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

by Frederick H. Christian

  ‘I’ll put a bullet in your fat belly if you don’t keep still,’ growled Hight, now uncertain as the continuing stillness outside remained unbroken. Where was Green? What was happening? He edged over towards the window, peered out, looking up the street. He saw Green walking slowly north towards something or someone he couldn’t see. He pushed his face harder against the glass, trying to bring the far end of the street within his range of vision. In this moment, his attention was completely diverted from the old sheriff, who, with an agility surprising in a man so large, took three fast steps across the room and crashed a clenched fist to the base of the medico’s neck. Hight dropped, stunned, to his knees as the sheriff wrenched the pistol from his nerveless fingers. The gun rose high and fell, stretching Hight unconscious on the floor.

  Without further thought, Parris rushed across the room and pulled open the door which led directly on to the street, yelling at the top of his voice: ‘On the saloon roof, boys! Watch out on the––’ and that was all he ever said for in the precise moment that he wrenched open his front door and dashed out into the street, the three Cottonwood riders who had circled the town came out at full gallop from behind the jail, guns drawn, bearing down on the lone figure of Sudden in the street.

  Felipe, the half-breed screamed aloud as his horse ran straight into the sheriff. In another second the three riders were fighting their panic-stricken horses, trying desperately to stay in the saddle, as the guns started to boom.

  Helm’s hands had flashed for his guns in the moment he heard the door bang, sure that the sound of his comrades approaching would momentarily distract the calm, saturnine figure before him. Helm was very, very fast. He had moved before Sudden even started for his guns, and Helm had his fingers crooked on the triggers when twin spurts of flame belched from Sudden’s hips, hurling Helm backwards and over, the gunman’s guns exploding as the reflex action made him jerk the triggers. Helm died happy thinking he had killed Sudden, while Sudden, moving even as the shots he had fired whisked Helm over, was rolling sideways and turning, his twin revolvers blasting shots into the twisting, churning mass that was the three riders in the street. One horse was down hurt, and the others were still rearing, screeching as the bullets whined about them and the roll of gunfire multiplied the panic caused by the moving thing that had tangled itself in their legs. The half-breed, Felipe, lay cursing, one leg twisted at an unnatural angle, sidling towards the revolver which lay in the dust, Blass and Davis stood up on the saloon roof, pouring rifle fire into the struggling group in the street. The dust rose high and figures became obscure. Still the two men on the roof kept firing, and went on shooting until their weapons were empty.

  The silence when the firing ceased was shattering. Green edged along the saloon porch, guns cocked and ready, as the dust sifted down in the street and figures became distinct again. One horse was dead, its body half covering the tattered, smashed thing that had once been the sheriff. The other horses had skittered off down the street until their dragging reins had halted them; they stood now, nervously snorting and pawing the dust, just beyond the jail. The three Cottonwood riders were dead. None of them had fired a shot.

  Green was standing in the middle of the street looking down at the carnage when the bartender and the storekeeper joined him.

  ‘My Gawd!’ gasped Blass in an awed voice. ‘Did we do that?’

  ‘I just kept shootin’,’ Davis said, ‘I couldn’t see nothin’, but I kept shootin’.’

  ‘It’s over now,’ Sudden told them. He felt a great weariness for a moment. ‘Go an’ see what happened to Doc Hight. He may be hurt.’

  The two men hurried off towards the Sheriff’s cabin. Looking up Green saw Billy Hornby running down the street, as men emerged from doorways, their actions curiously hesitant.

  ‘Jim!’ Billy called. ‘I stayed up at the north end, in case they come runnin’ back that way. I didn’t know they’d split up. Is anyone hurt?’

  ‘On’y them,’ the puncher told him. ‘We come out without a scratch.’

  ‘I see yu got Helm,’ Billy enthused. ‘Good for yu.’

  ‘He had it comin’,’ Green said flatly. ‘But I ain’t proud of it. I ain’t proud of any o’ this. If Harry Parris’ hadn’t taken it into his head to try an’ let Helm know somethin’ Helm knew already, it’d be us lyin’ there.’

  He looked around as the two men came out of Parris’ house with Doc Hight. The medico was rubbing his head; his face was a picture of chagrin.

  ‘Jim,’ he began. ‘I’m shore sorry…’

  ‘Forget it,’ Sudden retorted. ‘In a way, yu helped. Those three woulda given me a bad moment if it hadn’t ’a’ been for Parris.’

