Sudden Apache Fighter

by Frederick H. Christian

  “My Gawd,” whispered an onlooker. “Will yu look at that Sudden jasper’s face?”

  Quincy looked; and what he saw in the Texan’s eyes made him raise his good hand in an instinctive gesture of fear.

  “I’ll – talk,” he whined. “Damn yu, I’ll talk! Cabin – last one – on the north side o’ the canyon.” He cradled his broken wrist to his body, rocking to and fro.

  “Quincy,” Sudden told him. “I’m servin’ notice on yu. If I ever see that ugly mug o’ yours again, I’m goin’ to shoot it off. Get out o’ town – get out o’ this territory. If you ever cross my path again – I’ll kill yu!”

  There was a deadly levelness in his tone which carried more weight amongst these hard-bitten onlookers than any shouted threat would have done.

  “If I was that scarface feller, I’d be scratchin’ dirt right now!” a burly fellow in a red shirt muttered to himself.

  Overhearing him, a man on his right added: “Yu’d be eatin’ my dust at that!”

  It was at this moment that Rusty, whom Sudden had sent to scout the other cantinas of the town, appeared in the frame of the batwings.

  His searching gaze found his friend, took in the scene, the sprawled form of the whimpering Quincy.

  “Jim,” he exclaimed. “I heard shootin’. Was—”

  “Was is right,” Sudden told him “Come on – we got real work to do!”

  He turned to join Rusty, and the younger man held the swinging door ready. It was as he did so that his face turned into a grimace of horror, for he had seen Quincy staggering to his feet behind the unsuspecting Sudden, the scarred face contorted with malevolence, and a six-gun lifting in the scalphunter’s left hand.

  Even as Rusty’s mouth shaped to shout a warning, he saw Sudden turn in a smooth, fluent whirl, dropping to one knee as the hands moved with a speed defying sight. Before Quincy could even bring the gun in his hand level, Sudden’s Colts boomed out, smashing the bearded man off his feet. Quincy bounced off the bar and fell in a crumpled heap into the jagged ruins of the shattered whisky bottles he had earlier dropped.

  “Jee-hosophat!” someone whispered. “Did yu see that?”

  “Damned if I did,” admitted Jack Gardner at the bar. “But I’ve never seen it better done.” He looked down at the bleeding body of Quincy and shook his head. “What a waste – of good whisky.”

  Gardner’s unfeeling epitaph hung uncontradicted in the still air as the Texan and his young companion backed out of the saloon and, at a dead run, headed up the canyon towards the shack where Shiloh lay in hiding.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I’m lookin’ for a jasper named Shiloh Platt!”

  Caked with dust, his eyes glittering, the short thickset man burst through the batwing doors of Gardner’s saloon and stood now belligerently upon its threshold, backed by a hard-eyed group of punchers with ported Winchesters. Jack Gardner moved along to the end of the bar.

  “And who might you be?” he asked with raised eyebrows.

  “I’m John Davis,” the rancher told him, and a six-gun appeared in the meaty paw. “This is my visitin’ card. Now – Shiloh Platt. Or a feller named Quincy. Where are they?”

  Gardner nodded to the dead body. “That’s Quincy,” he said. “You’re the wrong side of early if you want to talk to him. I’d say you’ll have to look sharp to talk to Shiloh Platt, as well. That Sudden fellow seemed in something of a hurry!”

  “Sudden!” exclaimed Eady, pushing forward. “He’s hyar?”

  “Was here,” Gardner corrected the old-timer. “He’s gone looking for this Shiloh Platt.”

  “Wharabouts?”

  “A cabin somewhere to the north of town,” Gardner volunteered.

  “We’ll find it,” Davis nodded. He turned to face those watching him, and held up a hand for silence. “I got a hundred an’ fifty men with me,” he announced. “They ain’t lookin’ for trouble no more’n I – but they ain’t about to go out o’ their way to dodge it none, neither. Reason I’m tellin’ yu all this is simple – I’m servin’ notice on this burg. In one hour from now I’m puttin’ it to the torch!”

  There was an uproar at this uncompromising announcement, and several of the denizens of the saloon pushed forward, their faces belligerent, ready for trouble. Behind Davis, his top hand, Parker, levered the mechanism of his Winchester. The click-clack of the weapon stilled the strident voices like a switch; and Davis spoke again.

