Sudden--Strikes Back (A Sudden Western #1)

by Frederick H. Christian

  ‘Why don’t yu fight like a man,’ Linkham gasped, ‘ ’stead o’ dancin’ around an’ dodgin’ like that.’

  ‘Yu fight yore fight an’ I’ll fight mine,’ panted Sudden. ‘I ain’t aimin’ to get stomped to death.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Linkham raised himself slowly, ‘Yo’re gonna be!’

  And he leaped yet again at Sudden, showering a tremendous flurry of blows at his opponent. To his surprise, this times the Slash 8 man did not move away, but traded blow for blow with him. For perhaps two terrible minutes the adversaries stood toe to toe, their blows smashing solidly into each other. Blood spattered the floor. Sudden’s shirt was half torn from his body, his face a mass of bruises. One of Linkham’s eyes was closed, the other badly puffed. Finally, sobbing for breath, the two fell apart. Sudden stood, head hanging slightly, pumping air into his laboring lungs, while Linkham swayed, his face purple with exertion, whistling for breath.

  ‘Damn yu!’ he muttered through broken teeth, ‘I shoulda finished yu the night that old fool Tate got his.’

  As this callous statement escaped Linkham’s lips, a murderous hatred slid slowly into Sudden’s eyes. The Box B man saw it, and despite his fuddled state, realized the enormity of his error. Now Green advanced upon him like a stalking tiger, a lethal light in his eyes. All traces of fatigue had dropped from the Slash 8 man’s shoulders, and for the first time, Linkham began to give ground, shrinking from the pent fury in front of him. To cover his fear he launched a wild blow at Sudden, which was parried almost contemptuously. Then, almost as if Linkham were some inanimate object, Green methodically walked forward, his sinewy arms moving like steel pistons, driving blow after blow into the wilting Linkham.

  The unconscious Pardoe had awakened during the brawl. Lying in the bunk, he whispered an awed ‘My Gawd!’ as the Slash 8 man followed the hulking wreck of Linkham around the room, coldly and efficiently beating the bigger man to his knees. Linkham’s desperate attempts at counter attack were almost effortlessly beaten aside, while Sudden prowled forward, his blows landing with solid, merciless regularity. It could not last. Slowly, with what seemed to the watching Pardoe almost like a sigh of relief, Linkham toppled. Like an old, old tree, he leaned slowly sideways, teetered, then crashed to the scraped board floor, where he lay like a dead man.

  As Pardoe watched, his eyes like saucers, the killing light faded from Green’s eyes; the bandit saw a frown appear, then something almost like regret cross Green’s face. Slowly, the Slash 8 ramrod straightened up. Crossing the room he picked up his gun belt and strapped it on.

  ‘I reckon that’s the whole story, now,’ he said to no one in particular.

  He seemed to see Pardoe for the first time; stooping, he untied the man’s bands and helped him to his feet.

  ‘Come along, Bull, an’ don’t give me no trouble. We got some ridin’ to do. Give me a hand with Linkham.’

  Chafing his wrists, Pardoe got to his feet and hastened to do the Slash 8 man’s bidding. After what he had seen that day, if Green had told him to fly to Hanging Rock, Pardoe would have flapped his arms and given it a try rather than bring that cold, empty light back into Green’s eyes.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hanging Rock was full to bursting. News of the forthcoming sale of the Slash 8 had aroused so much interest throughout the neighboring area that practically everyone who could get to the town had done so; the Slash 8 was well known to be one of the finest ranches in the Territory, and even though they really had no hope of raising the money to buy it, people had come in from far and wide to clap eyes on the man who could. In addition, there was a large contingent of miners from Thunder Mesa, and Pat Newman was with them. This contingent of hard-drinking, hard-knuckled lighters gave a ribald cheer as Sheriff Brady was seen rushing by the saloon on some errand; indeed, several of the town’s leading citizens were given ribald raspberries by the ham-fisted coal heavers.

  On the streets, the broadwalks were crowded with a jostling chiaroscuro of humanity, Mexicans, Indians, even one or two Chinese who worked as cooks in the mines could be spotted. Down at Diego’s Zachary Barclay was toasting his imminent ownership of the Slash 8 with his men; damning, the while, the girl who had foiled his chance to upset de Witt’s complete control over his destiny.