  He glanced over towards the Oasis. ‘I reckon I could use a drink,’ he announced, and without another word strode purposefully across the street, while his four allies watched him with amazed expressions.

  Billy Hornby broke the silence. ‘Chris Helm in front o’ him an’ three paid guns ridin’ him down from behind, an’ he allows they might’ve given him a bad moment.’ He shook his head. ‘Gents, I aim to take a drink with a man — the first real man to hit this town in a long time.’

  He followed Green towards the saloon. After a moment, Hight looked at the other two.

  ‘Damned if he ain’t right,’ he told them.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sim Cotton was worried. He was not normally a worrying man, but the events of the past half-dozen hours had played havoc with his carefully wrought plans. Not for the first time, he silently cursed the rebel boy who had precipitated this debacle and the brother whose thoughtless, stupid act had started it all. Twenty minutes before, a startled shout had brought him to his feet in the big room of the Cottonwood ranch, and he had gone outside to see one of his riders running towards the house, a piece of paper clutched in his hand.

  ‘It was Helm’s hoss,’ the man gasped. ‘An’ this was pinned on to the saddle.’ He handed the note to his employer.

  Cotton snatched the paper out of the man’s hand and read it. It was brief and to the point.

  ‘Your move’ he read. He crumpled the paper into a ball and hurled it to the ground. ‘Damn the man! He musta got Helm! But how? There wasn’t a man in this territory fast enough to beat Chris!’

  ‘Mebbe they bushwhacked him,’ suggested the rider.

  ‘Get back to yore work!’ snapped Cotton, turning and stamping back into the house. He hurled himself into an armchair and lit a black cigar, clamping his teeth into it and smoking furiously, his brows knit. What had happened in Cottontown? How many men had this Green rallied around him? Had Helm been ambushed? If so, how had the plan they had concocted fared? What was Parris doing? He recalled the remark the cowpuncher had made about a U.S. Marshal. Had Green been bluffing? Or was the Federal lawman on his way? If so, he would arrive within the next twenty-four hours. Sim Cotton got to his feet, paced forward and back across the stone floor of the Cottonwood ranch living room. He was still pacing when his brother came in, having been told of the news.

  ‘Sim!’ Art’s disbelieving voice stopped his brother in mid-stride. ‘They didn’t get Helm?’

  Sim looked at Art, saying nothing, just looking at him.

  Art’s stare fell, and he slumped into a chair. ‘My Gawd!’ he breathed.

  ‘Who is this feller Green?’

  ‘He ain’t no driftin’ cowboy, that’s for shore,’ muttered Buck Cotton.

  ‘I don’t care if he’s Abraham Lincoln!’ snapped Sim Cotton. ‘We got to root him out o’ there. As long as he’s alive, we ain’t controllin’ Cottontown, an’ if we ain’t controlling Cottontown then we ain’t controlling anythin’ in these parts. They’ll build that dam, passel out the land to nesters, an’ we’ll be left with the land this ranch stands on an’ not one lousy acre more. We’ll be bust flat, an’ I ain’t sittin’ here lettin’ that happen.’ Art looked up at his brother, his lack luster eyes shining with interest from beneath his puffed, bruised brows.

 
‘What yu aimin’ to do, Sim?’ he asked.

  ‘Do we ride in an’ wipe ’em out?’ added Buck eagerly.

  ‘Shore,’ the older man agreed with massive scorn. ‘That’s real bright thinkin’. That’s makin’ it easy for them. We all ride in nice an’ bunched, an’ they lay for us on the rooftops. They’d cut us to pieces afore we got past the bank. If we ride into that town, we got to stay there. The question is: was that puncher bluffln’ about the U.S. Marshal?’

  ‘He shore don’t give the impression o’ bein’ much on bluff,’ said Buck. ‘As Art here can testify.’ He flinched as his brother laid a glowering glance of hatred upon him. The beating he had taken at Green’s hands had left deep scars on Art Cotton, and not all of them showed.

  ‘Hell’s teeth!’ cursed Sim Cotton. Everything had been doing so well. His influence in the town had been unassailable. All had been ready for the final coup — and now, this. What was the answer?

  ‘We got to go in,’ he decided finally. ‘We got to take that town back.’ He smashed his fist into his palm. ‘There’s too much at stake to back out now. We got to take that town. An’ I want to watch that drifter dance at the end of a rope!’

  Art Cotton rose to his feet.

  ‘Now yo’re talkin’, Sim!’ he enthused. ‘We’ll roll them tender-feet up like a carpet!’

