Screen Romances magazine, Nov 1945
A town like Walton, this one-horse backwater in the California hills, was no town for a hip guy like Eric Stanton. A girl like June Mills was no girl for him, either. Looking back, the trail that had led him here was long and devious, if you believed in looking back. Which Stanton didn't.
His batting average hadn't been exactly sensational along the years. He'd struck out more times than he could count. And even when he'd hit a homer, like with his publicity office back in New York, it didn't seem to make much difference. It had started good. But when a guy had offered him two thousand bucks on the line for it, he'd taken the offer.
In two short hours, he'd lost half the dough back to the purchaser. Loaded dice, but he couldn't prove that. So he'd headed west. Chicago. Omaha. Las Vegas. That was where he'd dropped the other thousand, in Las Vegas. The cards there weren't stacked. They didn't have to be.
And then, trying to bluff it the rest of the way to San Francisco, he'd been kicked off the bus in Walton by a bus driver who'd seen that threadbare I-slept-past-my-
She had a mouth like an atom bomb, that girl behind Pop's counter. She had curves and smouldering eyes. It wasn't hard to get her to go out with him. but from there on in, she wasn't playing the game, she wasn't going to give in easy. She had her eyes glued on a wedding ring, a home and security -- nothing less.
It had taken Stanton two days and nights in Walton to make sure the girl really meant it. By then, he'd have dynamited the City Hall for her, or stolen, or -- killed.
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