Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933)

by Oliver Strange

  “I’m aimin’ to,” the foreman smiled, “but yu’ll have me all scared to death. Yu just said what Yago was rammin’ home, an’ before him, Luce Burdette.”

  “He warned yu? Whyfor, I wonder?” the rancher queried.

  “But if he has quarrelled with his brothers, Dad,” Nan suggested.

  “Bah ! There’s somethin’ back o’ that,” the old man grunted.

  The girl said no more. She had not dared to tell her father of the scene in the glade and the humiliation to which King Burdette had been subjected, and which—knowing the man—she was sure he would never forget or forgive. It was left to Green to reply.

  “I still think yu’ve got Luce sized up wrong, Purdie,” he said quietly, and Nan’s heart warmed to him. True, he had shot down a fellow-being less than twenty-four hours ago, but she was Western bred, knew that the fight had been forced upon him, and that he had slain, in self-defence, a man who was not fit to live.

  “Have it yore own way, but don’t let him get behind yu,” the rancher said harshly. “What did the marshal have to say?”

  “Just that he didn’t want me,” the foreman smiled. “Too raw a deal even for him, huh?”

  Purdie sneered. “Yu’ll have to keep an eye on Slype, an’ so will Burdette, though he’s bought an’ paid for him; Slippery’s the right name for that fella.”

  He said good-night, took the girl’s arm, and went into the ranchhouse.

  “Tough ol’ citizen, Chris,” Yago commented. “My, but ain’t he a good hater too? Mind, he’d be just as strong for a friend, but he don’t regard young Luce thataway at present, an’ I’ll bet a month’s pay he never will.”

  “Take yu,” the foreman said. “So long, Bill. I’m for the hay.

  Yago, left abruptly alone, stared at the closed door of the foreman’s shack. “Now why in ‘ell did he snatch at that wager?” he muttered in perplexity. “What’s he know that I don’t? I’m bettin’ m’self I lose that bet, cuss him; he’s as hard to follow as a flea with its specs on.”

  The man behind the door listened to the monologue with a smile of contentment. Life had no better gift than a staunch friend, and in Bill Yago he knew he had one who would “stay with him” to the dark doors of death itself. The old dangerous days in the West bred such comradeships, and men fought and died ignominiously because of them.

  Chapter XII

  ANOTHER week drifted by without any further act of aggression on the part of the Circle B. Sudden had figured that, for the sake of appearances, they would allow a little time to elapse before striking another blow. Whitey’s attempt had been, as Purdie put it, somewhat of “a raw deal,” and King Burdette knew that, despite his denials, he was commonly reputed to have set the killer on. Overbearing and intolerant though he might be, he was proud of his power in Windy, and did not wish to strain it unduly.

  “Make the other fella put hisself in the wrong an’ yu take the pot,” was how he stated it to his brothers when they complained of inaction.

  “Squattin’ on our hunkers doin’ nothin’ don’t rid us o’ Green,” Mart observed sourly.

  “Get out yore li’l gun an’ go abolish him,” King advised. “Mebbe Whitey’ll be pleased to see yu.”

  “Talk sense,” snarled the other.

  “Right,” returned King. “I’ll start by sayin’ yu ain’t neither o’ yu got the brains of a rabbit, an’ yu better leave the plannin’ to me. When I want yu to do anythin’ I’ll let yu know. Get this into yore thick heads—I ain’t asleep. Savvy?”

  The proof of this came two days later. The C P foreman was riding along the rim of the deep canyon which formed the eastern boundary of the ranch on his way to the line-house. It was a blazing hot afternoon and he was in no hurry. Suddenly, from the other side of the chasm, came the sharp report of a rifle and a ballooning puff of smoke jetted out from a knob of rock at which he happened to be looking. He was conscious of a stunning shock which flung him out of the saddle, and knew no more.

  When sense returned he discovered that he was lying in a grass-covered crevice on the brink of the canyon. His head throbbed with pain, and blood was trickling down his cheek.

  Gingerly he put up a hand; there was a nasty lump and the scalp was cut. How long he had been there he did not know, but from the position of the sun he judged that nearly an hour had passed.

  He decided to remain awhile; the hidden marksman might not be satisfied. He contrived a clumsy bandage for his hurt, and, cautiously parting the grasses, provided a peep-hole through which he could watch the spot from whence the shot had come. It seemed to be deserted, and he fell to speculating on what had happened.

