Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933)

by Oliver Strange

  The elder brother unlocked the door, flung it open, and strode in.

  “Come to yore senses yet, Cal?” he asked harshly, and then paused in bewilderment.

  “Hell’s flames, he’s gone!” The strips of rawhide which had bound the prisoner caught his eye and he picked them up. “Clean cut,” he decided. “Who the devil can have knowed he was here?”

  Sim’s expression was ironical; had it not also been a blow for him he would not have been sorry to see his cocksure brother bested for once—that was the Burdette nature.

  “Someone musta trailed yu yestiddy,” he suggested, and his tone implied carelessness.

  “Brainy, ain’t yu?” sneered the other. “P’r’aps yu can tell who it was?”

  Sim nodded. “Our dear brother, for an even bet,” he replied, and pointed to the patch of sand in front of the door. “That footprint looks mighty familiar to me; Luce walks toed-in, like an Injun.”

  Instead of the explosion he expected there was a silence, and then King said slowly, “So it was Luce, huh? I shall have to deal with him.” Quietly as the words were spoken, there was a deadly purpose in them. “Meanwhile, we gotta find that cursed old fool again. Yu send that note off?”

  “Yeah,” Sim told him. “But I don’t like it, King; I guess yo’re goin’ the wrong way to work. If we can get the gold, why fuss about the C P?”

  His brother whirled on him. “Where d’yu s’pose the mine is, yu chump?” he asked. “I’ll tell yu: around Stormy—on C P land, an’ if it warn’t I’d still go after Purdie, crush an’ tromp him in the dust, him an’ his. Now d’yu understand?”

  Familiar as he was with King’s savage humours, the fierceness of this outburst surprised the younger man. Hard-shelled and devoid of scruple himself, material gain bulked greater in his eyes than mere revenge, but if both could be attained … His thin, cruel lips shaped into an ugly grin.

  “Suits me,” he said. “I ain’t lost any Purdies. What yu want I should do?”

  “We gotta search out Cal. Take a look at his shack—there’s just a chance he’s been dumb enough to go back. I’m for town, to see if I can get a line on him there. Yu’Il need to watch out; if them C P hombres catch yu snoopin’ round yu’ll likely stop lead.”

  “Can’t afford to do that—the fam’ly is gettin’ considerable thinned out,” Sim said grimly.

  “Yu reckon one of ‘em got Mart?”

  “I dunno—yet,” King replied darkly. “Somethin’ queer about that.”

  The younger man nodded agreement, swung into his saddle, and began to pick his way through the pines in the direction of Old Stormy. King slammed the door of the hut, locked it, and set out for Windy. Though he had not betrayed the fact, his mind was in a ferment of fury over the escape of the prisoner, and the knowledge that Luce had brought it about added fuel to the fire of his wrath.

  “Time that snake was stamped on,” he muttered.

  Sim’s reference to Mart recalled another mysterious taking-off, that of his father. Though he had, as part of his policy, openly blamed the C P for the killing, he did not actually believe it.

  Much as he hated Purdie, he knew him to be a fair fighter who would face his man and scorn to take a mean advantage.

  Curious glances greeted him as he rode along the street, his handsome features marred by a heavy frown. Local gossip held that King Burdette was taking the passing of his brother far too quietly, and was wondering when the fur would begin to fly. The marshal, peeping through his window, saw him pass, and grimaced at his broad back.

  “King, huh?” he gibed. “Knave would suit yu better, though mebbe yu won’t be no more’n a two-spot when it comes to a show-down.”

  The object of this malignant criticism dismounted at “The Lucky Chance” and went in.

  The place was empty, save for the proprietor, dozing behind the bar.

  “Howdy, Magee. Hot, ain’t it?” Burdette began. “Joinin’ me?”

  The saloon-keeper shook his head. “I’ve quit—waste o’ good liquor; ye sweat it out ‘fore ye know ye’ve had it.”

  The customer accepted the excuse—he knew it was but that—with a gesture of indifference. “Suit yoreseif,” he said. “Better not spread the notion about though; it might be bad—for trade.” He waited to let the covert threat sink in, and then, casually, “Any news o’ that miner who was missin’?”

  “Divil a whisper,” the Irishman said. “It sticks in me moind they’ve made away wid him.”

  “Mebbe Riley was right,” Burdette suggested slyly, anxious to make the other talk.

  “Mebbe he was not,” the saloon-keeper retorted. “I’d name that fella for a direct descindant o’ Mister Ananias. Yago saw Cal after Green had gone, an’ I’ve knowed Bill a consid’able whiles.”

  “Green’s his friend,” King persisted.

  “His foreman, which ain’t jist th’ same thing,” Magee corrected. “An’ the pair av thim is straight as a string.”

