“We played in fool’s luck,” Sudden announced. He held up his own guns, which he had found looped upon what must have been Juano’s mustang, and handed a second belt to Rusty, who strapped it on with a grim smile.
“Now!” he vowed, his face set. “Now, Mister Shiloh Platt. This time I got a gun what’s loaded!”
Sudden turned his pony’s head to the south-west.
“Yu know,” he said thoughtfully. “I ain’t shore I didn’t waste a shot back there.” Rusty frowned at him. “I don’t get yu, Jim,” he said.
Sudden grinned. “I salivated that pore ol’ rattler, didn’t I?”
Rusty nodded, still mystified. “Which I’m thankin’ yu,” he said. “Yu reckon that was a wasted shot, yu oughta bin standin’ where I was.”
Sudden shook his head. “Naw,” he scoffed. “From the look on yore face a minnit ago, I’d say if that ol’ daddy rattler’d bit yu, he’d a got a wuss pizenin’ than he give!”
A broad grin spread across his face as Rusty replied to this slander in terms neither polite nor printable.
“That’s better,” Sudden said, and again there was a hint of sadness in his voice. “Lookin’ for revenge sometimes makes a feller blind to everythin’ else.”
He kicked the pony into a gallop and led the way down the gully towards the south-west, towards the edge of the desert and the jumble of badlands which the Apaches had named Place-where-nothing-lives: the Wilderness!
Chapter Sixteen
‘Anything Goes In The Wilderness!’
The crude sign stood by the roadside – not much more than a track – which petered out on the northern side of the straggling collection of buildings which was Wilderness. It was not a big town, and its inhabitants were not particularly proud of it; as a consequence, Wilderness fell some way short of being a beauty spot. Its roughly-defined street, sloping slightly up the canyon in which the town stood, was hock-deep in the gypsum-like desert dust, rutted with hoofmarks and wagon tracks. The clutter of habitations bordering the street were for the most part of rough adobe, squat unlovely blocks with tiny windows, their only purpose to provide shelter from the merciless sun. There were a few buildings of slightly larger dimensions; one of these was the saloon, another a stable. Between the buildings, the litter of years had accumulated in careless piles inhabited by rats and a few starving cats which hunted them. At the southern end of the canyon a rickety footbridge spanned a deep gully which in the brief rainy season became a foam-flecked torrent.
Upon the street moved every frontier type: the eye caught here a glimpse of the soft tones of fringed and beaded buckskins, there the flashing colors of a Mexican serape. Roughly dressed rowdies; dark-suited, prosperous-looking men; gaudily brilliant vaqueros waiting for things to cool off in California or old Mexico; all mingled freely on the crowded street. Every man walked heavily armed, for there was only one law in Wilderness: gun law. Judge Colt arbitrated in all disputes, and there was no appeal against his decisions.
Quincy gazed down upon the bustling street from the window of a cabin high on a slope at the northern edge of the town.
“Shore is a purty layout, Shiloh,” he observed. “Ain’t nobody likely to get within a hundred yards o’ this place without we see ’em.”
“I know it,” Shiloh said, a satisfied smirk on his face.
The cabin was gloomy and covered with a film of dust inside and out. It stood on a shelving slope which backed up to a high ridge on the lower part of the canyon wall. A few rough chairs, a table with a candle stuck in its own grease upon it, a crude bunk in the corner – these were all the furnishings. There was only one window, and it commanded the open space before the cabin, looking out upon the poor huddle of Wilderness.
“We got to get some grub, an’ mebbe somethin’ to drink,” Shiloh said, as if thinking out loud. “Ain’t no tellin’ how long we’ll be here.”
His eyes touched Barbara Davis, who had slumped down upon the unkempt bunk, listless and weary after the long ride across the badlands. It seemed to the girl as if her every hope had been dashed by her murderous captors, and that there was no chance of escaping their ruthless clutches. Deep in the eyes of Shiloh Platt she had detected a light which stirred the deepest and most primitive fears in her breast, making her more afraid than she had ever been in her life. Her mind returned constantly to the thought of Rusty, left lying wounded, perhaps dying, in the path of the oncoming Apaches. The thought of the young man she had grown to respect and admire falling into those vengeful hands made the girl shudder, and tears filmed her eyes as she recalled his thoughtful kindnesses.
Quincy buckled on his gunbelt, and opened the door.
