2-Gun Western, November 1955 — page 85: what you’re looking at

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

KILLER'S HERITAGE g5 all day,” he replied, “lookin’ for a trail that ain’t:” “The Jumping Jack?” Webb asked. “Yeah. That black-masked hellion held up the night stage from Missou- la again. But this time it’s murder.” “Murder!’” Webb echoed. “Shorty Dale, the shot-gun guard,” Shane amplified. “Shorty made a damn-fool play at the wrong time and the Jumping Jack got him plumb cefiter.-. = Webb puckered his seamed face, tried to whistle his amazement but the chill coursing through him froze his lips. If Shane had looked at him then, the sheriff would have read the fear in Webb’’s face. But Shane's eyes were probing about the ranch- yard. Webb Freeman’s spread had seen better days, for blackleg had taken a lot of his cattle the season before but Webb knew Shane wasn’t looking for the signs of his poverty. “Bert around?” “My boy? Nope. Sent him to comb a few strays out o’ the timber,’ Webb replied. “We're kinda short of ready cash hereabouts so I thought I'd have Bert drive some stock to the butcher at Mustang.” At ss digested the in- formation thoughtfully, tugged at his moustache. And Webb, who knew Shane better than he knew any man, recognized that tell-tale symp- tom. There was something the sheriff wanted to say but didn’t know how to word. ‘e “Yuh wanted tuh see Bert?” Webb encouraged. “No-o-o,” Shane’ countered. might keep Bert close to the place, though.” He paused, reddened, blurted on: “The whole country’s just about loco account of this Jump- ing Jack. Folks don’t always think straight when they’re riled up and they’re apt to be suspicious of a shad- ow. Bert does a lot of lopin’ around by his lonesome...” The words stiffened Webb.. Anvil Shane was voicing Webb’s own sus- picions but it hurt like blazes to have someone else point an accusing finger at Bert Freeman. Something akin to wrath tinged Webb’s tone when he spoke. “You. “Yuh mean folks think my boy’s the Jumpin’ Jack?” | “Now don’t get het up,” Shane said soothingly. “Half the country is sus- picious of the other half. Look at it this way, Webb. You're broke, need money. You been a damn good dad to Bert and the younker would probably do anything to help you out. Bert’s about twenty, ain’t. he? Just at the wild age when a younker’s ready to do a man’s work but ain’t got a man’s judgment, You see how it adds up?” “And that’s what yuh believe?” Webb asked weakly. ‘Anvil Shane rested a friendly hand on the oldster’s shoulder. “Bert’s your son—which means he couldn’t be anything but straight,’ the sheriff said softly. “I’m just showin’ you how a lot of folks might figger things. I’m just suggestin’ you keep Bert home so nobody can talk.” The kindness in his voice warmed old Webb Freeman. That speech was ' like Anvil Shane, typical of his gener- ous heart. Webb had voted for his old friend election after election and he could understand why the people of Mustang had unanimously fol- - lowed suit. Shane was worth it. Webb raised grateful eyes, was framing a reply when one of the posse called the sheriff. “Come on,” the fellow shouted. “Don’t chin all night, Shane. We got to be riding.” Webb recognized that petulant voice just as he recognized its fancy- garbed wasp-waisted owner. Tate Jervis was branch manager of the Western Overland Stage Company at Mustang and Webb understood the man’s eagerness to be on the trail. The mysterious black-masked bandit had been dubbed the Jumping Jack because he had flitted from holdup to holdup. But mostly the Jumping Jack had concentrated on the gold- laden stages of the Western Over- land. The head office at Helena had offered five thousand dollars reward for his capture. Rumor had it they were riding Tate Jervis pretty hard, prodding him for action on the mat- ter. So Webb watched Anvil Shane join Jervis and the others, gallop on up the trail. Then Webb sat alone on the steps and the shadows gradually commie ooks.c© fl)