it. “I must be asleep, Shorty. I thought you said sheriff.” His mind was busy with the play. If there was big enough reward posted for him in Oregon, Shorty wouldn’t waste much time before shooting. “Slick,” Shorty said. “You’re in a mighty bad spot.” Grinnell said nothing, tensing his muscles for a try at his gun. It would be useless. Shorty was no amateur, and he could put three bullets through him before he got his hand under the blanket. “Colfax County used to be tough,” Shorty said. “Right now they’re look- ing over every strange rider that comes in. Generally, they issue a request to keep on riding.” Grinnell sat straighter, trying to postpone the moment when Shorty would pull the trigger. Don’t reach fer that gun, Slick! I oO GOmichoo S (©)