The bar-tender, to whom he put a question, informed him that Mrs. Lavigne had retired to her room, on the plea of a headache. King swore under his breath and turned again to hear the marshal saying.
“Funny ‘bout that of dirt-washer.”
“Ain’t heard,” Burdette said indifferently. “Which of ‘em?”
“California,” Slype told him. “No one’s seen hide nor hair of him for a coupla days.”
“Sick, mebbe, or out on a prospect.”
“No, he ain’t at his shack, an’ his tools an’ burro is; Goldy Evans went to see.”
“Oh, he’ll show up. Anyways, I ain’t lost any prospectors.”
“That goes for me too, but his friends is clamourin’ for a search-party,” the marshal grunted. “Them damn’ gophers act like they owned the town.”
“Let ‘em look for him themselves,” the Circle B man said contemptuously. “They’re full-growed, ain’t they?”
“That’s an idea,” the marshal said. “I’ll tell ‘em to fly at it.”
He went out grinning, and King, seeing that Lu Lavigne did not reappear, followed soon after. Though his lean, sneering features did not show it, he was amused at the commotion caused by the disappearance of the hoary-headed old gold-seeker. One thing was certain : the mining element—which was fairly strong in the town—must not learn the truth. Loping leisurely along the trail to the Circle B, he suddenly startled his horse by emitting a throaty chuckle.
“Got it,” he exclaimed. “That’ll explain things an’ mebbe put a crimp in yu, Mister Green.”
He ripped out an oath as he recalled the humiliation the puncher had inflicted upon him in
“The Plaza.” It was the first time any man had outfaced him and got away with it, and he was still trying to explain his own attitude to himself. He had been glad the marshal had interfered, but now he cursed him, and yet—in the same circumstances he knew he would be glad again.
And Lu Lavigne?…
“Damn them both,” he cried aloud, and raking the spurs along the ribs of his mount, sent it headlong through the gloom.
Chapter XVI
THE foreman of the C P arose on the following morning with an uneasy feeling that all was not well with the missing prospector, whose absence was the chief topic of conversation in the town. He confided his fears to Yago, adding that he intended riding to the old man’s shack.
Bill promptly announced that he was coming too. Sudden surveyed him disgustedly.
“Yu talk like I was a kid,” he said.
“Yu act like yu was,” Bill retorted bluntly. “From what I know o’ this Burdette fella,
`Percy Vere’ are his middle names, an’ he’ll try again. Yu’ve had the luck of a fat priest up to now, an’ it’s due to turn.”
“Cheery li’l fella, ain’t yu?” his friend smiled. “Don’t this allus lookin’ on the bright side hurt yore eyes?” When they reached the shack the owner’s burro pushed its head between the corral bars and brayed a loud welcome. “Say `Howdy’ to your relative, Bill,” the foreman smiled.
Yago’s face was a picture of commiseration. “An’ yu kickin’ at bein’ called a kid,” he said witheringly.
Having forked some hay into the corral and filled the rude drinking-trough, they entered the hut. A skillet containing half-cooked bacon by the dead fire, and a pot of cold coffee beside it, showed that the occupant had left in the midst of preparing a meal. The pile of blankets which did duty as a bed had been pulled aside, disclosing a small cavity in the packed earth floor.
“That’ll be where he cached his dust, an’ it’s went,” Yago observed. “Looks like he didn’t leave willin’.”
“Somethin’ else has gone too,” Sudden said, and told of the piece of rich “float.”
Bill’s eyes widened. “Somebody got wise.”
The foreman nodded and went outside. He found plenty of tracks in the soft soil, for Evans and his friends had been there, but presently, casting a wider circle, he came upon a fresh lot, those of half a dozen riders, headed away from Windy. He studied them closely for a while, and then returned to the shack in a thoughtful mood. Yago, who had been searching for another possible hiding-place, looked up expectantly.
“Looks thisaway to me,” Sudden said. “Someone followed me that mornin’, overheard the conversation here—the ol’ man warn’t exactly whisperin’, an’ there’s boot-tracks an’ cigarette ends side o’ the shack—pushes me into the Sluice, an’ six of ‘em come back later an’ collect Cal.
Reckon they got him holed up somewheres, aimin’ to make him talk.”
“Mebbe they took him to the Circle B?” Bill suggested.
