Sudden--At Bay (A Sudden Western #2)

by Frederick H. Christian

  Parris’ eyes met Helm’s briefly. He wanted to protest, but something in the man’s flat gaze stopped him.

  ‘Yu don’t need to do that, Sim,’ he said, a faint air of complaint in his voice. ‘My boys can take care o’ things.’

  ‘Mebbe they’ll be tired after their long ride,’ Helm put in quietly. ‘It’s hard work. Yore boys didn’t ought to have to do all the hard work, Harry.’

  ‘They ain’t—–’

  ‘Yore boys, that’s right,’ snapped Sim Cotton. ‘So what I say goes, right? An’ what I say is, I want this job done properly. Which means I want Helm to handle it.’

  ‘I wish yu’d let me take care o’ that son-of-a-bitch,’ Buck Cotton interposed. ‘I shore owe him somethin’.’

  ‘Yu?’ Sim Cotton laughed out loud. ‘From what I hear yu was wettin’ yore pants when he come after yu with a gun in the Oasis. Hell, boy, I wouldn’t put yu in charge o’ drowning three kittens in a gunnysack!’

  Buck Cotton’s face set angrily, and he bit his lip. He knew better than to retort, however. Being Sim Cotton’s brother would not exclude him from Sim’s violent methods of dealing with anyone who opposed his dictator’s will.

  ‘Well, whatever yu say, Sim,’ Parris said, eventually. ‘Although I can’t see…’

  ‘Yu don’t have to see,’ was the brutal rejoinder. ‘Yu just do what I tell yu, yu broken-down imitation.’

  Parris bridled at this tongue lashing. ‘Now see here, Sim, there ain’t no call to take that kind o’ line with me. I —–’ he stopped in mid-sentence. Sim Cotton was regarding him with baleful eyes, and Art was leaning forward in his chair with a peculiar light dancing in his eyes.

  ‘Yu want me to talk to Harry some, Sim?’ asked Art. Parris went cold at these words. Art Cotton was one of the dirtiest, roughest fist-fighters he had ever seen in action; the cold light in his eyes came from, Parris was sure, a pathological hatred of his fellow man. Art Cotton was never happier than when he was using his hands. Parris had seen him once beat up a man they had caught with two stolen Cottonwood steers in his possession. Art had systematically, scientifically beaten the man into a raw and bleeding pulp, whimpering for mercy, helpless, blinded in his own blood. And the man had been hard, tough -and nobody had held him. He looked beseechingly at Sim Cotton.

  ‘No need for that Art,’ rumbled the rancher, and a great sigh of relief escaped involuntarily from Parris’ fat lips. ‘Harry’s scared enough just thinkin’ about it.’ The rancher laughed aloud, an ugly sound.

  ‘All right, there’s nothin’ else for us to do here. I’m headin’ back for the ranch. Yu, Buck, leave yore horse here. Helm’ll need a better nag than he’s got, to get back to the ranch by tomorrow. I want yu to get back as fast as yu can, Helm. Art, yu stay here —-make shore everything’s taken care of, an’ properly. Bucky, let’s go.’

  They got their horses and rode out of town, leaving one of the Cottonwood riders with Helm and Art Cotton. After their departure, the three Cottonwood men went down the street to the saloon. They were playing a desultory game of monte over a drink when Billy Hornby’s words sliced the silence of the afternoon.

  As the boy’s challenge rang in the still room, the rider, whose name was Ricky, was lolling backwards on his upright chair. He went over backwards in a flailing, startled welter of arms and legs.

  Art Cotton swore at him and struggled to disentangle himself from the man’s grasp, for Ricky had clutched at him as he fell, almost dragging Art to the floor with him. Blass, who had been polishing glasses behind his bar, froze in mid-polish, but did not fail to notice that Helm had risen to his feet in one smooth movement, the right hand gun snaked from the tooled holster without apparent thought.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Helm in amazement, as Cotton and Ricky scrambled to their feet. ‘It sounds as if our li’l rabbit done broke out o’ his hutch.’ He turned to the bartender. ‘Don’t yu make the mistake o’ openin’ yore squawkbox,’ he warned Blass. ‘Or yu’ll be out of a job an’ the undertaker’ll be in one.’

  Outside the saloon, Billy repeated his challenge, misled by the presence of Buck Cotton’s horse at the hitching rail.

  Helm turned to his companions. ‘Art, yu an’ Ricky slide out the back door. Git aroun’ behind him. I reckon we’ll have ourselves a passel o’ fun trimmin’ this young rooster’s comb!’

  He made an impatient gesture with his hand, and the two men nodded and sidled out of the saloon through the back entrance while Helm moved swiftly, silently, tall and catlike, towards the batwing doors. The bartender glanced helplessly towards the window.