  “If yu wanta argue the toss – my boys’ll accommodate yu,” he told them levelly. “I’m guessin’ yu’d lose out. My advice is to grab what yu want to take with yu, an’ get out o’ town afore the deadline. One hour – then we come in, an’ if we have to – we come in shootin’.”

  “Lissen, Davis,” one tall man, standing at the front of the crowd interposed. “Yu ain’t the Law. Yu can’t make us go.” Davis lifted the six-gun in his hand.

  “Yo’re wrong, mister,” he said. “I got the Law right here with me.”

  “Hell, Davis,” another called. “We leave here, we’re fair game for any lawman in the Territory.”

  “I got Governor Bleke’s word on this: there’s a forty-eight hour amnesty on every man wanted by the Territory. Get out within that time an’ yu won’t be touched. If yo’re still in Arizona after the amnesty runs out, then – hard luck. Now there ain’t no more to say – I got other chores to do!”

  He hitched at his belt, and led his men out of the saloon, leaving behind him a crescendo of vociferous argument between those who had heard his words, and found in them a challenge to fight, and those who had heard in them a warning to run. In the end, one of them turned to Jack Gardner, who was calmly taking down bottles and glasses from his shelves, ignoring the uproar behind him completely.

  “Jack – what in ’ell yu doin’?” the man asked.

  “Why, Cassidy, I would have thought that even you could work that out,” the saloon-keeper replied silkily “I’m packing up, moving on, shaking the dust of this place off my feet.”

  “Hell, Jack, if yu go the town’ll fold, an’ yu know it!” another man shouted.

  “Think what’ll happen to the town if we stay,” Gardner said, a sly mischief in his eyes. “Besides, ‘we only meet to part again’, as the poet said.” He cast a swift glance about the saloon, and a derisive smile touched his thin lips. “I never did like this place overmuch, anyway.”

  There was about Shiloh Platt the instinctive caution of the scavenger. Like fox, coyote, or wolf, who lurk in wait to pounce upon their crippled prey, the half-breed had a kind of inborn intuition of threatening danger. He had heard the shots in “The Voice’ and stood now by the window, frowning. Had that insane dolt become embroiled in some sordid fracas in the town? Quincy had been a long time gone – maybe something was amiss. Shiloh rummaged in the saddlebags lying on the floor, and from them pulled a pair of powerful Army field-glasses, with which he scanned the rutted street of Wilderness. A curse escaped his tight-pressed lips as he descried Sudden and Rusty running up the street towards his hideout; and at the same time the party of riders led by John Davis boiling into the town across the footbridge at its southern end. The rancher was unknown to Shiloh; but the advent of a large band of armed men could only mean danger. It was typical of the man that he spent no time in wondering how his two most hated and feared adversaries had escaped the clutches of the Apaches, nor what had happened to his erstwhile partner. His mind rapidly evolved a desperate plan.

  “Yo’re pretty smart, Sudden!” he hissed. “But I’ll outsmart yu yet!”

  Whirling about, he dragged Barbara Davis to her feet, and with ungentle and hastily expert skill lashed her wrists together in front of her with a rope, leaving perhaps six feet free. The end of this lead he looped around his own wrist and tied.

  “Where I go, yu go!” he snarled. “So yu better keep yore feet or that purty face is goin’ to get scratched.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Barbara, her bewilderment plain on her face. “What is happe
ning? Why are you running away?”

  “Yore outlaw friend Sudden is headin’ up here with that sneak kid yo’re so fond of,” he scowled. “I ain’t aimin’ to be here when he arrives!”

  A bright gleam of hope kindled in Barbara’s eyes only to be dashed by Shiloh’s next words. Jerking cruelly on the rope to test it he sneered: “Yu better hope they don’t get too close, girlie, or I’ll kill yu anyway!”

  Without another word, he leaped to the window and emptied a six-gun down the slope at the advancing duo. Sudden and Rusty, caught in the open on the wide slope, had no choice but to drop flat and scuttle for the thin cover of a small pile of slatey rock. Without waiting further, Shiloh led Barbara out of the rear door of the cabin and on to the shale which skirted the foot of the ridge. A merciless tug on the rope nearly jerked her off-balance as she glanced over her shoulder. There seemed to be a lot of men coming up the slope, and she wondered who they could be; it was too far to clearly identify features. Then she gave her full concentration to the difficult task of keeping up with Shiloh as he climbed up and across the slope, heading for the jumbled rocks and cliffs which stood on the northern end of the canyon in which Wilderness lay.

