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Pulp Fiction, 1941 · page 19 of 116

Ace High Western Magazine, March 1941 — page 19: what you’re looking at

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Ace High Western Magazine, March 1941 — page 19: Pulp Fiction, 1941

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rv ‘og ha yt a a ree MM; eae ray 70 ~ * (pa EN ee Ree od; tft 5 oe | Set CS eee ee A yas SP Sy Fe ee eg Se” . et ss. 9 eS) tes Xe Serres, FOO aS ry es 1 eS am Reb eh AEF in 3 she hae & nih oe Beene © A ER ee ee S44 . SES eee - RE : rA 8 gee ” Aon TA ge yh eos ie Pah. at ee Vat oe ne ee = eh a Gis Pie er LY | . : * ‘ - ? ees +s J Spey : > a ike? ¢ ‘ 4 LAs - : x eee ae BS 2 SIXGUN SAVIOR OF DOOMED RANGE 17 ee Doc ee a breath. “Listen, Scotty— no rough stuffi— ?”’ “No rough stuff, Doc.” Bill’s heart thudded as he moved to follow. An alley flanked Doc’s house on the rear. Across it bulked his small carriage shed and a corral. Scotty was a tall shadow _ between Paso Anson and Sloane, standing back against the small adobe building. Bill was acutely conscious of the grind of his boot-soles on the gritty steps; the rattling of his spur-rowels over the risers. He was in the muffling dust of the alley, then, and pushing through a wall of hatred that was tough and clinging. A black shadow hung from the brim of Scotty’s hat, masking his face. Bill stopped. “Well, Scotty?” From Scotty Hallett’s side, without - warning, orange flame spurted. CHAPTER THREE Hell’s Saddle Legion ig WAS as if a blacksmith had swung a sledge against Bill’s hip-bone. The slug’s force smashed him halfway around. But the thought sprang to Bill, even before the second shot burst loose, that he hadn't been hurt. The shock. was comparable to running into the edge of a heavy table. Standing sideways as he was, Bill felt the second slug zoom past. Instinct whipped his hand down at his own gun. What his palm encountered was a ragged chunk of wood and steel. Barney Sloane was rushing in to finish the job Scotty’s jumpy nerves had bun- gled. -A derringer’s blue snout poked out through the second and third fingers of his right hand. There was the wicked flash of white teeth in his dark face. Bill Bronc leaped. His fingers, trapping the saloon man’s wrist, strangled the accuracy of the shot. Then he slugged him on the jaw, a hard, bruising blow that snapped his head against the adobe wall. Sagging, Sloane emptied the other barrel. Knuckles exploded on the point of his cleft chin. His teeth rattled like dice in a box. He was going down when Bill swung to meet Scotty Hallett, rushing upon him from the side. Fearful of hitting the gambler, Hallett had raised his gun to hand-axe the canyon man. Bill caught his arm on the way down. His back muscles stretched and strained clear to the waist. Bill Bronc scraped five-eleven, but the cattle king towered inches taller. For all his sixty years, he was as tough as a bull buffalo. A moment they swayed together. The scrape of Hallett’s beard against Bill’s face was like a harness brush. A shadow slipped in behind him, and Bill Bronc’s ears caught the sugne snort of a man attacking. Bill’s left hand pistoned in a short, hard punch. Scotty grunted: His stomach muscles were like a washboard against Brone’s fist. Still the blow took his wind. Bill felt the strength ooze from the arm he was struggling against. Abruptly, he dropped away, twisting about as he came against the barn wall. Anson’s hairpin body slewed to follow him. He lashed out with his gun. Bill’s fist drove straight in. He took the fore- man over the heart and spilled him to the dirt. Anson’s gun lay beyond lax fingers, and Bill bent and grabbed it up. : Whistling low, the gun-barrel glinted as he pivoted and swung it against the side of Scotty Hallett’s head. Scotty went back against the corral poles. For a moment his elbows hung him there, blood sopping through his thick beard. His eyes rolled whitely upward. With a soft flopping sound, his body hit the ground. A rising roar beat around the corner of the house. With it came fear that spat- tered icily against Bill’s heart. Shouting men were crashing through the shrubbery. Eomiicbooks) (E@)