“Mebbe they didn’t do nothin’ so foolish,” his foreman replied. “We gotta try an’ trail ‘em.”
“Ain’t yu goin’ swimmin’ this time?” Bill innocently inquired, and was given an order he declined to obey.
“It’s hot enough here,” he said. “Betcha a dollar them jaspers has blinded their trail.”
For a few miles they had no difficulty in following the horsemen, and then, on a wide stretch of arid, stony ground to the north of the town, all traces ended. After an hour’s fruitless search, they gave it up.
“These hombres knowed where to come; yu could march a regiment across here an’ a Injun couldn’t follow it,” Sudden said. “Seem to be headin’ away from the Circlue B, too, but that don’t mean nothin’. We’ll have to try an’ pick up a pointer in Windy.”
“I’ll keep my ears open,” Yago offered.
His friend grinned. “We shan’t miss anythin’ then, even if it’s whispered,” he said, with a sly glance at his companion’s hearing appendages.
Bill’s reply was sadly devoid of the deference due to his superior; their friendship was not of yesterday. Other work claimed their attention, and it was not until the approach of dusk that they got back to the ranch. On the way to the bunkhouse, Purdie called his foreman. He had just returned from town, where he had heard about the missing miner.
“What d’yu suppose has happened to the old chap?” he asked. “Shouldn’t ‘a’ thought he was worth robbin’ even, let alone makin’ away with.”
Whereupon the foreman told what he knew of the matter, including his own perilous part in it. Purdie’s eyes grew big.
“Yu got out the Sluice?” he cried.
“With the help o’ Bill Yago,” Sudden reminded.
“Yeah. But them currents an’ whirlpools! Why, I wouldn’t tackle it for a million dollars,” the rancher said, and meant it. “Yu must be half a fish.”
“I swim pretty good,” the puncher admitted, and, with a whimsical smile, “I didn’t have no choice, yu know.”
“Got any notion who shoved yu in?”
“Nope. But King Burdette knowed about it. He looked like I was a ghost when he saw me in `The Plaza.’ Yu think that ol’ skeezicks really has struck it rich?”
“Shouldn’t wonder—there’s allus been a tale of a lost mine up on Stormy. Never took no stock in it myself, but if Cal or anybody else finds it they’re welcome, far as I’m concerned.”
“Even the Circle B gang?” Sudden suggested.
The rancher’s head snapped back. “No, by God!” he cried. “Yo’re right, Jim; anybody but them thieves an’ murderers.” His brow grew dark and furrowed. “I misdoubt I should ‘a’ dragged yu into this,” he finished gloomily.
“Shucks!” the foreman laughed. “Blame that little fella in Juniper. I’m wonderin’ what the next move will be?”
As if in answer to the words came a flash from a belt of pines six hundred yards down the slope, a current of cool air passed between the faces of the two men, and a dull thud told that the bullet had buried itself in the ranchhouse. Then followed the muffled crash of a rifle-shot.
Instantly from the top of the trail came an answering report, and a shadowy rider raced through the dusk towards the pines.
“Near thing, Purdie,” the foreman said coolly. “Moody will smoke him out if he
waits, but I’m bettin’ against it. I’ve been expectin’ somethin’ o’ the sort, an’ we gotta take turns sleepin’.”
He grinned at the men who had come piling out of the bunkhouse. “It’s all right, boys, no damage done, an’ there ain’t anythin’ we can do—yet,” he said, adding meaningly, “An’ we shore make a fine target bunched together like this.”
The men took the hint and returned to the bunkhouse, but the muttered threats boded ill for the Circle B if the two outfits came to open warfare. The rancher and his foreman retired to the house, where they found Nan anxiously awaiting them. Sudden had paused on the way to dig out the bullet. Now, by the light of the lamp, he was examining it.
“Another .38. Still clingin’ to that notion, seemin’ly,” he remarked.
The girl’s question brought the reply she might have expected from her father. “Luce Burdette, tryin’ to lay me alongside Kit,” he said savagely. “Dirty, bushwhackin’ skunk.”
Her face paled, but she did not reply. The foreman took up the cudgels. “Someone is framin’ that boy, Purdie,” he said. “An’ it was me they were after; remember, they don’t know how much Cal told me; whoever’s got him is back o’ this.”