  The Slash 8 contingent arrived at about midday, and Grace Tate went immediately to the hotel, where Mrs. Mulvaney, who by some mysterious means already knew about Grace’s having thrown Barclay off the Slash 8, greeted her like a long lost daughter. Dave and the rest of the crew repaired to Dutchy’s, and were greeted with a yell of welcome from those of the miners who remembered them from the cattle drive over the mountains. Judge Pringle disappeared on some errand of his own. Pat Newman approached Dave, and drawing him to one side, asked, ‘Is it true yu can’t raise the money, son?’

  Dave nodded miserably.

  ‘I was looking for Green to tell him that I’d be glad to take a few more head o’ beef off the Slash 8 if it would help. Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Dave told the mine manager. ‘I expected to see him here, an’ if he don’t turn up soon, I’m goin’ to be askin’ some people a few leadin’ questions.’

  Newman nodded, pulling on his pipe. ‘Yu get in any trouble, yell. My boys will back any play the Slash 8 makes. I like that feller Green.’

  ‘We all do,’ interjected Gimpy, who had just turned up. ‘But I ain’t worried about him—he ain’t the kind to get hisself salivated by the kind o’ scum we got in these parts?

  ‘I hope yo’re right.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Dave saw Zachary Barclay enter the saloon. Behind him, puffed with his own importance, came Shady Brady, and a few moments later, de Witt came in. Dave kept his eye on the door until he saw Grace come in, accompanied by Mrs. Mulvaney. Holding up his hand, he caught her attention, and the two women came over to his side.

  ‘When will it start?’ Grace asked him.

  ‘Right about now, I’d guess,’ he told her, motioning to where Sheriff Brady was climbing on to the bar. Someone beat on a table until the uproar died down.

  ‘Folks, we’re here today to conduct an auction,’ announced Brady. ‘Yu probably all know that the Bank is foreclosin’ its mortgage on the Slash 8, formerly the property o’ George Tate, deceased. Are the owners represented here?’

  ‘They are, sir,’ judge Pringle pushed to the front of the crowd, and with a courtly bow, ushered Grace Tate into one of the chairs which had been set up alongside a table.

  ‘This is not a legal proceedin’,’ Brady continued. ‘I am, therefore, placin’ the conduct o’ this business in the hands of Mr. de Witt, the president o’ the Bank o’ Hangin’ Rock.’

  ‘Thank Gawd for that!’ called someone as Brady clambered down from the bar, and Jasper de Witt rose from his chair facing Grace Tate and judge Pringle across the cleared floor and walked to the bar, where he stood facing the room. Dave reflected that de Witt looked remarkably different, although there was no change in the man’s actual appearance. It was something else, thought the Slash 8 man. An air of triumph, perhaps? He whispered as much to Gimpy.

  ‘He’s just shore o’ hisself, boy. He figgers he’s got us sold lock, stock, an’ barrel. An’ he’s more’n pleased about it, for some reason.’

  ‘He shore ain’t no friend of ours,’ muttered Dave.

  ‘Amen to that,’ chimed in Ben Dobbs.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ began de Witt, ‘and ladies.’ This with a slight bow towards Grace Tate and the widow Mulvaney. ‘As you all know, the bank was recently robbed. Our insurance did not cover us against this eventuality, and since I had commitments which I could not avoid, it became necessary to call in such outstanding debts as the Bank had. I myself,’ he coughed modestly, ‘have done what I could. It was, of course, nothing like enough to meet the Bank’s commitments and I was therefore reluctantly compelled to call in the mortgages of the Slash 8. The ranch was given ample opportunity to pay off its debt but has been unable to do so. I am, therefore,
about to place the ranch on the market at auction. Before I do so, Sheriff Brady will distribute among you leaflets which give full details of the ranch, its boundaries, stock, and so forth.’ Brady was, in fact, already sweatily handing out the posters. ‘I propose now to commence the business of auctioning the Slash 8. The first question I must ask is of Miss Tate here. Have you been able to raise the capital to pay off your debt?’

  Grace shook her head wordlessly. Judge Pringle sat with his head bowed.

  ‘Very well,’ said de Witt. ‘The amount outstanding is three thousand dollars. The bidding will start at that figure.’

