LITMIR.BIZ

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was what saved him. The other Three S men were opening fire, Sid Jarles with them. Houston sprawled flat and went into action. Then he realized, dimly, that he had help. From the walk in front of the saloon Silky Gadley, the gambler, was blazing away at the Three S men. The saloon man also came rushing with a gun and opened fire, and Lew Dawes rushed into the street to stand beside Houston and use his gun.

      Blasts of gunfire roared and echoed along the street. The town women rushed into the nearest building and excitedly called to one another. Smoke swirled, and bullets struck and ricocheted with nasty whines.

      The firing died out. People came from the buildings. Ned Houston started to lift himself on his elbows, and Dawes hurried to help him up. Then he found that Clara Brandell was beside him.

      “Slug in the hip—don’t amount to much.” Houston said. “You, Clara! I told you to stay out of harm’s way. What you doin’ here?”

      “I’m taking care of you,” she said. “Anyhow, the danger is gone now. The fight’s over. Help him to the walk, Dawes.”

      Houston limped to the walk and sat down on its edge. Somebody handed him a flask, and he drank. Clara Brandell was calling to her father in the store that everything was all right.

      “Get a doctor to cut this slug outa me, and I’ll be all well in a couple of days,” Houston said to Dawes. “I’ll help you rebuild your stable, me bein’ the cause of it gettin’ burned.”

      Silky Gadley came over to Houston.

      “They’re all dead except Ed Foster and Sid Jarles,” he reported. “Foster won’t last long, but Jarles will live. These men he brought to town were his fighters. The rest of his outfit won’t give us any trouble.”

      “How about our boys?” Houston asked.

      “We got off pretty well. They wasn’t expectin’ us to take a hand. I’ve got a burn on one arm, and the saloon man’s wife will have to ’tend bar for a few days. Bullet got her husband in the leg.”

      They carried Sid Jarles to the walk and propped him up against an awning post. Houston looked at him.

      “Mr. Jarles, your bossin’ hereabouts is at an end.” Houston said. “If you’re a wise man, you’ll understand that. The whole town’s agin you, and the whole range will be, soon as the truth of all this is known. You can stay on and behave yourself, far as I’m concerned, personally, or you can sell out and ride. I’ll be around here to see that you behave.”

      “Then you’re going to stay here?” somebody asked.

      Houston glanced up to find Clara Brandell standing near him, smiling.

      “Yeah, I think I’ll stay, now that this is a right peaceful place,” Houston said. “Me, I like peace and calm. And I’ve got an investment here that’s got to be protected.” He turned to Clara. “And even that ain’t all. I want to get better acquainted with you.”

      SIXGUNS TO BOWIE, by Robert J. Hogan

      About the time he rode out of the jack pine clump and found the stranger waiting across his trail, young Wes Kane had begun to figure maybe by now he was far enough away so he could stop dodging every human.

      At first sight you wouldn’t think he was anything but a towheaded kid. Not until you looked closer at the well formed shoulders and the face lines of pain and worry that age a man. Not until you looked at the six-guns hanging well down. Then, maybe you’d glance up at the face again and see the hunted look in the deep set eyes and the pinched way the cheeks had sunk in from hunger. And if you looked at the sorrel mare he rode, drooping and head hanging and chest heaving like she’d never manage to get a good deep breath of air again, you’d figure, maybe that the pair, rider and horse, had traveled a long way fast without taking much time for eating or resting.

      You’d be right, stranger.

      But now the two were coming into Grasslands Valley that led to the little green town of Bowie at the lower end of the valley and the kid was figuring to stop there and begin working and eating regular—or give himself up.

      Wes Kane and his sorrel had seen the green of the valley and the billowing clumps of cottonwoods ahead as soon as they’d topped Mustang Ridge and started down the east slope. And the kid had smiled a little for the first time in a month—since he’d managed to break out of jail.

      Now, even the travel worn sorrel picked up a little speed in her single foot along the upper valley trail. It was as if the horse could read her rider’s mind and know that there, among the cool, green cottonwoods they’d stop for a long spell.

      They were rounding a clump of jack pine when the sorrel jerked up her head in the early morning air and gave a snort. And that was when the tall, lone rider and his big bay gelding stepped out in the trail.

      The kid’s hands flew to his guns and they came flashing out and up and leveled. “What you want?” he said.

      The stranger was a big middle-aged man. He had soft gray eyes, looking through slits and his large mouth was curled up at the corners. He sat his big bay, relaxed and seemingly not afraid. He nodded to the kid’s guns.

      “You ain’t bad on the draw, son, but you could be better. Likely to get yourself in a heap of trouble drawing like that unless you strike a real slow buzzard who wouldn’t fight, nohow.”

      “I’ll do all right,” the kid said savagely. But his guns weren’t holding steady and he looked more like he’d rather run than stay and fight.

      “I got plenty of dinero,” the man said. “I don’t need blood money from turning you in.”

      “What you mean by that?”

      The man jerked his head the way the kid had come, “I saw your picture along down below, couple of weeks back. But I don’t take with every picture I see. Just because they caught you on a rustling job on the Border and you broke out the calaboose before they could try you, don’t mean you was a real hard cattle rustler. I’ve lived long enough to know that a man can get into trouble in this man’s world without going to look for it.” He nodded at the guns. “Put away them irons before you hurt somebody. I aim to be friendly.” He grinned broadly over his long, sun-bronzed face. “I’m friendly to a mountain lion today, son, ’cause I’m coming back to Bowie. It’s been a long time.”

      The kid held his guns a moment more, watching the stranger. Wes Kane said, “You sure nuff don’t act like you’re tricking me.”

      “I ain’t,” the man said. “Call me Hank. Name’s Hank Shard. I’ve done a little gold digging and cattle raising and business and one thing another until I struck me a mess of silver up Leadville way and I began riding easy since.” He nodded. “And if you think you’re protecting yourself with them two guns of yours, watch that jackrabbit loping out from behind that bush.

      Hank Shard turned slightly in his saddle. Then, too fast for the kid to see, his guns came out and spat flame. And the jackrabbit made a wild leap sidewise and plopped on the dry baked earth, a little puff of torn fur and blood.

      Wes Kane sat with his mouth open. He closed it slowly and holstered his guns. “What you going to Bowie for, Shard?”

      Hank holstered his guns and gigged his bay. “Funny thing. Recollect couple of weeks back you come sneaking into a town named Salado and you got some stuff at the general store? Rations for your war bag and such. And you asked about the way to Bowie. Kept your hat down so a man couldn’t hardly see your face well.” They were riding now, side by side down the trail toward town.

      The kid nodded. “I remember. I didn’t see you.”

      “I was visiting with Ike Horner back by the stove. When I heard you mention Bowie it kind of woke me up. I’d been roaming around since I made my strike, feeling like a homeless ranny. When I heard you talking about Bowie it made me remember a girl. Belle Driscoll used to be her name, till she married. Heard she married some skunk, I forgot his name. From what I heard, they moved to Bowie and settled down

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