The owner of the C P shrugged his shoulders. These repeated outrages were sorely trying his patience—short, at the best of times—and the thought that the shot in the dark might have struck down his daughter filled him with fury. A forthright man, with the simple creed of the frontier, he would have gathered his riders and gone in search of his foes but for his foreman.
“That’s what they’re workin’ for,” Sudden had more than once told him. “It’ll come to that in the end, but for now, let ‘em run on the rope; we’ll throw ‘em good an’ plenty when the time comes.”
And because of his growing faith in this confident young stranger with the steady eyes and firm lips upon which danger brought no more than a sardonic smile, Purdie let him have his way.
The marshal draped his spare form against the bar of “The Lucky Chance,” wrapped his fingers round the glass of liquor he had just poured out, and gave a comprehensive glance at the company. The place was fairly full, but the man he sought was not present. Mart Burdette, however, was lolling on a near chair, and a brief look of understanding passed between them.
“Evenin’ Sam,” the saloon-keeper greeted. “Anny news o’ th’ missin’ man yit?”
“Nope,” the officer replied, “but I’m expectin’ a fella who may be able to gimme some, an’ here he is.”
“Is it Green ye mane?” Magee asked, as the C P foreman and Yago entered. “What will he be after knowin’ about it?”
“I’m here to find out,” the marshal said somewhat loudly. “Hey, Green, I want yu.”
The cowpuncher detected hostility in the tone but he smiled as he inquired.
“What’s the charge, marshal?”
“There ain’t none—yet,” was the retort. “Just a few questions, that’s all.”
“Toot yore li’l horn an’ go ahaid,” Sudden replied, as he leaned lazily against the bar and sampled the drink Magee pushed forward.
“It’s about—Cal,” Slype began slowly. “I hear yu was the last man to see him alive.”
“Why, is he dead, then?” the puncher inquired.
“Mebbe he is an’ mebbe he ain’t,” the marshal snapped. “I’m doin’ the askin’, an’ I wanta know whether yu was up at his shack the day he disappeared?”
Sudden did not reply immediately; the question had taken him by surprise. A hush had come over the gathering, and he divined that some of those present had known of the marshal’s intention. Save for Purdie, Yago, and the prospector, only the assassin had been aware of his visit to the shack, and if the latter had talked it could only be for a purpose.
“I certainly had a chat with Cal that mornin’,” he said. Slype’s small eyes gleamed triumphantly at this admission. “What took yu that way?” he asked.
“It’s part of our range,” the puncher pointed out. “Didn’t know the old chap was located there till I happened on him. He was alive an’ kickin’ when I left.”
The marshal’s face shot forward, an ugly grin on his bloodless lips. “Yu said it,” he sneered. “A fella would be apt to kick if he was slung into the Sluice.”
A threatening growl from some of the auditors greeted this; Sudden stared in bewilderment at the speaker.
“Yu suggestin’ I throwed the old man in the river?” he cried. “Yu must be drunk or dreamin’.”
“Don’t think it; I’m sayin’ that’s just what yu did do,” the officer retorted. “An’ then yu went back an’ stole his dust.”
The accused man glanced round the room and despite the black looks he met with, laughed scornfully.
“Someone’s been stringin’ yu, Slype,” he said. “Yu got the story all wrong.”
“I wasn’t just expectin’ yu to own up,” the marshal said with heavy sarcasm. “As for stringin’, I had it from Riley o’ the Circle B, who chanced to be on the other side o’ the river, an’ saw the whole affair.”
The name told the puncher much of what he wanted to know. “Yeah,” he commented reflectively. “Wasn’t it Riley who claimed he saw Luce tryin’ to bump me off?” And when Slype nodded. “Useful fella that—reg’lar Johnny-on-the-spot, ain’t he? The Circle B shore oughta pay him well.”
The marshal made no attempt to reply, but another did. Heaving his big bulk out of his chair, Mart Burdette thrust forward an ugly, threatening face and said with savage intensity.
“Meanin’?”
The foreman was now sure that the whole scene had been pre-arranged, but it made no difference to his attitude.
“That Riley is a liar, an’ that yu an yore brothers know it,” he said deliberately.
This was fighting talk; every man there knew it, and wondered when he saw that Mart was not wearing his belt. A Black Burdette without a gun was a sight no one of them could remember. Sudden’s keen eyes had noted the omission as soon as the fellow stood up, and sensed its significance. There was an evil satisfaction in the big man’s gaze as he replied to the puncher’s accusation.
