Ace High Western Magazine, March 1941 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

14 eyes as his hand went up to touch the broken nose. And the sharpness of it brought a measure of awareness back to him. A slotted square of light struck through the batwings to illuminate the burden he carried. Anson gave the jerk of a man who had been quirted. “Jeanie!” He came dragging at his Colt as he strode from the curb. “Lord Almighty, Bronc, what’ve you done?”’ Bill slid to the ground and faced the slender, graying man. “Put that away!” His voice didn’t mount above a husky monotone, but its starkness halted the Rafter H ramrod. ‘‘Run ahead and rouse Doc Breaker. For the love of God, hurry, Anson!” Anson hung back from taking orders of a Frijole Flat squatter. He looked into the girl’s white features, his gun_half- drawn. After that one look he sped swift- _ ly down the road. Lights were coming to a full flare be- hind the drawn green shades of Doc Breaker’s place when Bill mounted the front porch. Someone let him in. Ma Breaker, a colorless bathrobe covering her lumpy figure, helped Bill lay the girl on the big kitchen table. “Ah, the poor, wee thing!” She was dabbing at the blood with a wet cloth. “Bill Bronc, what have you done to her?” “Wagon turned over,” Bill mumbled. “Her leg’s broke too. I splinted it up a little.” “Where were you two goin’ in a wagon this time o’ night?’ Doc Breaker came in with some wood and shoved two sticks in the kitchen stove. He was a brusque, business-like man of forty-odd, short, wide-shouldered and gray. The scrutiny of the gaze he turned on Bill was direct and challenging. “We were eloping.” Bill said it without shame. He heard the surprised grunt of Paso Anson and watched Doc’s brown eyes widen. His hand made a futile, toss- f ~ ACE-HIGH WESTERN STORIES ing gesture. “Can’t you work faster, Doc? She hasn’t moved since the wagon fell on heres OC STIRRED the fire under the ket- - tle. The wood sputtered briskly, but above its sound he heard the front door — close noisily. Frowning, Doc looked past Bill, then again he busied himself with sterilizing his instruments. After a mo- ment he turned abruptly. “Bill, you'd better get out of here while you still can! Barney Sloane’s holding one of his stud-poker-mortgage parties down at the Territory House. Scotty’s- there with Milt Cassiday, Tobe Leathers, and every other Kingbolt rancher who amounts to shucks. Anson’s gone to tell him. If Scotty finds you here, he’ll kill you deader than my pills can do anything about!” Reason was not in Bill Bronc’s numbed brain now. Looking at him, hearing his agonized plea, Breaker knew nothing in the world could budge him out: of this room. “Will you hurry up, Doc?’ Bill said. : Muttering, Breaker left the room and returned with an old six-shooter stuck un- der his waist-band. A year ago he had treated the bronc-buster for a fractured wrist. In the six or seven visits they had together, Doc heard the nester’s side of the story. The frank way the Frijole Flat youngster argued his point won him over. Doc was a man who believed in honesty and fairness .. . even to a squatter. The physician forced Bill to sit down while he patched his broken nose. He was in the midst of it when the front door opened again. Doc clamped his square jaw hard and worked on. Bill was sitting near the door, so that when Scotty hurried in they were face-to-face for an instant. Doc turned hurriedly. é Scotty Hallett was breathing hard, his heavy nostrils flaring with each intake of breath. A look of dumb shock paralyzed his red, blunted features. His wide, fight- Gomichboo CS (E(@)