American Gun Mystery Read Free

scowled, and then smiled, and then scowled again as he flicked the brim of his Stetson. He strode off on his absurdly bowed legs; and though his lips moved no sound came from them. He disappeared behind the smithy.
    “He says I’m old,” muttered old Buck Horne.
    She took his hard brown hands in hers. “Never mind, Buck.”
    “Damn him, Kit, he ain’t goin’ to tell me—”
    “Never mind, Buck.”
    He smiled suddenly and put his arm about her waist.
    Kit Horne was as well-known to the younger generation as her famous foster-father was to those who had been the younger generation ten and fifteen years before. Bred on a ranch, reared on a horse, with cowboys for playmates, a Bowie knife as a teething-ring, limitless rolling acres of range as a playground, and her foster-father a motion-picture star—around her a Hollywood press-agent contrived to drape a tinsel legend. Buck’s producer had had an idea. Buck was growing old. Kit, who was more man than woman and more woman than Circe, should take his place in the films. That had been nine years before, when she was a straight-backed tomboy of sixteen. …The children went wild over her. She could ride, shoot, rope, swear; and, since there must always be a hero, she could kiss and cuddle too. So she became Kit Horne, the great cowgirl star, and her pictures sold at a premium while old Buck slid quietly into oblivion.
    They walked out of the stable, up a ramp, and through narrow concrete corridors to a vast wing which held dressing rooms. Over one of the doors there was a metal star; Buck kicked the door open.
    “Star!” he bellowed. “Come in, Kit, come in, an’ shut the door behin’ you. …An’ I’ve got to take that horse-thief’s lip! Sit down, I tell you.”
    He flung himself into a chair like a sulky boy, frowning, his brown hands clenching and unclenching. Kit ruffled his white hair fondly and smiled; and in the depths of her gray-blue eyes there was anxiety.
    “Whoa!” she said softly. “You’re off your feed, Buck, upset. Get a grip on yourself. Isn’t this—don’t snarl, you old catamount!—all this excitement just a little too much for you?”
    “Stop talking like a prime fool, you, Kit.”
    “You’re sure—?”
    “Shut up, Kit! I’m all right.”
    “Did the rodeo doctor look you over, you old heller?”
    “T’day. Says I’m fit.”
    She took a long match out of his vest pocket, struck it expertly against the back of the chair, and held it to the tip of a slender cigaret he had been rolling. “You’re sixty-five, Buck.”
    He squinted humorously up at her through the fragrant smoke. “You mean I’m through. Listen, Kit, though I been out o’ pictures for three years—”
    “Nine,” said Kit gently.
    “Three,” said Buck. “I made a come-back for National, didn’t I? Well, I’m as frisky now as I was then. Feel that muscle!” He doubled his big right arm and obediently she tapped his biceps. They were hard as rock. “What the hell, Kit—this is soft pickin’s. A little ridin’, a little shootin’, some fancy ropin’—you know how I been keepin’ in trim at the ranch these nine-ten years. This racket here with Wild Bill is easy as brandin’ a roped steer. Bill’ll build me up, I’ll get a nice fat movie contract. …”
    She kissed his forehead. “All right, Buck. Just be—be careful, won’t you?”
    At the door she looked back. Buck had propped his long legs on his dressing table, and he was frowning thoughtfully at his reflection in the mirror through a screen of pearly smoke.
    Kit sighed a woman’s sigh as she closed the door; and then, drawing her tall figure up, she strode with a man’s strides through the corridors and down another ramp.
    Little pops! came faintly to her ears. Some excitement livened her pleasant face, and she hurried purposefully in the direction of the sounds. People passed her—the old familiar people: cowboys in chaps and sombreros, girls in buckskins and short flaring halved