2-Gun Western, November 1955 — page 60: what you’re looking at

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

60 cards he was shuffling; without a word, eased his lean frame out of the chair, went over to a closed door and threw it open. A swart, paunchy individual in shirt sleeves and arm bands looked up from behind a battered desk. This was Spade Pierce, owner of the Red Rooster. He eyed Hatton through the smoke of a cigar that was stuck in his slitted mouth. “Kelsey wants to make another note, boss,” Hatton said. “You told me ~ to let you know.” A gleam as of anticipated pleasure sprang into the narrow eyes of the man at the desk. He took the cigar out of his mouth and put it in an ash tray, the chewed end dripping saliva. His puffy hands rubbed together soft- ly. “Send him in,” he directed. “Send Mr. Kelsey right in!” | Hatton nodded shortly, came out of the office closing the door behind him. Going back to the table he glanced at the rancher. with an eye- brow raised, and indicated the door. “You'll have to see Pierce,” he said. Kelsey looked like a dog that knows it is going to be whipped. Slowly, he got to his feet. He looked at the eyes around him, and saw them all turned away or merely staring at him with helpless sympathy. With an effort, the Rafter K owner straightened his shoulders and walked into Spade Pierce’s office, bearing the air of a doomed man. The game broke up all at once. The other players mumbled excuses, and got up pushing back their chairs with a shuffling of feet. They didn’t look at Hatton squarely; the gambler shrugged, and cashed their chips for them without comment. He knew, of course, what they were thinking. No one ever lost any love on a house dealer, and'he had long ago grown accustomed to that fact. He boxed the cards, put out the hanging lamp above the table, and walked over to the bar alone for a drink. The Red Rooster was as good a plate as any to work, he thought as he picked up the glass; but after he’d been here a few months he’d probably wander on to a job at another town somewhere. Always taking with him the agility of his lean, supple fin- 2-GUN WESTERN gers, and: the luck that never failed him as far as cards were concerned. They were the instruments of his trade. Leaning casually against the pol- ‘ished bar, he drank his whiskey slow- ly, tasting it. One drink after every session—that was all he allowed him- self. Silent moments dragged by. There was the drone of a fly, and the sounds in the street outside where a hot afternoon sun spilled its heat. Presently the door of Spade Pierce’s office opened and Kelsey came Out again. Eo RANCHER stopped just with- in the threshold, stood there star- ing at the room. The handful of men in the saloon didn’t look at him. After a moment he came on shuffling feet to to the cherrywood bar and ordered a drink. His voice was hoarse; he stared blankly at his own expression in the bar mirror while the liquor was poured, and threw the drink into his mouth with a hand that trembled.. After that he turned and faced Lew Hatton. The rasp of his breathing was audible in the room, as, he tried with- out success to check his anger. “All right, you!” he gritted, blue eyes blazing out of his homely, ‘brick-red face. “So it’s done! I know how you’ve helped Spade Pierce to rob me, you dirty, thieving—” Setting down his own glass, the gambler straightened and looked at him coldly. His eyes still hadn’t changed expression. But the voice that cut through Kelsey’s words had a sharp edge to it. “Hold on!” he snapped. “I don’t take that kind of talk from anyone!” “You'll take it from me—because it’s true! My luck couldn’t have been that bad. Not for two weeks straight! I should have won part of the time— and I would have, if you hadn’t stripped the decks and played out of your sleeve every damn _ chance you—” “That’s a lie!” Hatton charged. Kelsey went right on, hotly, build- ing into a weak rage. “You led me on! You milked me clean for Pierce, day after day—” oO Eomicboo S CO