“I’ll get some supplies,” he offered. “Find out what the word is in town. I’ll take my time,” he added with an evil leer at Shiloh. “Don’t yu do nothin’ I wouldn’t do.”
Shiloh nodded, and waited until the door banged shut before he turned to the girl, who shrank backward from his burning gaze.
“I reckon yore Daddy’s goin’ to be some surprised to hear from yu,” he ventured. “He probably figgers yo’re long since dead.”
“There have been times – just lately – when I wished that were true,” Barbara told him.
“Aw don’t say that, girl!” Shiloh’s voice was thick and husky. “Yu an’ me – we’re goin’ to get to know each other real good. We’re goin’ to have plenty o’ good times.”
Barbara Davis shuddered and did not answer, and a pinpoint of anger kindled in the half-breed’s eyes.
“Yu better learn to like me,” he scowled. “Afore yu leave here, yu may be glad to do my biddin’.”
“Never!” the girl said bravely, and the anger gathered in the dark visage.
“Never’s a mighty long time, my dear,” Shiloh said silkily, stretching out a claw-like hand to touch her shoulder. Barbara Davis got to her feet and walked to the other side of the room, her eyes wide with fear. Shiloh laughed, a harsh and unsympathetic sound; he enjoyed watching the terror building in her eyes. It made him feel strong, all-powerful. He had been scorned many times by women such as this one, who had seen in his dark face the evidence of the mongrel blood and contemptuously turned away. To possess such a one would therefore be all the more enjoyable. He licked his thin lips.
“Sit down, girl, sit down,” he said. “I ain’t goin’ to hurt yu.” His smile was slow and wicked and Barbara felt a shiver touch her spine. She lifted her chin, trying not to let the fear show.
“I prefer to stand,” she said. “I can keep further away from you.”
“As yu like,” he nodded. “There’s plenty o’ time, plenty. In the end yu’ll come beggin’ for a kind word. Beggin’!” He savored the sound of the verb, his eyes gleaming. “But -if yu want to make a game of it, that’s all right with me.”
“Oh, why don’t you let me go?” she burst out. “I’ll tell my father to pay you your reward. The two of you can take your money and go your way – won’t you at least listen to me?”
Shiloh placed his hands behind his head and leaned back in the rickety chair. “The two of us?” he repeated. “Yu think I aim to share with that half-cracked madman? Yu must be outa yore head – the minnit he comes in through that door I’m goin’ to blow his light out. Lions don’t share with jackals!” The smile on his face was cold and devilish, his expression that of a fiend incarnate. It was then that Barbara Davis gave up hope.
John Davis strode aggressively into the patio of the house he had rented in Tucson. In it stood a white-haired old man who had every outward appearance of having crossed great distances at top speed. His clothes were sweat-streaked and dust-stained, and there was a heavy stubble on his grizzled chin. The man’s eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and he swayed slightly with fatigue. He made no apology for his appearance, however, but asked simply: “Yu John Davis?” Receiving a nod in affirmation he went on, “I killed a pony gettin’ here. I got news o’ yore gal.”
“Barbara!” exclaimed Davis. He grabbed the o
ld-timer’s buckskin shirt. “What do yu know of her? Where is she? Have yu seen her?”
Disengaging himself firmly from Davis’s excited grip, the old man said: Take it easy, mister, an’ lissen good. My name’s Eady. Tobias Eady. Yes, I seen yore daughter. A feller named Green brung her out of Apacheria an’ managed to get to Apache Wells with her.”
“Is that where she is – Apache Wells?” demanded Davis.
“Wait, wait,” Eady said. “Yu ain’t heard it all. Jest relax a mite while I tell yu the whole story.”
Davis nodded impatiently. “Get on with it, man,” he snapped.
“Yu shore ain’t bustin’ with gratitude,” observed Eady. “I figger yo’re entitled, however, or I’d take offence, some. Well, like I was sayin’. Green got to Apache Wells, on’y four other jaspers had latched on to him an’ the gal. Mean hombres – scalphunters. We was hit by Apaches at the Wells; got out by a dodge Green thought up. He planned to make a run for Fort Cochise acrost the desert. I cut loose, figgerin’ he might get whipsawed and these other jaspers take the gal. If that happened, yo’re gal’s in as bad danger as ever she was among the Cherry-cows, an’ that’s sartin.”
“Hell’s teeth!” swore Davis. “Yu think this Green feller had any chance o’ reachin’ Fort Cochise?”
“Nary much,” Eady replied. “Easy enough findin’ out. Yu could telegraph the Fort. If they ain’t arrove, Green’s been – disposed of, an’ them scalphunters has got yore gal.”
“That’s easy done,” Davis said, glad to take some positive action. He called out, and a young Mexican came running. “Pedro,” Davis said, scribbling a note. “Take this to the telegraph office. Get it sent right away. Wait for a reply.” He thrust the slip of paper into the boy’s hand, then as the Mexican turned, added, “Send Cliff Parker in here.” He explained this last command to Eady. “Cliff’s my new foreman. Apaches killed off some o’ my crew when they burned my ranch, but most o’ the boys was in Phoenix. I got fifteen men, an’ I can raise ten more for every man on my payroll. If my gal ain’t at Cochise, I’m goin’ to give ’em guns an’ go lookin’ for them four jaspers. Yu got any idee where they might head for?”
“On’y one likely spot, I figger,” Eady remarked.
Davis looked up sharply, and then nodded. “O’ course,” he said softly. “Wilderness! Well, Eady, will yu ride with me? Yu know these buzzards by sight – I don’t. If my gal’s in that pesthole I’m goin’ to ride in there an’ scour it out. I’ll burn every damn shack to the ground – and Gawd help any man who’s laid a finger on my daughter!”
Quincy eased his pinto down the sloping street of Wilderness and pulled the animal to a stop outside the large edifice which housed the saloon which its owner, a one-time banker who had fled his native city after embezzling his depositors, had wryly named “The Voice’. The subtlety of his choice of names was, however, lost upon his rough clientele. Jack Gardner did not mind; he was an observer of humanity, an educated man with a cynical humor made bold by the fact that he was dying of consumption. Like a more famous sufferer, the infamous Doc Holliday, Gardner was therefore unafraid of dying, at times even seemed to seek it by goading his dangerous customers; few cared to brave the whip of his vitriolic tongue.
The saloon was much the same as its counterparts throughout the West. Down one side stretched a long plank bar, behind which rose shelves stacked with bottles and glasses. In front of the bar was a sanded and sawdusted clear space, and tables and chairs filled that part of it at the end farthest from the batwing doors. Three kerosene lamps shone down upon perhaps two dozen men, some lined up at the bar, others desultorily playing cards at the tables. Squinting through the haze of blue tobacco smoke, Quincy studied the crowd. Apart from a few covert glances, no one took any notice of him. Curiosity was not a commodity encouraged in Wilderness; strangers were certainly no novelty anyway. Seeing no one he knew, Quincy pushed forward to the crowded bar and snapped his fingers.
“Have you lost a dog?” queried Gardner from the other end of the bar. “It hasn’t been in here.” Several men guffawed, and Quincy’s face darkened.
“I don’t like yore sense o’ humor overmuch,” he growled at Gardner, whose cold, thin face betrayed no fear at the words.
“An ill-favored thing, sir, but mine own,” he quoted. “You want a drink or did you come in here solely for the purpose of trading insults?”
“Gimme a drink,” snarled Quincy. “Whiskey!”
“Whiskey it is, Mister—?”
“Quincy’s the name. An’ watch yore lip. I ain’t fond o’ smart jaspers what talk a lot.”
“You must be the life and soul of all the parties you’re invited to,” observed Gardner unabashed. “Excuse me, I see a gentleman.”
With this parting insult, which took a moment to register, he moved down the bar. His words sank slowly into Quincy’s brain, and then the blood mounted to the scarred face.
“By the Almighty!” swore Quincy. “If it warn’t for—” He subsided. There was no point in starting a ruckus. This lawless town was their safe refuge; it would not do to jeopardize it so early in the game. When the ransom was paid, however…his fingers tightened into a fist. Swallowing his anger, Quincy called the saloon-keeper over. “I’m – beggin’ yore pardon,” he mumbled. “Been on the trail. A mite grouchy – we had Apaches tailin’ us a lot o’ the way.”
Gardner nodded. “Glad you’re not planning to shoot me,” he remarked. “It does so lower the tone of the place. What can I do for you?”
“I need a couple o’ bottles o’ liquor,” Quincy told him, tossing a silver coin on to the bar in payment. “An’ mebbe yu can tell me whar I can buy some grub?”
Gardner was about to reply to the question when a cold voice cut across his words.
“Havin’ a party, Quince?”
Quincy’s jaw dropped as the question cut across the murmur of conversation. His arms filled with the four bottles he had just picked up, he swung around in amazement. There, standing near the doorway, idly leaning against a post, was Sudden. A cigarette drooped from his lips, the smoke spiraling thinly up past the slitted, icy eyes. Quincy’s startled gaze scuttled about. Was he alone? How had he escaped, how got here? Those watching regarded the tableau in some surprise. There was something going on here which they did not understand. The big scar faced man was as white as if he had seen a ghost; the question that the sardonic-looking stranger near the door had asked had badly jarred the bearded man.
As if divining their thoughts, Sudden repeated his question. Wilderness was an outlaw town, and its inhabitants knew that tone of voice well. Making as little noise or abrupt movement as was humanly possible, the onlookers began to imperceptibly shift their positions from any likely line of fire. A moment, two, and Quincy faced the slit-eyed Texan along an empty corridor lined by men who watched the confrontation with bated breath.
“What’s the matter, Quincy?” Sudden’s voice cut across the silence once again. “Warn’t yu expectin’ to see me no more?”
“Damn yore eyes, Sudden – I thought yu was dead!” burst out the scalphunter. Every head in the room turned in unison at his words, and men craned to see the man who bore the name they had heard uttered. So this was Sudden! The lounging stance, the ice-cold steely eyes, the hands that never moved far from the tied-down six-guns – yes, he looked the part.
“I dunno what he’s after that scar faced jasper for,” one watcher muttered on the sidelines. “But I’m purely happy it ain’t me he wants.”
“Mebbe so,” another said. “But that Quincy hombre shore ain’t hornswoggled by ’im, Sudden or no.”
Indeed, Quincy’s lips had curled. He did not know how Sudden had escaped the clutches of the Apaches; but it hardly mattered. What could he do, here in this lawless place? The fastest draw could not beat a bullet fired from ambush – and there were plenty who would do such a deed in this place. Sudden must know that if he revealed the girl’s presence, there would be ten, twenty, half a hundred hard-bitten
thieves only too ready to pit themselves against him for the five thousand dollars that returning the Davis girl would bring.
“Yo’re bluffin’, Sudden,” he. scoffed. “An’ we both know it.”
“I ain’t bluffin’,” Sudden warned him. “That’d be a bad mistake for yu to make. Yu know why I’m here. Where is Shiloh?”
“Go to hell!” Quincy snapped. “I ain’t talkin’.”
“Yu better,” came the cold reply. “I ain’t wasting time on a sidewinder like yu.”
Quincy shook his head doggedly. Without any warning, faster than the eye of any man in the saloon could follow, Sudden’s hand swept downward, and a jet of flame spouted from his hip. The bullet burned across the top of Quincy’s ear, flecking his cheek with blood.
“One inch to the right, an’ yu’d be shakin’ hands with Satan awready, Quincy,” Sudden told him grimly. “Now – where’s Shiloh?”
“Yo’re so clever – find him yoreself!” sneered Quincy.
Again the six-gun barked. This time the bullet nicked off a piece of the scalphunter’s earlobe, and warm blood trickled down his neck. A black rage welled inside the scar-faced man’s heart, and those close to him saw a pulse begin to beat in a vein that swelled in Quincy’s forehead. Had Shiloh Platt been there, he would have recognized those symptoms and quailed, knowing them for the onset of Quincy’s uncontrolled madness. If Sudden also recognized these signs he gave no indication of it.
“Yo’re runnin’ out o’ chances, Quincy,” the Texan said levelly. “Where’s Shiloh?”
An unearthly scream burst from Quincy’s lips, and foamy bubbles appeared at the corner of his mouth as he dropped the whisky bottles he had been cradling in his arms and with a filthy curse leaped straight for Sudden, his hand coming up from his belt clutching a long bladed knife which glinted with ugly highlights in the lamplight. Had his fell intent been realized, the knife would have been buried in Sudden’s throat within another second, but Sudden was already moving He slashed sideways with the six-gun still in his hand, the heavy barrel smashing Quincy’s wrist with a grinding crunch, sending the scalphunter reeling to the floor. The pain of the broken bones jarred the man into sanity, and he lay there huddled, whimpering.
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