  ‘Yu on’y get one warnin’, boy,’ Helm said, sibilantly, and shook a warning finger. His voice was almost playful, but Blass was not fooled. He knew that any attempt to warn Billy Hornby would result in his own death. The bartender was brave enough, but he was not a fool. He stayed rooted to the spot.

  ‘Whatever yu say, Helm,’ he managed, hoarsely.

  Helm nodded, and then ignoring the bartender, pushed out through the batwings on to the sidewalk, his thumbs hooked in his fancy belt.

  ‘Bucky ain’t here, sonny,’ he told Billy softly. ‘But I am.’

  He stepped down off the sidewalk into the dusty street, took three paces forward, and stopped. His demeanor was casual, unperturbed. He had the situation under control. Billy glanced nervously up and down the empty street. He had not been prepared for the appearance of the gunfighter. He took an uncertain step.

  ‘Yu goin’ someplace?’ Helm’s question was delivered in an unemphatic tone. Only the man’s eyes belied the offhand words. They were cold and deadly.

  Billy frowned, nonplussed. He knew he could handle a gun reasonably well enough to possibly outdraw Buck Cotton —-but a professional gunman was another matter. Against this man he would have no chance. A movement to one side caught his attention, and dismay spread across his face as Art Cotton and the man called Ricky stepped out from the shadowed alley between the saloon and the livery stable. They made no overt move, but walked coolly out into the street, parting slightly to spread around the boy, making him shift his position to keep them in sight. Helm grinned like a hunting coyote.

  ‘Yu didn’t even have brains enough to run,’ he grated. ‘Who turned yu loose?’

  Billy shook his head. Maybe Green had got clear.

  ‘Yu better tell us, boy,’ rasped Art Cotton. ‘It has to be someone in this town. Whoever it was, we’ll be wantin’ to talk to him.’

  ‘I … I got loose on my own,’ protested Billy. ‘Nobody helped me.’

  Cotton nodded, his face disbelieving. ‘Ricky, go take a look in the jail.’ The Cottonwood rider nodded, and hastened off across the street towards the jail.

  Art Cotton took several paces forward, until he was almost near enough to Billy to reach out and touch him.

  ‘That’s far enough!’ snapped the boy. ‘Keep back!’

  ‘O-ho,’ smiled Helm, mirthlessly. ‘Cat’s got teeth.’

  ‘Yu aimin’ to draw on me, sonny?’ asked Art Cotton, his voice flat. ‘Even if yu could outdraw me —-which I misdoubt —-yu reckon yu can beat Helm?’

  Billy shook his head.

  ‘I don’t reckon, he said. ‘But I’ll take yu with me if yu come one step closer!’

  Cotton smiled. The expressionless eyes bored into those of the youngster. He took a step forward.

  ‘Don’t take another, Cotton!’

  The voice from across the street was icy with menace, and it froze Art Cotton where he stood. Helm wheeled to face this new challenge, his hands flashing towards his guns. He too froze as he saw the rock-steady twin revolvers in Sudden’s hands. He shrugged and relaxed his crouched stance. His eyes flickered over towards the jail as Sudden approached cautiously from his position at the corner of the sheriff’s house. Sudden saw the look and a sardonic smile touched his grim lips.

  ‘If yo’re hopin’ yore rider’s goin’ to bail yu out, forget it,’ he told Helm. ‘He had an overpowerin’ urge to lie down’. H
e gestured with his right hand gun. ‘Damn near bent the barrel.’

  A curse escaped Art Cotton. ‘So that’s how the boy got loose,’ he swore. ‘An’ that means Norris an’ Rodgers is cashed, too, I’m takin’ it.’

  ‘Yo’re takin’ it correct,’ Sudden told him. ‘But yu don’t seem to be takin’ it too hard.’

  ‘If yu got them, they musta’ been fools,’ snarled Cotton.

  ‘They worked for yu,’ was the telling reply. ‘Which don’t point to them bein’ over-bright. All right, enough jabber. Shuck yore guns —-both o’ yu. An’ mind how yu do it.’

  With a muttered imprecation, Art Cotton unbuckled his gun-belt and allowed it to fall to the dusty ground. Helm’s hands moved too, because for a fraction of a second, Sudden’s eyes had flicked across to watch Cotton step away from his guns.

  In that half-second, Helm’s hands flashed towards his guns and were on the butts, lifting them level, when Sudden leaped forward, the barrel of his right hand gun describing a short, vicious arc. The heavy weapon caught Helm above the right ear and dropped him to his knees, stunned. He half fell forward, one gun still in his hand, trying to bring it up to sight it at the man in front of him. Once again, the barrel of Sudden’s gun flickered in the sunlight, and Helm went down like a pole axed steer.

