2 Gun Western, May 1957 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

THANKS TO THE PARTY LINE 15 He pushed back his hat. Humph. If she knew how I feel, she’d not blame me for being sore. Sore? Burned up. Albert Johnstone of the 2 R offered to stake me to a couple hundred cows, provided I had the feed for ’em. Now that I lost out on getting this D K spread, that deal’s off too! “Grumpy?” he repeated, and man- aged to grin at the girl. “Ed Smith- ers is to blame for my sourness. The next time I meet that slippery ding- us, ol’ Doc Fletcher of Pivot is going to have one devil of a job picking up the pieces and sewing Smithers to- gether again.” Blanche’s lips tightened; a slight frown appeared. Then she smiled. “Oh, I catch on, You're kidding a tenderfoot!” “Let’s drop it—and get the chores done,” he said, shrugging. Lance chogped wood, built a fire, got the pump working, and then picked up the milk pails. Blanche accompanied him to the corral, say- ing, “I must see how you ‘juice ’em.’ Do you think I can learn to do it?” “You'll have a chance to find out.” He glanced at the white bandage on her left hand. “Using only one hand, at that. I won’t be here this evening.” “Meaning you'll let me down?” Blanche lifted one shoulder and gazed straight at him, “Oh, no.” ANCE HUNKERED on a low stool with milk pail between his knees, pulled teats almost fiercely. Later, he found both the calves and the pigs were so hungry that he fed all but a gallon of the fresh milk to them. Just as well, since the sep- arator was filthy; and this reminding him of Pete Doakes, he asked Aunt Kate, “Why’d Doakes leave so abruptly?” “Blanche told him she didn’t want him here,” the woman replied, and, showing sudden confusion, she add- ed, “He was such a dirty fellow, we couldn’t stand him!” Offering no comment, Lance turned the cows out to graze, found grain for the chickens and pigs, and then took the separator apart, ex- _ plaining to curious Blanche how it worked, and how she must scrub and scald each part before putting it together again. Breakfast was now ready, and Aunt Kate had done fairly well—with the coffee—but had burned the oatmeal, muffins and bacon. “The wood flares up so terribly hot,’ she defended herself. For some strange reason Lance | wanted to linger over the meal, just listening to Blanche, whose gayety and enthusiasm were something new and novel in his experience. Definite- ly so. “We must have screens for doors and windows,” said Aunt Kate. “Are you a good carpenter, Mr. Condon?” Lance gave a start. Hed been dreaming about beautiful big brown eyes, soft black hair, smooth, creamy cheeks and red lips. Lips he’d like to kiss! ; “Don’t count on me,” he said to Aunt Kate, and to Blanche, “Con- sidering the work—man’s work—to be done, wouldn’t you like to sell this place?” “Sell it?” in shocked disbelief. “I’m so in love with it I wouldn’t sell for. three times what I paid.” “Humph! In that case, I’ll make a phone call.” He gave the crank of the wall phone three equal turns and put the re- ceiver to his ear. Hearing clicks along the line, he called, “I’m ringing Albert Johnstone at the Z R... That you, Mr. Johnstone?” “Yes. Who's this?” More clicking of receivers taken off the hooks. Lance swore under his breath, and said, “Lance’ Condon speaking. About that deal—” “Louder, Gordon. Speak up!” “Not Gordon. Condon, Lance Con- don,” shouted Lance. “Remember you aid you’d stake me to cows?... Well, I hate—” “Dag-nab this line! Can’t hear you, Gordon.” Lance yelled, “Smithers crossed me up on getting the—” “Smithers? My mistake. Hang up, Smithers. I wouldn’t make any deal with you. Get gypped for sure.” Red-faced and sweating, Lance howled, “You there, Mr. Johnstone?” No reply. He hung up and turned to see Blanche gazing at him as if deeply concerned, “You couldn't tall comileoooK<s.conm *