  ‘No!’ Sim Cotton thundered. ‘We play our cards very careful. We filter into town quiet-like. No noise. Take over the place. Pull in a man, two men. First thing we got to do is find out how many men Green’s got with him, afore we make our move.’ His face was now suffused with a look of pure animal cunning. He turned to his younger brother.

  ‘Now, Bucky, yu get yore chance to do somethin’ towards puttin’ this mess right. Yu better do it properly. I won’t give yu no second chance, yu hear?’

  Buck Cotton nodded eagerly, his face white, anxious to please this frowning man who seemed suddenly to be a deadly stranger and not his forgiving older brother. ‘Shore Sim,’ he managed. ‘Just name it, an’ it’s done.’

  Sim Cotton nodded. ‘They got the town. We want it. But we ain’t got anythin’ to offer them for it. Now Bucky here knows where there’s somethin’ that’ll bring that nester kid out into the open like a bee-stung porkypine,’ he grinned evilly. ‘Yu followin’ me, Bucky?’

  The younger man’s face was puzzled for a moment, and then understanding dawned, bringing a wolf-like grin to his features.

  ‘The girl!’ he breathed. ‘O’ course. They’ll come out like sheep if we got the girl! Sim, yo’re a genius! Why didn’t I think o’ that?’

  ‘I wonder,’ Art said sourly, his lip curled.

  ‘Yu boys ain’t got time for this kid scrappin,’ snapped Sim. ‘Bucky, get on yore way. Bring the gal to Mott’s house. That’s where we’ll be. An’ don’t make no slips, boy. Mind me, now! Don’t make no slips, or yo’re finished!’

  Buck Cotton nodded, chastened out of his delight at Sim’s idea of kidnapping the Hornby girl. He slammed out of the house and saddled up his horse, muttering to himself.

  ‘Shore must think I’m dumb,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ll show him. When he’s got this town in his paw again, he better remember me.’ He leapt into the saddle and spurred off across the scrubland, heading southeast towards the Lazy H, and as he rode he thought again about the girl, and as he thought about her his eyes shone wildly.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Lazy H lay in a small hollow, a neat, low-slung stone house of five rooms, L-shaped and compact beneath the shading oak and elm trees watered by the river which burbled by on its course towards the Rio Grande, its banks not fifty yards from the house itself. Buck Cotton pulled his horse to a stop on the top of the slope, and dismounted, scanning the area in front of the house and the corral off on the southern side. There was no sign of a horse, no sign of movement. He nodded to himself, an eager smile playing around his lips.

  ‘I wonder where the Mex woman is?’ As if in answer to his question, a woman emerged from the house carrying a tub fall of washing which she hefted towards the pump in the yard, proceeding to energetically splash water upon the clothes in the tub.

  Moving cautiously, Buck got to within a few yards of her before the woman looked up with startled eyes into the gaping barrel of Buck’s six-gun. Buck had a finger on his lips.

  ‘Don’t make a sound,’ he hissed ‘or…’He gestured with the gun. ‘Comprende?’ The woman nodded, her eyes wide with fear. ‘A donde es la señorita?’ Buck asked her. ‘Where’s the girl?’

  The woman pointed towards the house. ‘En la casa,’ she said.

  ‘She alone?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Right! Lead on inside,’ he told her, pointing with the gun. ‘Vamos!’ Looking fearfully over her shoulder, the woman shuffled towards the door. She went inside, turning sharply right as she did so, and Buck came in smoothly after her, blinking to adjust his eyes to the sudden gloom of the interior. He hardly saw the blur of movement; the chopping descent of the gun barrel wielded by Billy Hornby which cracked his wrist-bone like a dried twig, slashing the gun from his numb fingers. Buck Cotton’s reflexes were good, even so. He tried to move fast out of the way but stumbled backwards out into the sunlit yard, sprawling in the dirt, unable to help break the fall with his injured arm, and looked up to see Billy Hornby standing over him spraddle-legged, the heavy .45 cocked in his hand, only his thumb holding back the hammer, and a terrible fear possessed Buck Cotton. For the look on Hornby’s face was one of insane rage. Buck watched for perhaps ten endless seconds as Billy Hornby tried to force himself to release the hammer of the gun and kill the hated thing at his feet, but the boy could not do it. With something like a sigh, Billy’s tenseness abated, and the light came back into his eyes. Buck Cotton, sweating on the ground, knew that for the moment he would live. He tried to get up, but Billy lined the gun on him again.

  ‘Stay in the dirt where yu belong, yu sidewinder!’ he grated. ‘I still ain’t shore I didn’t ought to salivate yu.’

