Ace High Western Magazine, March 1941 — page 21: what you’re looking at

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

SIXGUN SAVIOR OF DOOMED RANGE 19 through the gully-riven slope-land, but al- ‘ways bearing on towards Devil’s Canyon. A sob surged up in Bill’s throat. Grief bore down on him crushingly. “Oh, God!” he whispered. “She—she ain’t dead. You couldn’t let her die—” Couldn’t? Logic was a steel splinter skewering his insides. Jeanie was dead, and Scotty Hallett was riding for venge- ance. Riding to blast Frijole Flat off the map. The thing for Bill to have done was to ride away and never come back. Yet he was held by a powerful tie. It would be a massacre if the Grangers weren’t warned. Nor would he ever believe Jeanie was dead until he had proof. A picture strug- gled to imprint itself on his mind. Bill set his teeth and slammed the spurs home. He’d see that red blanket the rest of his tei. ss | CHAPTER FOUR Gun-Boss of the Devil’s Grangers B’ LL wound up the trail at a strong run. The canyon walls were vertical pali- sades of rimrock that piled up like stacks of giant planks. After a while the walls fell away on both sides. He was in a narrow, sloping valley down which the Ysleta cut lazy coils. Here the trail became a road crossing tilled fields. The musty smell of irriga- tion ditches burdened the air. Rich, fertile soil, germinated by ample water, covered the wide canyon floor. High stands of tomatoes and beans, alfalfa, black-eyed peas and sweet potatoes, were coming to maturity. Bare in its stark utility, Frijole Flat lay darkly in a sheltering elbow of the creek. Built of the only material the country afforded—adobe—the town was an ugly scab on the valley’s surface. But it served the nesters’ purpose. Barber shop, general _ store, feed and fuel outfit—the few things they must buy, they could obtain here. For lighter moments, there was Hass Colley’s Apache Bar. A midnight crowd jammed the place as Bill lit down and crossed the dirt sidewalk in a stride. For the space of a dozen breaths he was standing in~ the doorway, searching through the crowd with a hard glance. From where he stood, he could see the difference in the town since Colley had taken over. There were five or six gambling layouts running, cheap barrel-head games that were a heavy drain on the slim purses of the nesters. Colley had tripled his stock of hard liquor and put on a new barman. He’d brought in an epileptic piano and im- ported some girls from Tombstone. The piano was banging away and the crude stomp of trail boots shook every plank in the floor. Through it all was the guffaw-- ing laughter of half-drunken men and the brittle music of girl’s voices. Bill saw men who should have been home with their families: Lee Cole, Tom Brush, Johnny Carlin— These days, Frijole Flat played hard. The hoe-men laughed more, but they smiled less. Bill Bronce suddenly roared: “Colley!” The noise ended on a crash from the piano. Hass Colley stepped back a pace from the end of the bar, his hat on the back of his head, shaggy red hair crowding from under the sweat-band. He was a muscular chunk of a man. Wide enough through the shoulders for a six-footer, he was inches short of that. His mouth was equally out of proportion; and it spilled plenty talk in Frijole Flat, Bill was think- ing. He had a schooner of beer in his grasp and foam on his lips. “You don’t have to yell, Bronc,” he cracked out. “I ain’t deef. Seems like you were dam’ scarce at Grange meetin’ tonight!” Colley grabbed the initiative while his quick, bright eyes studied the other for his intentions. oO GEomichooks (EO) mM: