Sudden Plays a Hand (1950)
Oliver Strange
Sudden Plays A Hand
Oliver Strange
*
Chapter I
`KEEP yore han's mighty still an' explain yoreself.'
The curt command was delivered in a tone which was, in itself, a menace, and the appearance of the speaker did little to lessen it. A big fellow, seemingly in the mid-thirties, with enormous shoulders and a gross body to match. From beneath the brim of his slouched hat black eyes gleamed fiercely, and his thick lips, unhidden by a straggling moustache, were pursed in a savage pout.
The man to whom the order was given seemed in no hurry to reply. He, too, was big, but less heavily built, and perhaps eight years younger than the other. His clean-shaven face was hard and reckless. Sitting their horses, some dozen paces apart, on opposite sides of a tiny break in the woods through which a faint trail led, they eyed one another steadily. At length the younger man spoke : `What right you got to hold me up thisaway?'
The ghost of a grin passed over the other's lips. `No right, on'y a left,' he replied, raising that hand enough to reveal a leveled revolver. `This is my country.'
The threatened man merely shrugged his shoulders. `I ain't passed any fences,' he pointed out.
`You wouldn't--my name's better'n barb' wire,' came the boast. `Bardoe--Bull Bardoe. Mebbe that wises you up some?'
`Not one damn bit,' was the drawled reply. `Never heard tell o' you.'
Bardoe did not detect the lie, but he was very sensible of the sneering tone, and it deepened his scowl of aggression.
`You must shorely be a pilgrim,' he gibed in turn. `What might yore name be?'
`It might be Judas Iscariot, but it ain't,' the stranger retorted. He appeared to be deliberately trying to incense the other. `You'll have heard o' Old Nick? Well, I'm Young Nick. I was called after the Devil, an' have been on the way to him ever since.'
`Cease foolin' or I'll shorten yore journey,' Bardoe snarled, and then a surprised look of comprehension widened his eyes. `Tellin' me yo're Nicholas Drait, o' Shadow Valley? And you never heard o' me?'
`Brother, that was a slip,' Drait returned mildly, but his narrowed eyes watched warily. `What I meant to say was that I never heard any good o' you. Rustler, road-agent, train hold-up, murd...' He saw the movement he was waiting for, and his own weapon--long held in readiness--came up. The reports merged into one, shattering the silence and causing a frightened fluttering in the greenery overhead. The younger man felt the burn of a bullet on his cheek, and then saw Bardoe lean forward and pitch ,sideways to the ground.
`Hell!' he cried.
The exclamation was one of amazement; where he had looked for an empty saddle he saw a girl astride the stricken man's horse; Bardoe's bulky body had effectually concealed her from his view. She was young--not much over twenty, he judged, and was dressed in a worn calico gown, clumsy shoes, and an old sun-bonnet which had slipped back to reveal an untidy mop of golden-brown hair. She seemed pitifully small on the back of the big beast she bestrode. Drait got down, dropped the reins over his pony's head, and stepped towards her. As though frozen with horror, she remained bent and motionless, her gaze glued to the sprawling form of the shot man.
`Who the deuce are you?' Drait asked roughly.
Getting no answer, not even a look, he muttered an impatient oath and turned to his victim. With cold, callous eyes the victor surveyed his work, stooped to lift the wide-flung left hand, let it fall limply back to the ground, and began to search the body. In a vest pocket he found a slip of paper, and on it, scrawled in pencil: `One hundred three-year-olds at 10 a head-1,000 bucks.'
`C'rect,' he commented grimly, and thrusting it into his own pocket, bent to his task again.
Around Bardoe's middle, concealed by the slack of his shirt, he discovered a money-belt--a heavy one. He began to buckle it about his own waist, but on second thoughts, rolled it up and placed it in one of the saddle-pockets of the owner's horse. This brought his attention back to the girl, and he stood considering her with a sombre puzzled expression. At length he appeared to have reached a decision. She was looking at him now, her large eyes full of fear.
`Climb into the saddle,' he said. `We've a long way to go.'
