2-Gun Western, November 1955 — page 5: what you’re looking at

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

6 2-GUN WESTERN doorway and reflecting dazzlingly off the wear-polished floor planking. ‘‘Hre’s not a bad looking kid,” Merry Mason said to the sheriff. “Neither way, in appearance nor character. He’s got that same lean face his dad had, I mean, and a good strong body. And if you ‘didn’t know him and saw him on the street, you’d never say there was a wild one.” Sheriff Barton Keller didn’t take his gaze out of the street. He shifted the toothpick with his tongue from one corner of his mouth to the other, and his pale left eye went wall-eyed in a peculiar way it had. It was almost as dark as night in here in the store, or so it looked to you after you’d glanced into the mid-morning Au- gust-sun-blasted, extra-wide, dust- moted main street. “Don’t matter how they look, it’s what they do,” Keller said _ indif- ferently in his always almost in- audible voice. “Oh, of course. But it’s funny, isn’t it.” Standing behind the counter, Mason wiped the palm of one wrinkled hand once across the sur- face of it. “He shouldn’t ’ve got mixed up with the Naren boys,” Keller said after a_ silence. “No, I know.” Merry Mason sucked a deep, quick sigh, “It’s too bad for his mother. She’s a fine woman.” “Alby Foster was a good man.” “I know, I know. Fine parents— and they turn out like that. What happens to them?” Sheriff Barton Keller shrugged, the toothpick shifting again as his gaze came back into the store. “Hey, I need a sack of Durham,” he said. He screwed up his face working with his thick fingers at the string of the tobacco. “They’re sayin’ Charlie Landry is headin’ this way.” “Charlie Landry?” The elderly storekeeper’s ears were tuned to the sheriff's indolent voice but he re- peated interesting items in his own lively accents as a means of confirm- ing that he’d heard right. “What would he be wanting here?” “What does he ever want.” Keller tugged the Durham bag shut again with his teeth. “Another notch on his un.’ “But who in this town would he consider ‘a notch’? Certainly Fern Noren’s boasting about his gun-skill hasn’t won the attention of so em- inent a one as Charlie Landry.” — Sheriff Barton Keller eee his eyes up pulling a long inhale on his cigarette. “Maybe he’s just ridin’ through.” He said finally. “Well, let’s hope so,” said. Merry Mason 2 WAS not just an ordinarily pretty girl. Janice Wells was chewing in anger the inside of her lower lip but even the distortion this brought could not take from the flawless perfection, for exampk, of her soft red cupid’s-bow mouth. She was not amused, was the trouble, at sight of Dick Foster drawing a bead on a tincan he’d placed on the Wells’ corral fence. “What Id like to know,” Janice was saying, “is what in heaven’s name has got into you lately. Every time you come over here you have a new gun with you. I’m telling you, Daddy doesn’t like it. Nor, what’s more to the point, do I.” The .30-30 crashed and the tincan took a trip. Dick Foster squinted sourly. “This was my old man’s gun,” he said, giving no sign of considera- tion of Janice’s speech, pulling his horse to him and dumping the Win- chester back in the saddle scabbard. He hiked up his extra-wide cartridge belt, pulled askew by the weight. of the big holstered .45, and met her furious regard squarely, “It’s not much good.” “How very interesting.” “What’s the matter, aren’t you in- terested in guns?” he said after a minute. She put little fists at her slender waist and her creamy-tanned elbows jutted. “Tf you knew how silly you looked, with all those guns hanging all over you—! Honestly!” “You didn’t say I looked silly last night.” His tone remained flat, his delivery delayed. “Last night I liked you: And I kissed you. Today I wouldn’t kiss you for the world.” Dick Foster cracked his face with a broad grin. ¥ Conmleloooks (CO)