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Sudden Strikes Back
‘Stay off the Slash 8 range — or stay on it — permanent!’
When Jim Green signed on as foreman of the Slash 8, the smell of range war was already in the air. Then the Slash 8’s owner was bushwacked, and with its back to the wall, Green’s fighting crew made its declaration; Stay off the Slash 8 range — or stay on it — permanent!
Green knew that when a showdown came it would come with blazing guns. He was ready for that. What his embattled riders didn’t know was that down in Texas he was known by another name — Sudden.
SUDDEN STRIKES BACK
First Published by Transworld Publishers Limited in 1966
Copyright © 1996 by Frederick H Christian
Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: November 2012
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading the book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Cover image © 2012 by Westworld Designs
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Published by Arrangement with Frederick Nolan.
Chapter One
‘Back off, mister, or I’ll blow yu to hellangone!’
The voice quavered slightly, but only because the speaker was no longer a young man. No trace of fear showed in his upright bearing. The late sunlight caught his white hair, and picked out wicked highlights on the twin barrels of the shotgun presently threatening the rider facing him. This was a tall, black-haired cowboy dressed in neat, but well-worn range clothes, indistinguishable from the average cowpuncher except for the twin revolvers in crossed belts strapped about his hips.
‘Steady, ol’ timer,’ said the cowboy, raising his hands. His voice came low-pitched but steady, and without anxiety. ‘Yu might sneeze an’ plumb ruin my health?’
‘I might just do that anyways,’ snapped the old man. ‘Back off!’
‘Be obliged if you’d let me water my horse first?
‘Git!’ repeated the oldster. He emphasized his succinct speech with an expressive gesture from the shotgun. ‘Crawl back to yore boss Barclay an’ tell him next time to come hisself, ’stead o’ sendin’ a boy on man’s work.’
The tall cowboy shrugged. ‘Okay, seh,’ he said, his voice still mild. ‘Wouldn’t do no good to tell yu I never heard o’ anyone called Barclay, I suppose?
‘Nope. I may be gittin’ on in years, but I shore ain’t gittin’ feeble-minded.’ The old man hesitated for a moment. ‘Barclay send yu down here to git me while my boys was on the range?’
‘Look, mister, I told you once-I don’t know any Barclay.’
‘Shore. An’ I’m the Queen o’ Sheba,’ tapped out the old man.
‘You slipped up if you figgered to catch me alone, gunman. Take a look at the second window to the right o’ the door.’
The cowboy’s eyes scanned the windows of the ranch house quickly, and his keen gaze immediately caught the gleam of light on a rifle barrel protruding from the designated window.
‘My cook,’ explained the rancher. ‘He’s a good cook. He’s even better at shootin’. Take two steps the wrong way an’ yo’re a dead man. Allus supposin’ that yo’re stupid enough to try it. Which you might be.’
‘No, thanks,’ grinned the tall cowboy. ‘You shore convinced me. You must figger someone wants yore hide pretty bad.’
‘I figger yore skulkin’ boss Barclay wouldn’t stop at nothin’ to get what he wants, but he’s got a way to ride afore he throws a scare into me. I was on this land when you was in diddy-pants, an’ no Johnny-come-lately is goin’ to threaten me off it.
Now—’ Once again the gesture with the shotgun. ‘We’re through palaverin’. Roll yore tail and report to yore boss that you got faced down.’
The cowboy sighed, his face a study in tried patience.
‘Look, I’ll try her once more. My name’s James Green—you can see the brand on the hoss here-and I’m from Texas. Most o' the time I live under my hat, an’ I’m doin’ it now on my way to Santa Fe. I stopped here because I figgered you’d let me use yore water. I never heard o’ nobody named Barclay, an’ I shore ain’t over keen to get to know him on the basis o’ what yo’re sayin’. But if I’d’a been tryin’ to salivate you I shore wouldn’t have ridden up to yore front yard an’ knocked afore I tried.’