  “Fools for luck,” he told himself. “I was shore invitin’ it, paradin’ along in the open thataway, an’ I damn near got it too. That slug must ‘a’ hit the buckle of my hatband, an’ if I’d been lookin’ straight ahead I’d be climbin’ the golden stairs right now. Wonder if it’s the jasper who cut down on Strip? Wish he’d show hisself.”

  But the unknown declined to oblige, and after giving him a further chance, Sudden crept from his cover and shivered when he saw how nearly he had missed tumbling headlong to the bottom of the abyss. No shot saluted his appearance, and he concluded that the assassin had departed.

  Both hat and horse were missing; the former he could do without, but the latter was a necessity, for he was still half-dazed, tottery on his feet, and his head ached intolerably.

  Moreover, he thirsted for the rifle under the fender of the saddle; to be set afoot and without a long-range weapon was a situation not to his liking. Nigger, he knew, would not go far after the first scare of the shot and unseating of his rider.

  A clump of brush about fifty yards away seemed to be what he was looking for, and he painfully crawled towards it, keeping in the long grass as much as possible. He reached it safely, and from the security of the cover it afforded uttered a low whistle. Almost immediately came an answering whinny, and from a nearby hollow the big black emerged, head up, distended nostrils sniffing the air. Sudden repeated the signal and stepped out. With another whinny, Nigger trotted sedately up and rubbed a velvety muzzle against his master’s shoulder.

  “Glad to see me, huh, yu ebony rascal?” the puncher grinned, as he pulled the animal’s ears. “Well, that goes double. Yu come almighty near losin’ yore owner.” He climbed painfully into the saddle, and, as the horse essayed a playful pitch, added, “Easy, damn yu; my blame’ head feels like it was about ready to fall off.”

  In the blistering heat of the afternoon Windy’s one street was well-nigh deserted. Two or three citizens lolled on the bench beneath the board awning outside “The Lucky Chance,” and the marshal, slumped in a chair, decorated his own door a few yards distant. One of the loungers sent a spirt of tobacco juice at a post and watched the greedy rays of the sun lick up the moisture.

  “Hell, ain’t it hot—an’ slow?” he grunted. “Wish suthin’ would happen.”

  Came the quick thud of hammering hoofs, and one of the other men glanced up lazily.

  “Looks like yu got yore wish,” he said. “They’s a lunatic a-comin’.”

  Along the eastern trail a rider was approaching at breakneck speed; they could see the rise and fall of his arm as he plied the quirt to the flanks of a horse already doing its best.

  “Year or so back you mighta guessed Injuns, but they’ve bin quiet a goodish while now,” the last speaker continued.

  “Shucks! It’s Riley, o’ the Circle B; reckon he’s on’y thirsty.”

  By this time the panting pony had rocketed along the street and, in a shower of dust, had been pulled to a sudden stop in front of the marshal’s quarters. The rider, a diminutive, bow-legged man with a hard, sly face, sprang down, and wiping his dust-caked lips with the back of his hand, cried,

  “Hey, Slippery, come alive an’ git busy.”

  The marshal tilted back his chair and surveyed the speaker sourly; he had to put up with hectoring from the Burdettes, but he was not going to stand
it from their underlings, and he didn’t like his nickname.

  “What might be yore particular trouble?” he drawled. “Somebody bumped off King, by any chance?”

  “If they had, the Circle B wouldn’t be botherin’ yu,” was the blunt reply. “No, sir, but I got a notion the C P is shy a foreman, mebbe.”

  This statement brought the officer to attention and the loafers from their shelter. With an upraised hand Riley stilled the babble of questions.

  “Here’s the how of it,” he said. “I’m crossin’ yore range, marshal, on my way to town, hour or so back. I’m ‘bout half a mile from Dark Canyon when I sees Green on the other side of it—can’t mistake that black o’ his. He’s amblin’ along casual-like, pointin’ for the C P line-house, I figure. Naturally, I ain’t interested, an’ I’m just turnin’ away when there’s a shot from that tree-covered bump what sticks up like a wart to the east, an’ I sees Green pitch out’n his saddle to the edge o’ the canyon; his hoss bolts. Me, I hunt cover plenty rapid, guessin’ the gent with the gun has more’n one ca’tridge.