She scrambled over the cantle, while he shortened the stirrup leathers so that her feet could reach. Then, handing her the reins, he mounted his own beast and rode out of the glade. Sitting slackly, head down-bent, she followed. They moved slowly, for the nature of the country, rough and broken, made speed only an invitation to accident. Several times he spoke to her but received no reply, and with a lift of his shoulders, he relinquished the attempt to make her talk, and gave his attention to the tricky trail they were traversing. But from time to time, when it was possible for them to ride abreast, he found himself studying her. The sun-bonnet had been pulled on, hiding the face, but he noted the youngness of her, and the smallness of the toil-worn hands which gripped the reins.
`Bull Bardoe's woman,' he told himself. `Well, if that's the best he could give her in the way o' clothes, I guess she won't lose on the exchange.'
When the dropping sun set the western sky ablaze, warning that the day was about to die, Drait halted on the bank of a small creek and turned off the trail, following the water, to stop finally on a little grassy level shut in by undergrowth.
`We'll camp here,' he said. `Get down an' rest--you look tuckered out.'
She obeyed in silence, seating herself on a slight mound, whence she watched listlessly while he unsaddled and led off the horses to picket them some fifty yards away where the grass was more luxuriant. Returning with an armful of dry wood, he built a fire, and while it was burning up, opened his blanket roll to unearth a battered coffee-pot, a frying-pan, and a tin mug. He surveyed the latter with a half-grin.
`On'y got one,' he remarked. `We're a mite short o' grub, too. You see, I warn't expectin' comp'ny.' If the girl heard, she gave no sign, and he went on, `Mebbe Bull can help us out.'
A search of Bardoe's blanket revealed another mug, coffeepot, part of a loaf, a slab of cooked deer-meat, and a tin which Drait took to be salt, out on tasting, found to be sugar.
The coffee-pot, filled from the creek, was set on the glowing embers. When it boiled, he cut two slices of bread, put a layer of meat between them, and poured steaming liquid into one of the mugs.
`Cawfee should be hot as hell, black as a nigger's soul, an' sweet as sin,' he grinned. `Come an' get it.'
`I'm not hungry,' the girl said.
It was the first time he had heard her voice, and he was struck by the low, vibrant tone--clear-sounding, like the note of a harp. The effect was curious--it made him angry.
`Allasame, you'll eat, drink, an' like it--I don't want a sick woman on my hands,' he grated, and when she still made no movement, `Do I have to take my quirt to you?'
This brought her to the fire, where she ate and drank in sullen silence. Drait took no futher notice, devoting himself to the meal, and the fact that it had been mainly provided by the man he had shot did not appear to have affected his appetite. When they had finished, she looked up and said abruptly: `Why did you kill him?'
Drait laughed harshly. `To save myself. His gun was out first; he meant to get me--a stranger he'd never set eyes on.'
This silenced her; she had seen Bardoe furtively draw his weapon the moment they had met. Moodily she looked on while he replenished the fire and spread the blankets, one on each side, with the saddles for pillows.
`There's yore bed,' he said. `Better turn in--we'll be makin' an early start.'
He set the example, rolling himself in the blanket, and in a few moments, regular breathing told that he was asleep. The girl lay do
wn, but only to stare, wide-eyed, at the dark dome above, in which points of light were now beginning to peep. The one thought in her mind was to get away, somehow, somewhere. Presently she raised herself, making a little noise, and gazed at the recumbent form across the fire. It remained motionless, and satisfied that her captor slept, she stood up and stole in the direction of the horses.
No sooner had she melted into the shadow than the sleeper flung aside his blanket, a heavy scowl on his brow. Cat-footed, he followed, reaching her as she stooped to pull the picket-pin of Bardoe's mount.
Tryin' to run out on me, huh?' he said, as she shrank back in alarm. `Well, I treated you fair, but now ...'
He left the sentence unfinished, and gripping her wrist, dragged her back to the camp. Obeying his gesture, she sank on the bed again. Drait fetched his own blanket and saddle, arranged them, stretched himself beside her, and slid an arm about her shoulders.
`I ain't trustin' you no more,' he said gruffly.
Swift-born panic seized her and she struggled to rise. Her resistance infuriated him, and his fingers, vice-like, bit into the soft flesh of her arm as he pulled her nearer. She fought back, to her own undoing, for contact with her lithe young body roused a devil of desire and rendered him ruthless. His hot breath scorched her cheek, and then avid lips found her own, and held them.
When she awoke, the day was but a few hours old. On the other side of the fire, Drait was preparing breakfast. He pointed to the creek.
`A sluice'll freshen you up, an' you'll be needin' food,' he said. `We got some hard ridin' ahead.'
The roughness had gone from his voice, but she was too crushed to notice. Wearily she went to the stream, and kneeling, bathed her face and hands in the ice-cold water. Back at the fire, she swallowed mechanically the bread, fried bacon, and coffee he passed to her. She was vaguely conscious that he was regarding her with an air of puzzlement. At length the silence proved too much for him.
`Why'n hell didn't you tell me--'bout yoreself?' he burst out. `How was I to know? I figured you were--'
`Bardoe's plaything, and therefore, anybody's,' she finished stormily, roused by his attempt to put the blame on her. `I wasn't--I never saw him until an hour before we met you. He offered me work--at his ranch.'
Drait's lips curled in a sneer. `An' you believed that?'
`Why not? Are all men liars?' she retorted. `I'd run away, and was lost in the woods.'
`What were you runnin' from?'
'Another beast like you,' she flashed back.
Bit by bit, he got the story. She had lost her parents early, and was raised in an orphanage. At sixteen, she had been found employment with a small farmer. She had been well-treated, and for nearly four years, was happy. Then misfortune came, the family returned to the East, and she took another situation. Here she was wretched; the wife was cruel, and the husband wanted to be kind--too kind. In the midst of a terrible scene, she fled, not even waiting to collect her few possessions.
`What's yore name?' Drait asked.
`Mary,' she replied shortly.
`We'll be on our way,' he said.
He fetched and saddled the horses, packed the gear, and threw water on the blazing sticks; whatever laws he might break, that of guarding against the forest fires was not one of them. She was struggling to get astride the big horse when two strong arms lifted her into position. In another moment, he was in his own saddle and heading for the trail.
At the end of five miles, they paused on a lofty bench which gave them a view of the surrounding country. Away on their right, several columns of smoke indicated a settlement.
`Burnt Hollow,' he muttered. `Find what we want there, mebbe.'
`What are you going to do with me?' she asked fearfully. `Marry you,' he replied bluntly.
The reply deprived her of speech; she could only stare at him round-eyed. The hard jaw and sombre expression told her he was not joking; he would do it, and she was powerless. Dimly, she understood that he was trying to put things right, but her animosity remained. She shrugged her shoulders in contemptuous despair; what did it matter?
The tiny township of Burnt Hollow was just awakening when they rode in. Drait drew rein outside a building labelled `General Store,' through the open door of which a man in his shirtsleeves was sweeping yesterday's dirt.
`Got any duds for a woman?' he asked.
`Shore,' was the reply. `Step right in.'
They hitched their horses and followed him into the store. `I want a complete outfit for this girl,' Drait said. `Can you do it?'
`Well, if you ain't lucky,' the tradesman smiled. `Got one for the darter o' Lem Wilkins, the big cattle-man, you know.' He cast a measuring eye over the girl. `She's just about yore build, ma'am. My missus 'll fix you up.'
An angular grey-haired woman answered his call, and when he had explained, said to the girl, `Come with me, my dear,' and to Drait, `It's goin' to cost you somethin, Mister.'
`Go the limit,' he told her, and turned to the storekeeper. `I need some cartridges an' smokin'. Got a parson?'
`I don't stock 'em, but there's one in town--'bout twenty yards along the street,' the merchant grinned.
The customer nodded, perched himself on the counter, and rolled a cigarette. He smoked that one and another before the woman reappeared, and then he had to look twice ere he recognised his fellow-traveller. The calico dress had been replaced by a neat riding-skirt, with a shirt-waist, and a light coat; the clumsy shoes by high boots, and the sun-bonnet by a soft, black felt hat beneath which the trimmed, golden-brown curls showed to advantage. In one hand, the girl carried a small grip. The clothes set off the shapeliness of her youthful body, and Drait suddenly realised that a smile on the cold, immobile face would have made it beautiful.