The old man looked at the black-haired cowboy for a long, long moment, and his gaze slid slowly to the butts of the six-shooters nestling low in their holsters, the dull-shining handles eloquent testimony to much use. The cowboy returned this piercing scrutiny calmly. With a short nod, as if coming to a decision, the old man eased the hammers of his shotgun down, half-turned towards the house, calling ‘Cookie, you put down that shootin’ am an’ lay out a cup o’ java for this young feller. He shore ain’t got the cut o’ one o’ Barclay’s bar—scourin’s now as I think about it.’ Then turning back towards the cowboy, he smiled and thrust out his hand. ‘I’m George Tate, owner o’ this spread—the Slash 8. Light an’ water yore horse, Mr. Green.’
‘That’s the formal handle, seh,’ admonished the smiling cowboy as he dismounted. ‘Jim comes a sight easier.’ The two men shook hands warmly.
‘Think I might enjoy a cup o’ that cawfee,’ Green confided with a smile. ‘Throat seems powerful dry for some reason or other.’
George Tate chuckled and led the way into the house. Green followed him after loosening his horse’s saddle-girth and allowing the stallion a quick drink at the watering trough. He found himself in a spacious living room, dominated by a huge stone fireplace before which lay scattered several mountain lion pelts. The wood floor was bare, but scrubbed to a bone white. The furniture was simple and robust, and the generally cluttered and untidy air spoke of a bachelor establishment. Green, covertly assessing his host, guessed that Tate was a widower of many years standing and the old man, as if guessing the thoughts of the younger, said gruffly, ‘Wife’s been dead a heap o’ years, Jim. Apaches.’ The one single grim word and the way it was spoken were enough. Green knew that this man’s blood was in the land here. He would die before he’d run.
The short silence was interrupted by the entrance of a small, wrinkled, dark-visaged man of uncertain age, who surveyed the cowboy with eyes snapping with humor. ‘Shore glad you didn’t get the twitches while you was a-sittin’ out there,’ he grinned, showing evil, brown teeth, ‘or I’d just by-cracky nacherly salivated you. Mind you,’ he continued, ‘I’d a been right sorry when I found out you wasn’t one o’ King’s men.’
Green looked a question, and his host explained, ‘Everyone calls Zack Barclay “King”, account o’ he claims he’s King o’ the valley. That four flusher. He’s—’
‘—Out for yore blood, by the look o’ the reception you gave me,’ Green smilingly interrupted the tirade. ‘You care to tell me suthin’ about him. What’s he like?’
‘Big, beefy, dresses like a rich gambler. Come to these parts about two years ago. Had nothin’ but trouble since, an’ he’s behind it or my name’s not Tate.’
‘What kind o’ trouble?’ asked Green.
‘Ev’ry darn kind there is, Jim .’ Tate put down the coffee cup which his cook had handed him, and lit up a battered
old pipe.
‘Not that there’s anythin’ provable. But we’ve had rustlin’, an’ killin’, an’ this Shadders gang .... ’
‘Suppose you tell Jim the story from the beginnin’, boss,’ interjected the cook. ‘He don’t rightly know what yo’re talkin’ about.’
The old man glared at his cook, who smiled back unperturbed.
‘Dang me, Cookie . . .’ his mock anger subsided into another chuckle, ‘if you ain’t about right. She was like this, Jim Barclay come to these parts about two years ago. Full o’ his own importance, an’ a direct account on the Yewnited States Mint, seemed like. Bought the old Casey spread lock, stock, an’ barrel. Rebuilt the ranch house, restocked the range, hired a tough crew—small, but tough—an’ an even tougher foreman to run it. I figgered Barclay knowed as much about cattle as I do about needlework, but he seemed likely to mind his own business, so it warn’t no skin off my nose.’
‘Tell him about the rustlin’,’ interjected Cookie.
‘Ain’t you got no chores to be doin’?’ growled Tate. ‘I was about to, if you’ll let me git on. Where was I … oh, yes. About two, three months after Barclay arrove, we—that’s me an’ the others hereabouts—noticed we was losin’ cattle. Nothin' serious. Ten head, twenty. Now and then maybe fifty head. It was unusual, but it didn’t bother none o’ the bigger spreads. Hangin’ Rock—that’s the nearest town to here—started buzzin’ with rumors about some outlaw gang called the Shadders that’d holed up on the southern end o’ Thunder Mesa, them mountains over to the south, there.’