  Buck lay still. Any argument with this fury-filled young man was useless. One wrong move and Billy would kill him.

  ‘Green figgered yu’d try somethin’ like this,’ Billy told him. ‘He said he had some trouble tryin’ to think like a rat, but once he got the hang of it, it was easy to guess what yore play’d be. I sent Jenny down to Fort Lane afore all this started, Bucky-boy. Which turns the tables a mite. That’s the on’y reason yu ain’t buzzard-bait already.’

  Buck Cotton frowned up at his captor. ‘What yu ravin’ about, Hornby?’ he said.

  ‘Hell, I knew yu was dumb, Buck, but if yu can’t see it!’ Billy shook his head. ‘I do reckon yu can’t, at that. Yu was comin’ out here to try to kidnap Jenny, an’ use her as a hostage, right?’

  Cotton shook his head. ‘I don’t know what yo’re talkin’ about,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Sez yu,’ was the impolite retort. ‘But now, instead o’ Jenny bein’ yore brother’s ace in the hole, it’s the other way round. Yo’re ours. It’ll be interestin’ to see how tough he gets with yu in our han’s.’

  Fear struck at Buck Cotton’s vitals. Sim had warned him that if he failed to bring in the girl, he was finished. Knowing his brother, Buck was well aware that Sim would never bargain — he had said as much at the ranch.

  ‘Yo’re crazy!’ he cried, hoarsely. ‘Sim won’t do no deals with yu!’

  ‘We’ll have to see about that,’ replied Billy grimly. ‘Either way, yu lose. Cotton. Yu ought to’ve stayed home with yore head down.’

  The other stood up, trembling, his mind a seething mass of wild ideas. How could he break away from this menacing youth and get word to Sim without being killed? Would Sim accept that he had no way of bringing in the girl? A thought occurred to him and he voiced it.

  ‘How was yu so shore we wouldn’t all ride over here?’ he asked.

  ‘Wasn’t,’ Billy retorted succinctly. ‘If Manuela had seen more’n one man she was goin’ to give me the word. She woulda just t
old yu that Jenny wasn’t here. I woulda laid low till yu was gone. As it was, yu come alone. An’ now I’ve got yu, yu sonofabitch. I hope yo’re feelin’ fit.’

  Buck Cotton frowned at this last remark. What had his fitness to do with anything? Seeing his captive’s puzzlement, Billy Hornby laughed aloud.

  ‘Yo’re wonderin’ why I said that?’ he grinned. ‘Shucks, that’s easy, Bucky-boy. Yo’re walkin’ to town.’

  ‘Walkin’!’ Buck Cotton’s face was horror-stricken. To have to walk more than fifty feet was something the average Westerner avoided like the plague — he would rather mount a horse to cross the street than cross it on foot. The high-heeled boots so practical for the man in the saddle were hardly designed for hiking, and the mere thought of the tramp into town filled Buck Cotton with anguish.

  ‘Yu wouldn’t … yu couldn’t make a man walk all that way!’ he gasped.

  ‘A man, mebbe not,’ was Billy’s sardonic retort. ‘Yu, that’s somethin’ else. Yu hardly qualify as a man in my books.’ He lifted the lariat from Buck’s horse, and shook the noose free. This he placed about the Cottonwood man’s neck.

  ‘Don’t go gettin’ any ideas about slidin’ off,’ Billy warned him. ‘Or yo’re likely to get that choked-up feelin’.’

  He swung into the saddle and shook the rope.

  ‘Start walkin’,’ he commanded. ‘It’s a fair stretch to Cottontown.’

  Stumbling, cursing, tears of frustrated rage in his eyes, Buck Cotton began his ignominious trek towards town. Behind him easy and watchful in the saddle, Billy Hornby followed the man, his eyes cold and without sympathy. Cotton, for his part, nursed his hatred. Hornby did not know that by die time they reached town Sim and his riders would be moving in on his friends. He might get a bad shock even yet. The thought buoyed him up, kept him moving forward at a shambling walk across the unlovely scrubland southeast of the town.

  Bob Davis was guarding the window in the Oasis, his eyes sweeping up and down the empty street, watching for any movement which might indicate hostile action. But the town was empty and still. Even the few men who had emerged from their homes after the fight in the street were nowhere to be seen. ‘Gone to ground somewheres,’ Davis told himself. ‘Can’t say I blame ’em. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind joinin’ ’em.’ Aloud, he addressed a question to Sudden.