`There's extras in the bag,' the woman said anxiously. `You said for to make a good job of it.'
`You've done fine, ma'am,' Drait replied, as he paid the bill. `I'm obliged.'
They went out and walked down the street. The storekeeper laughed. `That's a weddin'-dress you've sold, mother,' he said. `Askin' for a parson, he was.'
`Looks more like she's goin' to her funeral,' the woman retorted.
Meanwhile, the pair they were discussing had stopped at a small log cabin on the door of which a notice announced, `Josiah Jones, Minister.' Drait rapped, and the man himself appeared. A frail figure, prematurely grey, utterly unfit it would seem to `fight the good fight' in a place where the laws of neither God nor man were of little avail. Yet there was a simple dignity, derived, no doubt, from his calling.`We want you to marry us,' Drait said.
The minister nodded and took them into the parlour. It was a small room, neatly but poorly furnished with plain wood chairs, a desk, and table on which lay a Bible and prayer-book. They sat down, and he asked their names, ages, and whether either had been married before, entering their replies in a book. He knew quite well that he could not prove or disprove anything they told him, but the formality satisfied his conscience.
`Mary Francis Darrell, twenty-one, and Nicholas Drait, twenty-seven, both single,' he read out. `We shall need two witnesses; my good neighbours usually oblige.'
He went out and presently returned with two youngish men who favoured the bride with an immediate stare of admiration, which ceased abruptly when the groom turned his own narrowed eyes upon them.
`Cut out the frills, Padre, we're pressed for time,' Drait requested.
A runaway pair, the minister decided.
He began the service, omitting all out the essential portions. The girl listened with a face of stone, but made her responses clearly and firmly.
`With this ring.....' The minister paused and looked expectantly at the bridegroom.
Drait bit back an oath, then grinned, and fumbling in the breast of his shirt, produced a narrow gold band hanging round his neck by a string. Snapping this, he slipped the ring on the bride's finger and became aware that her hand was icy.
Having pronounced them man and wife, the minister record
ed the event, all present signed their names, and the ceremony was over. The witnesses went out, richer by easily-earned dollars, and the minister handed a copy of his entry to the bride.
`Take good care of that, my dear, and I hope you will be very happy,' he said.
`Thank you,' she murmured, and for an instant there was a gleam of warmth in her sombre eyes.
Drait laid a bill on the table. Will that cover yore fee?' he asked.
`More than five times,' the little man smiled.
He watched them walk up the street, mount, and ride away. All was not well there, but he could do nothing. `A pretty lass,' he mused. `She reminds me of someone; but it was long ago.'
Clear of the town, the newly-wedded couple came to where the trail forked, and Mary Drait, without a glance at her husband, said acidly : `Where are we going, to your ranch?'
'I don't have any,' he replied. `An' in case yo're beginnin' to regret Bardoe, you may as well know that he was a cattle-thief, an' worse. His "ranch" was just a place where he kept stolen steers till it was safe to sell 'em.'
`You said you had never heard of him,' she reminded.
`Shore,' he admitted. `His gun was out an' mine warn'tthen.'
`Is it worse to steal cattle than money?'
`Guess not, but Bardoe would 'a' stripped me s'pos'n the luck had gone the other way. Besides, if you'd been what I figured, the coin was due to you, an' that's why yo're sittin' on it right
now; I should 'a' pointed you for the nearest town an' that would 'a' been the finish.' He read the unbelief in her eyes and a gust of anger swept over him. `Ten miles along that trail to the right'll fetch you to Midway; it can still be the finish--if you want.'
With a furious look, she snatched the quirt hanging from the horn of the saddle and for an instant he thought she was about to strike him. Bun the lash fell on the flank of her horse, and sent it dashing along the trail to which he had pointed. Drait swung into the other. In less than five minutes he heard the pad of pounding hooves, and smiled mirthlessly, but did not slacken his pace.
`Better the devil you know,' he muttered. `Reckon I guessed correct--for once.'
Sudden Plays a Hand (1950) Page 1