‘The Shadows, you say?’ Green looked pensive. ‘Can’t say I ever heard tell on any gang o’ that name?
‘Neither had I,’ continued Tate. ‘Sounded like plumb nonsense to me an’ the others. So we decided to take no notice. Figgered the rustlin’ was just some Injun bucks liftin’ some beef.’
‘I’m talkin’ it that it warn’t no rumor, then,’ put in Green.
‘Yo’re durn right it warn’t,’ flashed the old rancher. ‘After a while, it got more obvious. Took on a pattern, sorta. They was only hittin’ the smaller ranchers. One by one, them people found they didn’t have enough beef to market. No beef, no money. No money, you can’t pay yore debts. Then the Bank has to foreclose. Afore you could say Jehosophat, Barclay bought up them ranches for a song.’
‘Nothin’ criminal in that, seh,’ opined Green, ‘an’ it shore don’t prove anything against this Barclay feller.’
‘Agreed, agreed,’ said the old man testily. ‘Wait ’til I’m through. After a while I began to realize that Barclay owned quite a piece o’ this valley. Anyways, all the land on the north side o’ the Sweetwater—that’s the river you musta crossed on yore way into the valley.’
Green nodded. He had indeed forded a wide, clear, shallow river earlier in the day, and had reflected then that it would be the key to the survival of the cattle he had seen dotted across the foothills.
‘Seen Barclay in town one day,’ Tate told him. ‘Taxed him with the whole thing. He smiled like one o’ them Chessy cats and says to me, “Tate, they ain’t no law against buyin’ land. I aim to own this whole valley come next Spring, one way or the other.” I said that he’d git my ranch over my dead body, an’ he looks at me cold as you please an’ polite as an undertaker. “I shore hope that won’t prove necessary,” he says.’
‘Sounds like a pretty cool customer,’ offered Green.
‘Cool? He’s as cold as a rattler an’ four times as poisonous.’
‘Ain’t you got a sheriff ?’ the cowboy asked.
‘We ain’t—but Barclay has,’ was the meaningful reply. ‘Biggest misfit the Good Lord ever put ears on, an’ that’s sayin’ plenty. Even if we could prove Barclay was behind the rustlin’—which we can’t, o’ course—Brady is Barclay’s man, hoofs, hide, an’ taller. Anyways, what could we do? Barclay ain’t stepped outside o’ the Law, an’ all the rest has been pinned on the Shadders.’
‘All the rest?’
‘Shucks, I’m about to tell you: no need to rush me. After it became obvious that them who was goin’ to quit—for one reason or another—had sold out an’ gone, the bigger spreads started gettin’ visitors.’
‘The Shadows?’
‘I’m guessin’ so, although nobody that’s been involved has been what you’d call chattery about it. Far as I can tell, three or four fellers wearin’ masks would ride up to a ranch at night, call out the owner, and talk awhile. Allus the same kind o’ jaspers: mean-eyed and bristlin’ with guns. Hired killers is my guess. Tom Sheppard was the first one they talked to. He moved out real quick. Nary a word to anyone. just pulled his stakes, sold his spread to the bank, and lit out for yonder.’
‘Whereupon friend Barclay bought the ranch off the bank,’ mused Green.
‘Like you say,’ agreed Tate. ‘Next in line was Harry Carpenter. Same thing. Sold the Box 40 for what he could get. Piled his wife an’ kids into a wagon, an’ pulled his freight outa here.’
‘No explanation from him either, I’m guessin’.’
‘You ain’t whistlin’,’ Tate told him. ‘It was obvious enough,
. though.’
‘They was told to move on … or else.’
‘Exactly. Then it all come to a head. A couple o’ weeks ago, Jess Stackpole over at the Diamond S—that’s just over the hill a mile or two from here—got a night visit. Stepped out to talk to them over the barrel of his gun. Fool play. Shot dead in his own yard, he was, right in front o’ his woman an’ kids. Brady rode out there, clucked around the yard like some fool hen. Couldn’t find nothin’, o’ course. I misdoubt he could find Texas if he was standin’ in San Antone.’
‘An you, seh?’