  A gasp escaped the assembled crowd. While three thousand dollars was a large amount of money, there was no doubt at all in the minds of those present that the Slash 8 was worth well over five times that amount without so much as a steer or a log cabin upon it.

  ‘Do I hear three thousand dollars?’ de Witt called.

  There was a pregnant silence. A small disturbance at the edges of the crowd was observed as someone pushed through to the front. It was Barclay. He made his way to the table at which Grace Tate was sitting and bent to whisper to her.

  ‘Yu won’t reconsider?’

  Grace shook her head. ‘I would prefer to lose the ranch,’ she said coldly. Barclay’s face went dark with rage and he thrust Dave Haynes aside roughly and stood glowering for a moment before calling out, ‘I’ll bid three thousand dollars?

  ‘Mr. Barclay of the Box B has bid three thousand dollars,’ de Witt called. ‘Do I hear more?’ De Witt looked around sharply as judge Pringle rose to his feet slowly. ‘Do you wish to bid, sir?’

  ‘No,’ said Pringle shortly. ‘I wish to give you the opportunity of withdrawing from this farce with dignity. I do not relish mining you in public.’

  A puzzled hum arose among the onlookers. What could the old boy mean? They were not long in finding out.

  ‘Withdraw?’ De Witt’s voice grew shrill, his eyes panicky.

  ‘What do you mean?

  ‘Mr. de Witt, I regret that you force me to do this. You know, and I know that you know, the mortgage document you showed to Miss Tate is a blatant forgery!’

  A babble of excited speculation burst forth; people pushed forward to try to see the banker clearly and watch his reaction to this astonishing accusation. De Witt’s face was as white as chalk, and he pointed a quivering finger at Pringle. ‘You—you don’t know what you’re saying. I’ll—’

  ‘You’ll do what, Mr. de Witt?’ asked Pringle icily. ‘I suggest that you will do nothing. I have here’—he opened his document case and held up a sheet of paper—‘a signed and notarized copy of a mortgage deed effected between you and George Tate. It is dated two months before his death. The amount upon this document is one thousand five hundred dollars. What have you to say to that?’

  This time a veritable uproar surged through the room. The nearest spectators craned forward trying to see the incriminating document, others pushing from behind. Brady pounded ineffectually upon a table with the butt of his revolver for order. After a moment, the Judge began to speak again, and the crowd’s uproar stilled as they strained to hear what he said to the cringing banker.

  ‘De Witt, you deliberately forged a document for personal gain. It takes only the stroke of a pen to change a figure one to a figure four. I suggest that you did this forgery solely to further the interests of Zachary Barclay, who, it appears, is the only person interested in acquiring the Slash 8 ranch?

  De Witt cringed back still further against the bar, his hands twitching at his lapels. ‘I couldn’t help it,’ he whined. ‘He made me do it. Barclay made me do it!’ His out flung finger pin-pointed the Box B man, who stood thunderstruck by this accusation hurled at him, from so completely unexpected a source.

  ‘It was all Barclay, I tell you,’ screeched De Witt. ‘He threatened he’d send that gunman Linkham to torture me. He robbed the bank. He—’

  Swirls of motion ran through the crowd as an ugly movement towards the burly figure of Barclay changed the character of the crowd into that of a mob. Barclay reacted classically to de Witt’s accusation. Before the astonished spectators could move towards him, he growled an oath and stepped forward in front of de Witt.

  ‘Yu lyin’, sneakin’ connivin’, double-crosser!’ he hissed.

  ‘Yu’ve played me for a fool. I’ll—’ His hand moved towards his hip.

  Like a skulking lizard, the banker’s hand, a second before twitching on his lapels, darted inside his jacket, and reappeared holding a squat, deadly Derringer. The wicked little weapon boomed in the swift-fallen silence, and Zachary Barclay rocked backwards on his heels as the heavy slug tore through his heart. He fell like a log.

  In a trice, several miners had rushed forward and disarmed de Witt, who made no struggle, but stood unresisting in their grasp while Sheriff Brady bent over the body of Zachary Barclay.

  ‘Dead as a mackerel,’ he announced. He rose to his feet, dusting his knees. ‘Mr. de Witt, yu didn’t orta done that,’ he said heavily. ‘If Barclay was up to somethin’, he shoulda been held for trial.’