  Panting, sliding, cursing, dragging the girl after him, Shiloh Platt scrambled up the long, wide slope like some demented animal. He reached the crest with a gusty sigh of relief, pulling Barbara roughly after him, and shaking a defiant fist at the pursuers far below. His aim was simple; once in these uncharted badlands, he could lead whoever followed a fruitless chase, then double back to Wilderness, get horses, head somewhere else and once more present his demands for payment from Davis. It’ll work, it’ll work,” he convinced himself as he scrabbled along the crest of the ridge. “An’ if it don’t – well, there’s still the girl” He feasted his eyes upon her for a moment, the thought giving him renewed strength. Barbara Davis collapsed, gasping for breath, as he halted.

  “Come on, damn yu!” he cursed. “Don’t hang on me like that!”

  “I’m – doing – my – best,” Barbara panted.

  Shiloh led the way along the crest of a ridge leading to a deep, bowl-like depression in the mountainside. Some freak of nature had scooped from the rock a cup-shaped hollow perhaps a quarter of a mile across, littered with split rock and huge boulders. On its far side was a notch in the rim; this led into an arroyo which twisted off to the south and ran eventually into the gully which cut across the southern end of the street in Wilderness.

  Dragging Barbara roughly along behind him, the half-breed headed for the rock bowl, and crossed its rim, sliding down the slope towards the bottom, the girl following helplessly. The slope leveled out, and as Shiloh staggered to his feet, the girl screamed. He whirled in annoyance, to see her pointing tensely at the crest on the side of the bowl farthest from them.

  “Indians!” Barbara Davis shouted. “Apaches!”

  With a scream of frustrated rage, Shiloh whirled to turn back, but at that moment he saw the figure of Sudden appear at the top of the long slope he had just descended. Yanking out his gun, Shiloh threw two hasty shots at the pursuing Texan, who ducked back behind the lip of the hollow. Turning, Shiloh emptied his revolver at the Apaches, whisking one off his feet to slide limply downwards, bringing a small rock slide with him. Another screeched and fell, blood pumping from his thigh; and then they were out of sight in the flash of an eye, leaping for cover, diving out of range of Shiloh’s reckless shots.

  Thrusting fresh ammunition into the gun, Shiloh dragged the girl into the floor of the hollow, heading erratically for a heaped pile of boulders where he could take cover. Thrusting the girl into the tiny space between the rocks, he whirled to face his enemies. Two Apaches had started to their feet on the rim rock, and he laughed wildly as his hasty shots chipped rocks from the ledge upon which they were standing, sending the Indians ducking for cover. There was a silence for a moment; and then Shiloh heard the racketing of six-gun fire from the direction in which he had just come. His lips curled in wolfish glee: so his pursuers had run into the Apaches!

  “We’ll let them entertain each other while we skedaddle,” he gloated to the girl. “Come on, yu!”

  Once more he dragged Barbara to her feet. He skittered across the floor of the bowl, moving quickly and carefully from rock pile to pile of boulders; no shots sought him, and a triumphant smile played around his cruel mouth. He would make it yet! Ahead of him, perhaps a hundred yards away, lay the break in the rim rock which led out of this depression and into the canyon. Between it and where he now crouched there was, however, no cover. He crouched behind the rocks, sweat matting his hair, his breath rasping in his throat. Barbara, her clothes dusty and tattered, leaned faintly against the rocks, struggling to catch her breath, half-swooning with exhaustion.

  “On yore feet!” Shiloh snarled at her. “Up, up!”

  He jerked cruelly upon the rope, yanking the wilting girl to her feet by main force, and started out at a crouched run across the final flat stretch towards the cut in the rim rock. Barbara, reeling, was pulling on the rope, and the half-breed dragged on it impatiently. This unexpected pull spilled the girl off her feet, and she tumbled to the ground with a small cry, bringing Shiloh to a cursing stop.

