Fifteen Western Tales, March 1954 — page 62: what you’re looking at

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

62 _ FIFTEEN WESTERN TALES Sam could not dislike the man. In fact, while returning his stare he found respect for his courage and sympathy for his be- wilderment. But Quarles would have had no use for those emotions, even if he had recognized them. He said, “If you’re team- ing up with Trask in any way, I'll know about it.” His hand fell to. his holster. “And when I know. about it, I'll break up the partnership.”’ “Partnership in what?” Quarles took a deep breath. “In . spotting assay trains for Drings. | That was too much for Trask. His shoul- der dropped and his hand blurred to his gun and he would have whipped it out if Sam hadn’t grabbed his wrist and wrenched it down and around, leaving him helpless. Then he let Trask go and turned on Quarles, who had his gun out and levelled. “Put it back, Quarles.” Quarles hesitated. He wasn’t a coward ‘and he wasn’t a fool, but standing there with a gun on two men whose hands were empty made him feel foolish. So he hol- stered. “You've been warned, so—’’ Dave A rider slashed past the racks outside and jumped down and _= flung himself through the doors, shouting violently for Quarles. Then he saw him and _ pointed behind him with nervous jerks of his arm. “The Marietta Mine wagons just got jumped an’ burned south o’ here! Whoever done it got away with a hundred sacks of unsmelted—”’ But Quarles was running through the doors and the men at the tables were hur- ' tying after him and the barman was gasp- ng, “Land o” Goshen!” and Trask was vudging Sam and saying, “Come on, Med’ry, let’s watch ’em go.” The street was empty except for high- flying dust that was swirling from the hoofs of a dozen horses that even now were gal- loping south. . “Maybe,” Sam said, “we better go with — em.” : “Lissen, Med’ry, you’re a Southerner like me. They’d fever b’lieve anythin’ we tried to do, or tried to tell ’em we did. An’ I work for the Broken Key, which makes it worse.” . Sam turned full.on him, face alight with © surprise. “The Broken Key? Why, lead me to it, man.” | “You sure you want to go? It’s not the most pleasant place in the world since Royce Lockrey died.” Sam threw off the stepped into his saddle. halter hitch and “This town’ll be somewhat less pleasant than the Broken Key, once that posse gets back. Lead on, man!” AVE DRINGS was thick-set, bow- legged, and ham-handed. -Arrogant black mustaches accentuated the high arch of his nose. He gave Sam no welcome, no invitation to sit; he merely listened while Trask explained what had happened in — Arapahoe. Outside, a couple of riders were teasing a yearling toward the pens; a Chi- nese cook was cautiously. rounding up a chicken. But those were the only signs of life that Sam saw. Dave Drings considered what Trask had told him. He glanced angrily at Sam, al- most accusingly, as if in that glance he could break through whatever deception might be in him. “Medary?’” Drings’ eye wandered to Trask, and something passed between them, some glint of approval. Finally Drings nodded and said, “‘ You’re on at thir- ty a month, Medary—'til the new owner gets here, at least.” ‘““When does the new owner get here?” Drings shrugged irritably. “He was last heard of in the Army. Name’s Quinby, nephew of the late owner.” He added with some bitterness, “Major GComIecbooks: con od