2-Gun Western, November 1955 — page 70: what you’re looking at

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

70 while his beady eyes moved restlessly missing nothing. Dave Galt had reached the top of the ridge. He went down on hands and knees; he crawled forward push- ing the rifle ahead of him, scanning the snow-filled canyon below with alert and wary eyes. Quite evidently he had guessed that Donnelly might double back up-trail. He wasn’t fifty yards from Donnelly, but Donnelly was beyond him on the ridge and Galt’s attention was directed the oth- er way. And slowly, carefully, Donnelly worked the thirty-thirty carbine around and laid the barrel across a snow-crusted rock. He knew\this man he dealt with; even before today’s events; he’d known that Dave Galt was a dangerous man. Galt was sprawled flat now, head and shoulders up, his body hidden by brush. Don- nelly could see his tight fitting fur cap, the collar of the sheepskin coat. He drew a careful bead, his finger closing down on the trigger. He hesi- tated. . And then, as though warned by some subtle sixth sense, Dave Galt turned his head slowly and looked straight into Donnelly’s eyes. It was a queer thing. There was this moment when these two men looked at one another across fifty yards of space— Dave Galt, caught off guard, helpless, looking down a bright and shining barrel into the eyes of a man he’d planned to kill— Rod Donnelly, squinting through gun-sights at one of the murder pack who had done for Alec Brendle, his finger tightening on the trigger for the shot that would send a bullet crashing through Dave Galt’s head. ND NOTHING happened. It was queer, even to Donnelly. He couldn’t pull the trigger. He couldn’t add that ultimate ounce of pressure which would smash a thirty- thirty bullet between Galt’s staring eyes. It wasn’t sympathy, compassion, doubt; in Donnelly’s mind was no question but that Galt was the man responsible for Alec Brendle’s death. It was something fundamental; some- thing buried deep in Donnelly him- self. He wasn’t a killer, it seemed. He couldn’t kill a man. 2-GUN WESTERN And the big puncher’s finger was still tugging at the trigger, and he was still staring at Galt through rifle sights, when suddenly the other man broke the spell. Dave Galt spun like a big cat in the snow to fling himself behind a pile of snow-covered rocks. Hardly had he disappeared when his rifle crashed, one shot and another and another, the bullets kicking up puffs of snow around Rod Donnelly’s head. : Donnelly had ducked back auto- matically. He lay sprawled in the snow, thinking of that priceless chance he had let slip through his fingers—the. chance to pay off one of Alec Brendle’s killers with hot lead. He said disgustedly: “I’m damned! Buck fever!” Pain from the bullet-shattered leg throbbed through his body. Face down in snow, he cursed the chicken- hearted softness which had caused him to spare Galt’s life, knowing quite well that he might pay dearly for that instant of weakness before this game was over. Granted a similar chance there would be no hesitation on the part of Galt, or of that pair who travelled with him. Old Alec, dead on a snow-filled flat below, offered mute testimony on that point. * It was too late for regrets. Galt had ducked from sight: Galt was on one side of the ridge now, Donnelly on the other. The puncher twisted in the - snow, gun held on the spot where Galt had disappeared. He gained a glimpse of Galt’s fur cap above a rock; he trig- gered a hasty shot and the cap pulled out of sight. He knew that Galt had held it up to draw his fire. A second later Galt fired twice, the slugs whin- ing harmlessly overhead. Then it was that Donnelly got an- other shock. He had known that his leg was bleeding, but he was not pre- pared for the widening crimson circle in the snow where his foot had rested. That much blood meant that the bullet must have severed an artery in his leg. Already he had lost more blood than he could conveniently spare. He threw a shot down slope in Galt’s direction, not bothering to aim. Then, swiftly, he went to work on the ankle. With his bandanna handker- chief he rigged a tourniquet above conmlcloooks CO