“Fella with a gun can allus talk biggity to the chap what ain’t wearin’ his,” he sneered. “If yu got the guts to shuck that belt, I’ll kill yu with my bare hands.”
He spread the fingers of his great paws as he spoke, opening and closing them with a slow, gripping motion horribly suggestive of his purpose. His leering look of savage anticipation told that this was what he had been hoping for. The challenge was one the cowpuncher could not decline, and he had no thought of it. The Burdettes had “framed” him, and he must go through with it. He smiled grimly at the thought that he had taught them to respect his gun-play.
“Forgot to put yore belt on, huh?” he said acidly. “Or mebbe yu remembered not to put it on. Anyways, yu played it safe.”
By this time games were forgotten, and the players were congregated in a circle round the two men. Willing hands pushed tables and chairs out of the way until a space was cleared for the contest. Excited voices offered and accepted bets and wrangled over the merits of the combatants. Most of those present favoured the bigger man, who was deemed the best rough-and-tumble fighter in that part of the country, and certainly the huge mass of him and the bulging muscles of his mighty limbs suggested that they were right. But a few studied the other with appraising eyes, noted the lean, wiry frame, remembered the swift, pantherish action of his body, and divined the steely sinews which rippled beneath his skin at every movement.
“He’s fit from the toes up—all bone an’ gristle—an’ Mart is too fat,” Weldon, the blacksmith, remarked. “Green looks like he’s fought afore too. I’ll take twenty to ten about him.”
“Go you,” replied the other. “Burdette’ll break him in two when he gits holt of him.”
“Yeah—when,” agreed the smith. “Well, he’s a-goin’ to have his chanct.”
For the puncher was unbuckling his belt and passing it
to Yago. The little man’s face expressed both anger and concern.
“Yu must be loco, Jim,” he whispered. “He’s big enough to swaller yu.”
“I’ll stick my elbows out, amigo,” Sudden smiled. “What yu want I should do—run away?”
Bill did not, and said so—ornamentally. “Couldn’t yu see they was layin’ for yu?” he asked testily.
“Shore, an’ they got me,” his friend said easily. “Ever hear o’ the biter bein’ bit?”
Yago apparently had not. “He’ll do that if he gits a chanct,” he returned seriously.
“Everythin’ goes, bar weapons, in this sort o’ scrap.”
Sudden’s face assumed a whimsical look of pity. “Bill, did yu ever have a grandmother?” he asked solicitously.
The little man stared at him. “I reckon so. Why?”
“Then I expect yu tried to instruct her in the art of extractin’ nutriment from an egg by means o’ suction,” his foreman said gravely, but his eyes were twinkling. “Now, keep yore hair on, Bill, yu can’t afford to lose any.”
“This ain’t no time for laughin’,” Bill snorted.
“Why not ol’-timer? Mebbe my face won’t be in no shape for it presently,” Sudden grinned.
A harsh, sneering voice stilled all the others. “If yu done dictatin’ yore last will an’ testyment, what ‘bout makin’ a start?”
Mart Burdette, eager for the fray, and confident of victory, stood waiting. He had discarded his vest, and the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt disclosed a powerful pair of arms in which the knotted muscles stood out as he clenched his fists and squared his shoulders. A stillness succeeded the hubbub as the puncher also removed his vest, slung his hat aside, and stepped forward. The physical disparity between the two men became more apparent as they faced one another in the cleared space.
“Two to one on Goliar,” shouted a would-be wit, whose early teaching had not entirely left him.
“Yu can double that an’ be safe,” the big man boasted. “I’m a-goin’ to show yu where this fella steps off when he ain’t got a gun.”
Dropping his head, he made a sudden plunge at his opponent. If he had hoped to take his man by surprise he was woefully disappointed, for the puncher slipped aside, drove a fist into the thick, corded throat, and stood waiting, a little smile of derision on his lips. Again and again Burdette, with lowered head, rushed in like a charging bull, and each time the other planted a vengeful blow and got away unhurt. These tactics did not suit the bulkier man’s backers; they saw that their man was making no progress, and moreover, it was not their idea of a battle. They were not slow to voice disapproval.
Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) Page 15