2 Gun Western, May 1957 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

12 2-GUN WESTERN the real estate agent in Pivot, was all set. But now the slippery crook had sold the ranch right out from under him—to a stranger! With some difficulty he managed to keep the angry disappointment out of his voice, “Yes, ma’am...I reckon I am your closest neighbor, but—” “Let me explain the situation, Mr. Condon.” The voice over the wire was musical and pleasant, even to his ear. “Mr. Smithers brought my Aunt Kate and me to the ranch with a load of things we'll need. But he’s gone back to Pivot, and I thought maybe you'd come over and—” “Where’s Pete Doakes?” asked Lance. “I thought he was doing the chores around there.” “Doakes milked the cows, then rode off, saying he’d not be back... We brought two young pigs, but they’ve managed to get out of their pen. We don’t know how to make a fire in a wood stove, and the sink pump doesn’t work, so—” “Whittle shavings,’ Lance said shortly. “And carry water from the creek,” “T see. But the pigs are lost in the willows and grunting pitifully. Won’t you come right away, please?” “Okay.” As Lance started to hang up he heard the line buzzing with Mrs. George Gordon’s, “What do you know? Listen to me, George. A ‘Blanche Newton’ says she’s the new owner of the Ditmore place, the D K. She’s asked Lance Condon to come and help her... married 2?” “Heck! Didn’t you hear her tell me she’s got seven kids?” said Lance, _and hung up his receiver. Trout and biscuits were burned, but he washed the unpalatable food down with black coffee, and was soon mounted and on his way to the D K, one mile above his own homestead. He saw candlelight in the house as he tied his horse at the corral, where four milk cows were chewing their cuds, and he heard the unmistakable grunts of the lost pigs. T THE HOUSE, a middle-aged woman with a white cloth tied around her head was sweeping out the kitchen, and a girl was lighting one match after another and dropping I wonder if she’s them into the firebox of the old stove. “T’m Lance Condon,” Lance said, lifting his hat. “You are Miss New- ton?” “Ves, But let’s not be formal. I’m Blanche, and you’re Lance, and this is my Aunt Kate.” After he’d shaken hands with Aunt Kate, Lance remarked, “You act s’prised, Blanche.” “I supposed a ranchman would be rough-hewn, lined, weatherbeaten— aman with a great mustache, or per- haps a beard. But you’re—H’m’m!” “You’re right ‘h’m’m’ yourself!” Lance said. — Moving to the stove, he lifted the wood out of the firebox, flipped out his knife and whittled a generous supply of shavings. In a matter of moments a fire was roaring. “Oh, that’s the way you do it!” said Aunt Kate. “We're tenderfeet, you see.” “IT wouldn’t even have guessed it,” grinned Lance. “Now what’s the mat- ter with the lamps?” “We found just one, but we can’t make it burn.” Blanche pointed to a glass lamp in a wall socket, its chim- ney soot-blackened. Lance took it down and shook it. “Out of oil.” “Oil?” repeated the girl. — “Kerosene, Coal oil,” impatiently. He bent to reach a kerosene can near the kitchen door. “While I fill this lamp, you rub some old paper around inside the chimney to clean it.” A few moments later Lance applied a match to the wick and set the chim- ney in place. “There you are. What's next?” “Those Blanche. “Oh, yes. Coyotes’ll catch ’em if we don’t, so I suppose I must make a-hog-wrangler of myself.” Blanche had picked up a flashlight. “T’ll help you,” she said, and they hurried to the willows, Lance calling, “Come, pig, pig, pig!” But the porkers did not come. Light in hand, Lance prowled through the dense willows, stumbled over roots, scratching his face and tearing his shirt on branches. Three times he came near enough almost to grab a ig, but the hunt continued for at east an hour. Lance’s perspiration- soaked shirt clung to his back, and = COMM|COOOXSiCOnn cute little pigs,” said