Pulp Fiction, 1950 · page 6 of 133
Arizona Round-Up — page 6: what you’re looking at
A restored page from Pulp Fiction, 1950. Page through the whole issue in the reader above.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
4 WILLIAM HOPSON ing up alongside the left front wheel. He nodded to the. heavily bearded driver. The beard was a little gray, six inches of dry mat, cut spade style across the bottom. The wagon was loaded with long planks of freshly sawed lumber. “Howdy,” Burnett said to the driver. “Quite a load you've got.” The driver shifted the whip long enough to let fly past the doubletrees with a stream of tobacco juice and wipe his mouth with a sleeve. He shifted the whip again. “Yep,” he said. “A mite. From the new lumber mill up the gulch a few miles. Just gettin’ in, eh?” “IT reckon.” “Nice-lookin’ hoss.” a “I've got a bill of sale for him too.” Burnett grinned. _ The driver's rather sharp eyes were playing over the figure of the rider without appearing to do so. There was nothing fur- tive in the speculative gaze; it was shrewd, and Tex Burnett did not miss the look. What the driver saw was a man who might have been thirty-five or even forty-five, still solid and wiry of build, and wearing one gun at a right thigh encased in black leather chaps. There wasn’t anything unusual about this except that the weapon’s worn butt gave evidence that it and the rider were old friends. He saw a clean shaven face that had education and even culture written in every contour, and the hands weren't those of an ordinary puncher either. They were too slender and well kept. The fingers could have been those of a honky-tonk pianist or . a gambler. The clothes were clean and well kept, the boots giving evidence of regular shines even on the trail. The driver grinned back. “Some of the fellers comin’ in here don’t have bills of sale,” he said. “Not that it makes much differ- ence in the Gulch.” “Not much law?” The driver spat again. “Not much. One town marshal durin’ the day. Two at night when the muckers come out of their holes and into town.” “What about a sheriff?” “Says which? Sheriff? Never heard that name before. That wouldn’t be one of them new-fangled names for a land and mine speculator, would it?” | comicbooks.com