  “Nothin’ happens for a spell. Green don’t show up, an’ havin’ seen his lid sail into the canyon, I’m bettin’ high he’s went with it. The fella what did the shootin’ must ‘a’come to the same conclusion, for presently he busts from his hiding-place an’ rides hell-bent for that splash o’ pines east.”

  “Reckernize him?” the marshal asked.

  “Too fur away, an’ I on’y see his back,” Riley replied, “but he was atop of a grey hoss, an’ I’d say he was redheaded.”

  “How in hell?” began the officer.

  “He warn’t wearin’ a hat,” the Circle B man explained. “Left it behind or got it tied to his saddle-strings, I s’pose.”

  “Odd, that,” the marshal mused. “Well, I reckon I better look into it. Yu boys comin’ along?”

  The reply was an immediate scattering in quest of mounts and rifles; hot as it was, they were not missing anything that promised a little excitement. In less than a quarter of an hour, the men, headed by the marshal and the bringer of the news, were riding rapidly for the scene of the outrage.

  “Redhead with a grey hoss huh?” Slype remarked, his crafty little eyes on his companion.

  “Curious yu didn’t know him.”

  “Ain’t it?” Was the sardonic retort. “My sight is mebbe not so good, an’ it’s powerful glary out on the range.” The marshal grunted his disbelief in this explanation and became more confirmed in his suspicion, which, had he but known it, was just what Riley intended. The Circle B man’s admiration for the officer would have been hard to discover.

  In the West of that day representatives of the law were seldom popular. There were among them men who did their work fearlessly and honestly; whose efforts to establish and preserve order in an untamed land laid the foundation stones of the great and flourishing cities which have replaced the huddles of huts they knew. But many were, as the common phrase put it, “as crooked as a cow’s hind leg,” and held their places only because they were more ruthless, and could shoot quicker than the ruffians they had to rule. Slype belonged to neither of these groups; he had been put in power by the Circle B, and though he talked loudly in public, it was generally known that when King Burdette whistled, the marshal had to come to heel.

  He now rode in silence, trying to fathom what lay behind this latest development. Beyond a plain intimation that Luce was no longer to be regarded as one of the family, the Burdettes had told him nothing, but the marshal had means of obtaining information, and little happened in the neighbourhood that he did not hear. He knew, for example, that King Burdette’s belt had been left at “The Lucky Chance” by his youngest brother, and had slapped his thigh in unholy glee at the news. For though he served them—or perhaps, because of that—he hated the Burdettes with all his mean, shrivelled soul. Riley’s voice interrupted his speculations.

  “Yonder’s the knob where the shot come from. Green must ‘a’ bin pretty close to here.”

  They had reached the canyon and were riding along the edge, slowing in order to search it thoroughly. Riley, bending down in his saddle, was scanning the ground closely. Presently he dragged on his reins and jumped off.

  “Thisyer’s the spot,” he said. “See where the hoss r’ared?” He pointed to several hoof-prints deeply indented in the short turf. A tiny reddish-brown splash on a blade of grass caught his eye, and he stepped to the brink of the precipice. At his call, the others left their horses and came clustering round. He was pointing to a little crevice, a notch in the rim of the canyon wall, the long grass in which was flattened, broken, and stained in several places with dried blood.

  “He dropped here, shore enough, but where the devil’s he got to?” Slype queried.

  “Rolled over, I’d say,” one of the party offered. “That crack goes plenty deep, I’m thinkin’.”

  “Hell’s delight, it’s a long ride to git down there,” the marshal said disgustedly. “S’pose we gotta do it.”

  A further search revealing no sign of the missing man, the posse retraced its steps to the entrance of the canyon.

  “We’d oughta come here first,” said one when they reached it.

  “If everybody done what they oughta, somebody would ‘a’ bumped yu off for a chatterin’ fool years ago, Pike,” the marshal said savagely.

  The offender subsided; he owed Slype money, a fact that worthy had not forgotten when he uttered the insult. Since the rest of the party, save Riley, were in the same predicament, the journey along the gorge was made in silence. It was the Circle B man who first saw the hat, and spurring his pony, leant over, lifted it from the ground and waited for the marshal. The broken buckle and jagged hole with bloodstained edges appeared to tell a plain story.

