Substitute For Six-Gun Magic
He was young, slim, and pale, The clothing he wore, clothing of the range, was all new and very cheap. His horse wouldn’t have brought ten dollars on any market; his saddle would have gone begging at two. But he did have a good light gun. A Colt double-action .32 special, it was, and he carried it hidden inside his shirt. Read the full story HERE>>
Old George Holt, cattleman, stepped out of the bank pocketing a very thick manila envelope.
“Burn” Allison, standing idly in the street doorway of Sheriff Bill Martin’s office, spoke over his shoulder. Seemed, Burn said, that Holt ought to carry his payroll in a satchel, the same as other ranchers did.
“George always carried his payroll in his pocket,” the sheriff drawled. “It’s simpler. Besides, he’s not advertising the fact that he’s got near a thousand dollars cash on him. Read the rest of Stuckup Stickup HERE>>
“Somebody comin’ up the south trail, Hape. Just one hombre. Too far away to tell anything about him. This place looked like a peach of a owlhoot hideaway, but maybe it’s not. Me, I think we better high-tail it right now for the other side o’ the Catalinas. What you think, Hape?”
Long Jim Romine was very tall and very lean. His face was leathery, his eyes like nothing so much as blue flint. Under each hip he carried in a half-breed holster a big, ivory-handled Colt six-gun. He stood at a south window of the isolated, tumbledown old house, which once had been a cow outfit’s headquarters, staring off toward the Border. Absentmindedly he fingered the red-stained bandana bandage over a bullet-hole in his left forearm. Read the rest of Bullet HERE>>
One Lone Man
The sun was reaching for the sawtoothed western rim of the Chinese rancher’s isolated broad valley, when the stranger rode into it by way of a hidden pass. Tall and lean and sombreeyed the newcomer was, and young, with the dust of two states clinging to his clothes, bedroll, and saddle. About him and his lank bay horse there was unmistakable, sagging weariness.
He rode slowly through a herd of fat whitefaces and to a slim, lantern-jawed cowboy who lolled, smoking, in his saddle.
“Hi, pilgrim,” growled Lantern-jaw. “Where yuh think yuh goin’?” Read the rest of One Lone Man HERE>>
The stranger was very young, slim but wiry and hard, dressed better than average. He left his horse with the liveryman, and walked up the street looking for a hotel. Behind him ambled a lank, grizzled sheriff. Experience had taught this lawman that most strangers would bear watching.
The hotel was a two-story structure sandwiched in between a bank and a saloon. On the verandah a group of townsmen sat listening to the big talk of a big, middle-aged man in clothing that was both flashy and expensive; very dark, he was, almost as dark as a Spaniard, with a thick mustache that curled upward at the spiked ends. Read the rest of Hoss Race HERE>>