‘Well, like you saw, Jim, I been expectin’ company ever since they hit the Stackpole place. Barclay’s bought that, o’ course. Which leaves me the only ranch left on this side o’ the valley that Barclay ain’t bought?
‘Which is why you jumped me out there.’
‘Shore, son, I wish you’d overlook that. If I’d ’a known .... ’
‘Shucks, no need to apologize, seh,’ said Green. ‘Better to make that kind o’ mistake an’ be proved wrong than to make Stackpole’s kind.’
The old rancher’s face turned grim, and a short silence ensued. Cookie coughed, rose, and started to clear up the coffee cups. To break the silence Green complimented him on his coffee. The old cook’s wizened face wrinkled into a huge smile, and Tate’s dour expression softened.
‘You said the right thing, Jim,’ he said. ‘Cookie’s mighty proud o’ his java.’ .
‘Good coffee’s hard to find,’ agreed the cowboy. ‘What’s yore secret?’
This to Cookie, who, still smiling, replied, ‘Wal, Jim, good coffee’s pretty easy to make. I got me a shore-fire method. First, you heat up some water. Then you add about a handful o’ coffee. Then you let ’er bile for a while, an’ then add some more coffee. Let her roll a mite longer, an’ then throw in some more coffee. Last thing, you drop in a horseshoe. If the shoe floats, she’s ready to drink.’
‘Me, I figger Cookie owns a few shares in Arbuckles,’ interposed Tate, referring to the well-known coffee makers whose goods were in use throughout the West. Knocking out his pipe against the stone fireplace, he rose and went to the window through which he peered into the yard. The late afternoon shadows were lengthening; already the tall trees around the house were laying their long lines across the yard. ‘No sign o’ the boys, yet,’ muttered Tate.
‘How many men you got?’ Green asked him.
‘On’y five,’ replied the old man. ‘Used to have eight, but the others kinda drifted. Can’t say as I blame them. They probably seen trouble shapin’ up an’ they didn’t want in. Makes things a mite difficult around the place, but we manage.’
Cookie popped his head around the door and announced,
‘I’m makin’ apple pie. I figger you’ll stay fer supper, Jim?’
‘Shucks, it completely slipped my mind to ask you, Jim
,’ said Tate, slapping his leg. ‘Course yo’re stayin’, young feller. Least we could do to make up for that reception you got!’
The cook threw in his persuasion with the old man’s, and Green admitted that he’d admire to sample fresh apple pie. The old man came out on to the porch and pointed out the bunk-house and the stables.
‘Yu go an’ unpack yore gear, feed yore hoss. I’m figgerin’ on havin’ me some company for talkin’ to. Yo’re stayin’ over the night, whether yu like it or not. So yu may as well pretend yu like it!’
Whereupon the old rancher clapped Green on the shoulder and clumped back into the house, leaving the cowboy to lead the black stallion over to the stable.
‘Our Mister Barclay shore sounds like an unpleasant sorta gent, ‘Night,’ he confided to the horse as he unsaddled the magnificent animal and rubbed down the sleek black hide. ‘The old man’s got his share o’ guts, but it looks like he’s buckin’ heavy odds.’
Green reflected on the activities of Barclay and his outfit as he methodically did the chores of caring for his horse. It was an old pattern, of course, Barclay’s. The big, powerful combine with the men and the money ousting the smaller, longer-established settlers from the range. And the smaller ranchers, too proud to ask for help and too ineffective to tight alone, would be no match for the imported gunfighters who would be roped into the fight when all else failed. But … a frown crossed Green’s saturnine face.
‘Why would he want all the land in the valley, though, 'Night?’ The horse nickered in response to his name. ‘He’s got plenty of access to the river, an’ all the grazin’ land he can use … shore beats me why he’d want more. I guess some men is just born hawgs.’
His soliloquy was obviously unsatisfactory; anyone watching Green would have seen him stop as though struck by a thought, then shake his head, and then go about his tasks once more. ‘Seems ridiculous enough, 'Night,’ he told his horse, ‘to be probably true. I wonder whether Barclay employs the Shadows . . .or they employ him?’
Sudden--Strikes Back (A Sudden Western #1) Page 1