2-Gun Western, November 1955 — page 86: what you’re looking at

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

KILLER'S HERITAGE some undefinable urge, he rose, picked up his boots and tiptoed to the porch. Pulling on the.boots, he started for the barn, a phantom-like figure in his flapping white nightgown, The breeze chilled him and he was glad to reach the shelter of the barn where he fumbled for a lantern. Bert’s horse, a deep-chested roan, was in its stall and saddle and gear were tossed over the stall partition. Webb peered about uncertainly, over- whelmed by the fact that he did not know what he sought. The roan had its nose in a ration of oats-and, with- out forethought, Webb plunged his hand into the oat bin. His probing fingers closed on something buried there and he drew the object into view. Moving the lantern closer, he examined his find and his eyes wid- ened with horror. Many men had seen the Jumping Jack and all of the victims had re- ported like descriptions—a tall man dressed in nondescript range garb and wearing a black mask. Sometimes the details of the garb varied but al- ways that black mask had been the insignia of the Jumping Jack. And Webb was clutching such a mask in his. trembling fingers. He thrust the mask back into the oat bin, blew out the lantern and - reeled toward the house. And the night breeze sighing down from the peaks seemed to carry the mocking laughter of Wild Bill Leatherby to him. It was like the death knell of a lifetime’s hopes. He had tried to mould Bert Freeman after himself but wild blood had had its way. Webb carried that hideous thought to bed with him and it kept him toss- ing and turning until sunup. When he awoke from fitful slumber, Bert had left. But Webb was glad he didn’t have to face his foster son this morning—and he was glad to be alone to fight the battle he would have to fight. All through the long day he wrestled with his problem. What was he to do with his knowledge? A doz- en times he thought of facing Bert with an accusation but discarded the notion, Bert would naturally deny everything. It would be far better to go to Sheriff Anvil Shane, lay the facts before him. Webb owed that much to his old friend. But Webb knew: that to do so would be like betraying his own flesh and blood. And then, when the shadows were spilling from the peaks once again, Webb heard a clatter of hoofs and when he hurried to the door Sheriff 87 Anvil Shane was dismounting before . the gate. They had arrested Bert! All day Webb had contemplated betraying the boy to the law himself but sight of the squat lawman filled him with panic. Shane’s first words dispelled Webb’s fear, however. “I’m still trailin’ the Jumpin’ Jack, Webb,” the lawman said as he was ushered to the living room. “Thought I’d drop in this way.” “Reckon yuh’ll cut his sign one of these days,” Webb ventured. “Maybe so,” Shane reflected and the proffered rocking chair creaked with his weight. “Me, I’m tryin’ mighty hard. Had an idea to start checkin’ on everybody workin’ for Western Overland seein’ as how that hellion always seems to know when a gold shipment’s comin’ through. Tate Jervis reckoned it was a good idea but figgered it would take too long. Seems like Western Overland is hollerin’ for blood—and pronto— so Tate’s got a better idea.” “Tate’s a smart hombre.” “A gold shipment’s comin’ over from Missoula tomorrow afternoon,” Shane went on. “Tate’s having a spe- cial driver and a special shot-gun guard, hand-picked men. Likewise Tate’s riding the stage hisself this time and he’s a good hand with a gun. He’s asked me to come along so they'll be four of us all primed for trouble. If the Jumping Jack stops us, one of us is bound to get a chance to make a play. The reward is to be split four ways.” “Ought to be a cinch if the hom- bre shows up,”- Webb said and his eyes drilled into Shane’s “Just why yuh tellin’ me all this, Anvil?” g os DIRECTNESS of the ques- tion staggered Anvil Shane. He stared wordlessly, one hand tugging -at his moustache. Webb knew that once again Shane had something to say and didn’t know how to say it. “Spill it,’ he urged the lawman. oO MICLOOKS CO CO