  “Get up, yu—!” he screamed

  “I can’t,” she panted pitifully, a trickle of blood coursing down her face from a cut she had suffered in falling. “It’s -my ankle. It’s – I’ve hurt myself.”

  Insane with rage and fear, Shiloh rained blows upon her, screaming at the girl to get up. He tugged mercilessly at the rope, tearing the tender skin of Barbara’s wrists until she screamed with pain.

  “It’s – no – use,” she sobbed. “I can’t – I can’t!”

  Shiloh looked up to see an Apache loom startlingly in the rim rock gap. With a screech of triumph, the Indian leaped into a run, but before he had covered twenty feet, Shiloh had carefully aimed his six-gun and his bullet smashed the warrior to the ground.

  Something buzzed past him and he turned in the opposite direction to see the figures of his white pursuers moving down the shaley slope on the far side of the bowl, and the puffs of smoke from their guns. Were they shooting at him? Or Apaches? It made no difference now. He had to get clear. A dozen Apaches slid over the rim rock equidistant with him and the gap in the bowl through which lay his only escape. He had the situation worked out now: the Apaches thought that the white men were trying to rescue him from them, and were intent on preventing any such rescue. “They want me – or the gal,” he muttered, madness in his eyes. “So I’ll just leave yu for them to play with, girlie. A pity, but there’s plenty o’ wimmin.”

  “You cowardly cur!” Barbara Davis breathed. “Would you leave me to the Indians?”

  Shiloh ground out an oath, and a sweeping blow from his half-clenched fist sent her reeling senseless to the rocky floor. With a bound, Shiloh regained his feet, and dashed for the gap in the rim rock, his six-gun blazing, driving the Apaches to cover. One of them yelled shrilly and pointed to the girl, and then Shiloh was through the gap and skittering down the far side of the rim rock lip, dropping in a sliding run to the floor of the arroyo sixty feet below – and safety.

  Chapter Eighteen

  There was neither art now nor skill in the open fight between the white men and the Apaches. Ever since the attack on the ranch, Davis and his men had been itching for an opportunity to come to grips with their hated foes, and this, added to their superior numbers, was rapidly turning the tide of battle in their favor. In the forefront of the attack ran Sudden and Rusty, their guns blazing, pouring slugs into the scattered ranks of the screaming Apaches. Sudden drove a bullet into one painted face; a cowboy just to his left gasped and went down, blood pouring from a wound in his side. Racing across the floor of the depression, Sudden’s second and third shots blasted a running warrior off his feet, and then the Texan was at Barbara Davis’s side, with Rusty sliding in behind the boulders not ten seconds later. Together, they grabbed the swooning girl’s arms a
nd pulled her to cover, whirling to send a clutch of shots into two Apaches who had leaped after them, their axes raised, killing lust distorting the painted features. With a stifled curse, Sudden watched Shiloh leap over the rim of the depression and disappear. With a word to Rusty, he kicked off his boots.

  “Keep me covered until I’m over that rim rock,” he shouted, “I’m goin’ after Shiloh!”

  Before Rusty could protest, the Texan sped barefooted across the open ground, his twisting run making him impossible for the Apaches to hit. Rusty threw a scatter of shots towards the Apaches as they popped their heads out of cover to try a shot at the speeding Sudden; they ducked back, and then Sudden was out of sight beyond the rim rock. He slithered to a stop on the shaley slope, and assessed his position. Below, bearing off to the left, ran the arroyo. At its far end, where the canyon turned to the right again, he could see the stumbling figure of Shiloh, hardly more than a moving dot in the jumble of rock and desolation. To Sudden’s right ran a ridge which ran in almost a straight line, raised like a furrow; and in a flash, the Texan realized that this ridge must finally come to an end at the same point as the arroyo down which Shiloh was presently heading.

  There’s just a chance, Sudden told himself. If I ain’t forgot how to keep my balance!

  He stood, about to begin his perilous run, when a slithering sound made him whirl just in time to see an Apache launch himself in a flying leap through the opening in the rim rock. Half turned, Sudden drove three shots into the man’s body, whisking the Apache backwards against the rock. For a moment, the Indian teetered there, then his eyes bulged in horror and he went lopsidedly off the rim rock and rolled downwards uncontrollably in a slithering welter of broken limbs.