  “Got him good, ‘pears like,” Slype decided. “But where the blazes is the body? Even if the bullet didn’t do the trick, the fall would break every bone in him.”

  They scanned the grim, overhanging wall above them, and the man Pike ventured an opinion. “That crack in the rim comes down a consid’able ways; mebbe he slipped into that ‘stead o’ droppin’ clear.”

  It appeared to be the only solution; seen from below, the fissure in question seemed more than capacious enough to conceal a corpse. The marshal grudgingly accepted the explanation.

  “Likely enough,” he said. “Well, if he’s there it’s as good a grave as we could make him.

  Let’s git outa this damn gully—it gives me the creeps.”

  Once more they retraced their steps, and emerging into the open, headed for the knoll from which the shot had been fired. It was a mere mound, covered on the side facing the canyon with a thick screen of spruce, catclaw, and cactus, being therefore an ideal spot for the purpose to which it had been put. Hoof-prints showed where a horse had been tied, and lying near the top of the hillock was an old grey Stetson. The marshal pounced on it; in the sweatband were the letters “L. B.”—done in ink—but nearly obliterated by time and wear.

  “Luce Burdette,” he muttered. “But how come he to leave this behind?”

  The spot where the hat had lain was littered with cigarette stubs. “Squatted here some time, an’ took his lid off while he waited,” Slype went on. “Then when he’s did what he come to do, bolts off an’ forgets it.” He picked up a shining brass object. “She’s a .38 shell. I reckon that settles it; we gotta find Mister Luce, an’ right speedy.”

  “Huh, I’ll bet he’s throwin’ dust an’ yu won’t see that hombre no more,” Pike said.

  The marshal eyed him speculatively. “How much yu wanta lose?” he asked. “I got ten dollars that says we’ll find him in town. Yu takin’ it?”

  “Betcha life,” the man replied. “Easy money, marshal.”

  “Don’t think it,” warned a friend. “Coin yu collect from Sam ain’t ever that.”

  The trip back to Windy was made at speed, and the whole party piled into the hotel, where, as the news spread, they were quickly followed by others. T
hey found the man they were in search of calmly eating a meal in the dining-room. The marshal shot a triumphant glance at Pike and then turned abruptly upon Luce.

  “Where yu bin this afternoon?” he inquired.

  The young man did not need to be told there was trouble in the air; the fact stuck out like a sore thumb. “Prospectin’ south o’ the river, if it’s any o’ yore damn business,” he replied.

  This was in the opposite direction from where the ambushing had occurred, and the officer’s thin lips curledin a sneer as he went on, “Anybody with yu to prove that?”

  “No, I didn’t see nobody. What’s the idea?”

  “That can wait. Still usin’ that .38 o’ yores?” and when the other nodded, “Have it with yu to-day?”

  “Shore I did—don’t aim to be caught out on a limb if I can help it,” Luce said, adding scathingly, “Bushwhackin’ is too prevalent around here.”

  “Yu said it,” the marshal agreed, and held out the second hat they had found. “Know who owns this?”

  The boy’s eyes opened in surprise. “It’s mine,” he said. “I left it behind…”

  “Yeah, we know; when yu downed Green,” Slype put in.

  Luce Burdette sprang to his feet, eyes wide with amazement, and every gun in the room instantly covered him. But he made no attempt to draw his own.

  “Green downed?” he cried, and there was deep concern in his voice. “An’ yu think I did it? Yu must be loco; he’s about my on’y friend.”

  “He was got with a .38 shell, by a fella ridin’ a grey hoss, an’ we find yore hat on the spot,” the marshal said incisively.

  “That lid’s an old one which I left at the Circle B when I cleared out,” Luce explained. He pointed to the chair beside him. “There’s the one I’m usin’.”

  Slype laughed nastily. “Bright boy, ain’t yu?” he sneered. “But it don’t go this time. Twice yu bin lucky an’ got away with it, but this is yore finish.” He surveyed the crowded room, narrowed lids hiding the malevolent triumph in his gaze. “Some o’ yu mebbe ain’t got the straight o’ this; here it is,” he said, and went on to give a brief summary of the facts as he knew them. His concluding words were, “I reckon that’s good enough for us to go ahead an’ try this fella right away.”