  ‘Some fellers is hard to convince,’ Green remarked casually. He cast a glance about him. ‘Where’s yore brothers, mister?’ he asked the disarmed Art Cotton.

  ‘They ain’t here, damn yore eyes!’ grated Art. ‘Or yu’d be whistlin’ a different tune!’

  ‘Had it all worked out, didn’t yu?’ was the sardonic reply. ‘Helm takes the kid for a short ride, like the one Norris’ an’ Rodgers took me for. Then yu go back to rawhidin’ this town. Somebody oughta cut yu hombres down to size.’

  Art Cotton spat disgustedly. ‘Big talk when yu got the drop, mister,’ he sneered. ‘Yu wouldn’t talk so loud if yu wasn’t hidin’ behind that gun.’

  His boastful words carried clearly to the knot of spectators who had appeared on the sidewalk as if they had in some mysterious way sensed the drama which was taking place in the dusty street. A thought struck Green.

  ‘Billy,’ he snapped. ‘Hop over to the Sheriff’s house an’ invite him to join us. If he gives yu an argument, persuade Mm to come anyhow.’ A grin appeared on Billy’s face, and he wheeled to do Sudden’s bidding. In a few moments he was back, herding the discomfited Parris in front of him. Parris’ face was bloated, his hair awry.

  ‘He was takin’ a nap explained Billy. ‘Snorin’ like a sheep.’

  Cotton looked at the sheriff disgustedly. ‘Sleeping was yu?’ he raged. ‘This jasper’s treein’ yore town, an’ yu lie there snorin’ yore thick head off.’

  ‘Art, I … I didn’t expect…’ mumbled Parris.

  ‘Yu stupid clod!’ hurled Cotton. ‘Yu wouldn’t expect it to snow in the winter!’ He turned to face Sudden again. ‘As for yu, mister, yu better get on yore hoss an’ head for the hills. Yu beat the game once, but yu ain’t likely to get away with it a second time.’

  Sudden smiled at him, although the smile did not reach his eyes.

  ‘Yo’re forgettin’ I’m the one with the gun,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I ain’t forgettin’ anything,’ snapped Art Cotton. ‘Yu got a tiger by the tail. So, yu got the drop on me. So, big deal. Now what yu aimin’ to do —-shoot me down in the street?’

  ‘Don’t tempt me,’ was the rejoinder, and the icy words brought a startled look to Art Cotton’s face. He countered it with bluff.

  ‘Mister, this is our town. Yu expect help from these sheep?’ He gestured contemptuously towards the knot of watchers. ‘They wouldn’t lift a finger to help yu.’

  ‘I ain’t feelin’ the need o’ help,’ Sudden pointed out. ‘How about yu?’

  Cotton shrugged. ‘If yu was half a man, an’ wasn’t hidin’ behind yore gun, mebbe we could settle this different.’ A malignant gleam of cunning entered his eyes, which turned to triumph as Green nodded.

  ‘Yu may be right at that,’ said the puncher. ‘I’m guessin’ that Cottonwood needs to see one o’ the Cottons crawl. Mebbe this is as good a time as any for them to see it.’

  So saying, he holstered his guns and then unbuckled the twin belts and tossed them to one side. Billy voiced a protest as he did so.

  ‘Jim, don’t! It’s just what he wants you to do.’

  ‘Shet yore face, sonny!’ growled Cotton. ‘I’ll come to yu when I’ve taken care o’ yore big-talkin’ friend here.’

  ‘First catch yore hare,’ taunted Green, and without warning stepped in and felled Art Cotton with a short, right-armed uppercut which sent the Cottonwood man reeling backwards into the dirt, spitting blood from his broken lips. With a curse that was almost a scream. Cotton lurched to his feet, and rushed at the slim man who stood poised before him. Green let him come, almost until Cotton’s clutching hands had taken hold of him. Then he stepped swiftly aside and again felled his opponent with a clubbed fist. Cotton ploughed face down into the dirt once more. He lay there for a moment, shaking his head, spitting dirt from his mouth.

  ‘By Gawd!’ yelled one bystander, unable to contain himself and disregarding his ingrained fear of the Cottons. ‘He’s beat already!’ Cotton scrambled to his feet, throwing a wicked look at the knot of watchers.

  ‘I’ll find the man who said that!’ he snarled. ‘After I’ve showed yu where this jasper steps off when he ain’t got a gun.’

  ‘Yu talk a good fight, Cotton,’ jibed Sudden. ‘Yu ain’t caught yore hare yet.’