  ‘You saw what happened!’ de Witt snapped. ‘If I had not acted, he would have killed me where I stood. I shot in self-defense!’

  A murmur of approval rumbled from the watching crowd, and Brady, never slow to bend to public opinion, relinquished his hold upon the banker and motioned the miners to do likewise. De Witt looked around. Judge Pringle was still on his feet.

  ‘Sheriff,’ he called. ‘Mr. de Witt said something just now about Barclay having robbed the bank, and forcing him to commit forgery. Since we cannot interrogate Barclay, I would like the opportunity of asking Mr. de Witt a few questions.’

  De Witt mentally cursed the old lawyer, but his mind was spinning like a dynamo. With Barclay out of the way, Linkham would do as he was told. Parr would be dead. The others were only in it for money. Nobody could contradict him if he told his story well. It might mean the loss of the Slash 8 for the present, but there was still just enough time. The girl would have to be killed now, of course, but Linkham would … He dragged his wild thoughts back to the present, and resumed his cringing stance.

  ‘It was all Barclay, you see,’ he told them. ‘He had sworn that he would own this valley, and when George Tate defied him, he decided to use any method to force Tate to sell.’

  ‘How did you know all this?’ asked Pringle, casually.

  ‘Barclay told me,’ de Witt explained, ‘after he knew that I was in his power. I did not know at first, of course. I treated Barclay like the bank’s best customer, which was what he was. Oh, there was talk about him; I attributed that to jealousy. As far as I could tell he was a successful man, and successful men are always envied. Even when those ranchers were murdered it seemed impossible that he could be in any way involved.’

  ‘But something happened to change your thinking?

  ‘Yes, yes. It was about a week before the bank was robbed. Barclay came to the bank late one evening—I am often there late, working on figures—and I let him in. He acted very mysteriously, requested that I draw the shades, lock the doors, all of which I did. He told me I was very lucky; he was going to let me share his wealth when I made it possible for him to own Sweetwater Valley. I did not understand. He told me that he was going to rob the bank-and that I was going to help. He told me he would break George Tate or kill him, and he didn’t care which. I laughed at him. I thought he was joking. I soon found out my error. He hit me. He hit me again … and again. He had a riding whip. He beat me .... ’ De Witt made his voice break. The utter silence in the saloon showed that he had the listeners hanging on his every word, and he laughed silently at their stupidity. ‘Finally, he made me sign a paper saying that I had embezzled twenty thousand dollars of the bank’s money to pay gambling debts. He told me that if I did not cooperate he would send the paper to my employers, and, as a touch of refined cruelty, to my aged parents. Gentlemen, I could not allow him to do that. The shock would have killed them.’
He paused for effect, and a sly glance from beneath lowered lids showed him nothing but expressions of sympathy on the faces of most of the onlookers. ‘Fools!’ He gloated. ‘Sentimental, idiotic fools! I shall succeed yet! The robbery was to force Miss Tate to raise money for the mortgage,’ he went on. ‘Barclay planned to steal the cattle she was driving as well, but Green, the Slash 8 foreman, prevented him from succeeding. He realized that having sold the cattle Miss Tate would be able to pay off her mortgage. It was then that he forced me to change the papers, and to give her no extra time to pay off the loan. There was no need for the loan to be called at all. Extra resources from the East had already arrived.’

  A threatening mutter passed through the crowd at these evidences of the late Box B man’s perfidy. De Witt looked about him. ‘I had no choice, then. It was either do what he said or be ruined, bring grief and perhaps tragedy to my family. And then, no doubt, he would have killed me, too. I am not a man of violence. But I swore that he would not succeed. I am glad that I killed him. I am glad he is dead!’ So vehement was this speech, and so sincere-for de Witt was certainly not acting as he spoke his last words that one of the spectators called out,

  ‘Good for yu, banker!’ and several others murmured audible agreement. Judge Pringle’s voice cut through the chatter.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Sheriff Brady about this? Or contact your Head Office?’

  ‘But don’t you see how cunning Barclay was?’ de Witt cried.

  ‘He could have denied everything. I hadn’t a shred of proof against him. The documents were forged in my hand. I had acted apparently independently of Barclay. Who would have believed me when he brought out that IOU for twenty thousand dollars? I would have been ruined, gentlemen. None of you would ever have believed me.’