2-Gun Western, November 1955 — page 88: what you’re looking at

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

KILLER'S HERITAGE ‘ assurance of Wild Bill Leatherby, had undoubtedly reasoned he could turn the tables, having been fore- warned about the gun-trap. Webb thought it all out as he tossed gear onto his horse. Then, bolting for the house, he stopped to don a holster-laden belt that he hhadn’t worn for a long time. He looked to his gun as he clattered down the trail and found it ready for work. No definite plan shaped itself as he galloped along. He would let cir- cumstances take care of themselves when he reached trail’s end. And trail’s end would be far below where Lobo Canyon cut through the Mus- tang country, walling in the road that squirmed among the hills. -Mentally charting the country ahead, Webb had a sudden hunch. Less than ten miles out of Mustang a spring bubbled beside the canyon road. The stage always stopped there to allow the passengers time to drink and to stretch their travel-cramped limbs. The canyon’s walls sloped gently at this spot. The country was bush-mottled, a perfect place for a lone bandit to lie in hiding, waiting the advantage that would be his when the passengers spilled from the stage to drink. Accordingly, Webb nosed his mount toward the promontory look- ing down on the springs. Nearing it, he dismounted, stalked forward on foot. It was well he had adopted caution for his hunch was correct. Crouching among the bushes at the canyon’s crest was the lanky form of Bert Freeman. Webb hadn’t arrived a minute too soon. The portion of the road below that he glimpsed was empty but he could hear the creak of the stage, the cracking driver’s’ whip, and he knew the death-laden coach was just around a turn. And Bert was ready to strike. He hadn’t donned the black mask yet but he was looking to his gun, testing the hammer action. Satisfied, he eased the weapon back into leather again and at that moment Webb moved for- ward. Three long, lunging strides brought him to his foster son’s side. Jabbing his gun into Bert’s’ spine, he snatched the boy’s weapon, thrust it into his 89 own belt. Bert stiffened, turned his head and dismay creased his face. “Dad!” he gasped. “Yes,” said Webb, “it’s’ me, son, and I’m sorry it had to be me. I'd like tuh think that what yuh’ve been doing, yuh been doing to help me out. I’d like to think yuh didn’t mean to cut down on Shorty Dale. But what I think don’t count for much. Yuh see, son, I know yuh’re the Jumpin’ Jack. I found the mask.” “You’re...you’re makin’ a mistake, Dad,” Bert blurted. “You.. ss “Nope,” Webb said. “I’m not mak- in’ a mistake this time. I made my mistake a long spell ago but...” H's WORDS choked him. He had been ready to say his mistake had been in adopting the son of Wild Bill Leatherby. But gazing at the boy over the barrel of a gun, sudden moisture stung the oldster’s eyes as he knew a stunning truth. Regardless of Bert’s Freeman’s wild blood, re- gardless of the tragic outcome to the boy’s career, he had raised this youngster. For years he had made himself believe Bert was really his kin until the thought had become an actuality. And even now at the bitter end, Webb Freeman didn’t want to change that. But regardless of his feelings, Webb’s duty lay clear before him. Anvil Shane had given Bert the bene- fit of doubt because of a long-fos- — '-tered friendship and Webb had been content to take advantage of their friendship and still his own con- science, Bert had spoiled that by com- ing here, showing his hand. There was nothing left to do but turn Bert over to the sheriff. The stage had jerked to a bone- jolting stop below. Anvil Shane was piling from the big Concord and wasp-waisted Tate Jervis was easing to the ground after him. With a nod of his head, Webb indicated the trail leading downward. “Move on below, Bert,” he said. Bert opened his mouth to speak but Webb never heard him. For Webb himself was suddenly shouting, a horror-inspired shriek. By the road- side Anvil Shane had thrown himself prone to the ground to bury his face in the bubbling spring. Tate Jervis GEomicboo S CO