  Cotton glowered at his opponent for a second. Dropping his head, he made a sudden plunge at Green, but once again the puncher was ready. He slipped easily aside and drove a fist into the thick neck, then stood waiting, a small smile of derision on his face. Cotton shook his head and charged again. Again Green stopped him, without so much as suffering a glancing blow. Again Cotton rushed in, again the other planted a punishing blow and slipped aside. Cotton growled; these tactics did not suit his style of fighting at all. The watchers, too, became impatient.

  ‘Stand up an’ fight,’ someone called. ‘This ain’t no dancin’ contest.’

  Billy Hornby cocked his gun, and the silence became intense as the two men shuffled for position.

  ‘Next jasper opens his mouth better have somethin’ to say,’ warned the boy. Nobody met his eye; the watchers were engrossed in the next stage of the fight, for the puncher, disregarding his own intuitive knowledge that Cotton preferred to fight close, had stepped forward after his man, driving Cotton backwards, trading blow for wicked blow, taking whatever Cotton gave without once ceasing to land punishment upon the retreating cowman.

  The fight became one of blind fury. Cotton now slithered to one knee, and Green stepped back for a moment, to reveal the marks that Cotton had put on him. A jagged cut from which dark blood oozed marked the cowboy’s brow, and there was a purple lump at the ridge of his jaw. Cotton was in worse shape, if anything. One eye was swollen, almost completely shut, and a huge welt the size of half an egg bulged his eyebrow forward. His lips were torn and bloody, and his face was scratched and puffed. Sweat and dirt had matted his hair, and white streaks lined his face where perspiration had channeled downwards through the dust from the street which darkened his visage. He knelt, panting, for a moment, one hand flat on the ground for support. Then, in a blur of movement, he came upwards at Green, his right hand shooting forward and hurling the dust he had grasped in it straight into the puncher’s eyes.

  Blinded, Green threw up his hands desperately as the Cottonwood man rushed in, landing murderous, crashing blows to the puncher’s head. Green reeled backwards, his legs going from under him, pawing at his streaming eyes, able only to see a blur of movement as he fell, twisting to avoid the stomping heel which jarred into the dust where he had been a second before. Ere he could regain his feet, however, Cotton caught him in a grip like that of a grizzly bear. Vainly he struggled to free his trapped arms fro
m the terrible pressure which was crushing his rib cage. Cotton, his expressionless eyes now alight with murderous, triumphant rage, teeth bared like those of a wolf, and the fetid breath exploding from his tattered lips, slowly tightened his hold. ‘Yu got him, Art!’ screeched a voice. ‘Break him in two!’ In that moment, Sudden’s vision cleared, and he caught a momentary glimpse of the gloating face of the Sheriff.

  Suddenly he let his whole body go limp. The abrupt downward drag took Cotton off guard, and he stumbled. As they fell, Sudden heaved Cotton up and to the side so that as they hit the ground they were separated, enabling the puncher to roll free. He got to one knee as Cotton leapt up and turned, pivoting on one foot and driving a wicked kick straight at Sudden’s head. Had it landed, the fight would have been over then and there, but Green saw it coming, and ducking under it, grasped Art Cotton’s leg and heaved on it. Cotton went somersaulting over backwards, landing with a dull thump on his back and shoulders, raising a small cloud of dust. Green got up, weak still and dizzy, to stand waiting.

  ‘Jim!’ called Billy eagerly. ‘Finish him off!’

  Sudden shook his head and managed a lopsided grin.

  ‘I don’t fight that way,’ he gasped, and the boy cursed his friend’s idea of fair play, knowing that if the circumstances had been reversed, Cotton would have tromped him like a sidewinder.

  Art Cotton soon recovered. The shock of the fall, which had stunned him momentarily, was dissipated, and with a spat curse he clambered to his feet.

  ‘That was a mistake, cowboy!’ he jeered. Sinking his head, he charged in again, right fist hurtling forward to deliver a blow which would have dropped an ox. It never landed. Green swayed to let the murderous punch slide underneath his arm, and clasping both hands together in a doubled fist, chopped downwards at Cotton’s exposed neck. Cotton dropped to his knees, his eyes glazed. Green stooped downward, grabbed the man’s shirt in his hand and hauled Cotton to his feet. The man stood tottering as Green chopped him with a right, then a left, then another right; short, cutting, punishing punches which never travelled more than six or seven inches but which had every ounce of his strength behind them. Cotton still stood, tottering, swaying like a tree in a high wind, blood streaming down his smashed face, both his eyes closed, his hands groping feebly for his enemy, trying to stop this blasting hurt. But now Green was merciless. Again he chopped Cotton to his knees. Again he hauled him up. A cold, empty light was in his eyes. He once more delivered the vicious uppercuts, and Art Cotton fell again to the ground, this time sprawling on his side, head cradled in his arms.