  “Takin’ sides with the C P, huh?” Burdette fleered.

  “I am not, but I ain’t takin’ orders neither,” Magee replied bluntly.

  King’s sallow face flushed at the open defiance, but he kept his temper. “No call to go on the prod, ol’-timer,” he laughed. “yo’re takin’ one order anyways—I want another drink.”

  The saloon-keeper pushed forward the bottle, but he was not deceived by this display of good nature; he knew quite well that the Circle B man would not forget the incident. But he was not scared; running a Western saloon in the bad old days was no job for a weakling. Burdette stayed a few moments longer, chatting casually, and then made his way to “The Plaza.” Here again customers were scarce, two miners wrangling over a game of seven-up representing the total. Lu Lavigne stretched a hand across the bar, sympathy in her dark eyes.

  “King, I’m so sorry—about Mart,” she said.

  “Shucks, whatsa use? I ain’t grievin’,” he returned callously. “I’d like to meet the coyote what did it, though.” His brooding brows came together. “Seen anythin’ o’ that fella Green lately?”

  She shook her head. “you are not suspecting him, are you?”

  Her apparent interest stung him. “Why not? He ain’t no shinin’ white angel, I’d say,” he gibed.

  “Don’t be childish, King,” she chided. “I don’t think he’d shoot a man from behind.”

  Her defence of the puncher added to his anger, and he struck back. “S’pose yu know why yu haven’t seen him?” he asked.

  She knew he was meaning to hurt, divined the evil in his mind, and it roused her to retaliate. “I expect he’s afraid of you, King,” she murmured, but her twinkling eyes belied the statement.

  The blow went home; she saw his jaw tighten and the fingers of his right hand bunch up; had she been a man he would have hit her. And then he laughed.

  “Mebbe yo’re right, but there’s a better reason,” he told her. “Green’s too busy runnin’ around after Nan Purdie to give yu a thought, my girl.”

  The effect of this assertion surprised him, for Mrs. Lavigne buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking convulsively. For an instant he was deceived—he thought she was weeping—and then she peeped at him between her fingers. Certainly the tears were there, but they were those of merriment.

  “Oh, you men! ” she gasped. “King, you’ll be the death of me one day.”

  The man glowed at her. “Yo’re damn right I will, if yu play tricks on me,” he growled.

  “Anythin’ funny about Green shinin’ up to Purdie’s gal?”

  “No,” she replied. “The amusing part is that you should think it mattered to me.”

  The tone and look which accompanied the words convinced him that he had made a fool of himself, and, strangely enough, restored his good humour.

  “Aw, well, take it I’m plain jealous,” he said placatingly. “Yu know I think a lot o’ yu, Lu.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she teased, and with a smile, “What did you come to find out?”

 
; “I came to see yu,” he replied, and when she emphatically shook her sleek head, added, “I was certainly meanin’ to ask if yu’d heard any tidin’s o’ California?”

  “I haven’t. Goldy Evans was in last night, and he thinks the old man is being kept prisoner somewhere.” King’s eyebrows went up. “Whatever for?”

  “Goldy’s idea is that Cal has struck it rich and is being held until he tells.”

  Though she spoke casually, the man was aware that she was watching him, and schooled his features to indifference; King Burdette had abundant self-control when he chose to exercise it. Inwardly he was wondering how a theory so near the truth had got abroad, and cursing Riley for a chatterbox. With a careless shrug he said:

  “Pretty far-fetched notion. My guess would be that the buzzards has picked the old boy’s bones by now. When yu goin’ to pay that visit to the Circle B, Lu?”

  She slanted a mischievous look at him. “Some day—when you’re not there; I’ll learn all your secrets then.”

  “Do that an’ I’ll have to keep yu there—a prisoner,” he threatened. “Think yu’d like it?”

  “I don’t know—yet,” she smiled, and then, as more customers came in, “Now I’ve got to be busy, if your Majesty will excuse me.”

  She bobbed an impudent curtsey and tripped away to serve the newcomers. King lingered a moment and then went out. Some of the men greeted him, but others took no notice, which brought the scowl back to his face. He was realizing that since the advent of Green the dominance of the Burdettes had seriously suffered. He cursed the citizens contemptuously, promising himself that he would whip them to heel when his hour of triumph arrived. Then he almost collided with Riley.

  “Want yu,” he said shortly. “What’s this talk in the town of Cal strikin’ it good an’ bein’ held till he opens up?”

  “Ain’t heard it,” the man replied.

  “Well, I have, an’ they got the story pretty straight. Yu been yappin’?”

  “Is it likely? My neck’s long enough—I don’t want it stretched none,” the cowboy lied stolidly.

  “Which it will be if this town learns the truth,” King assured him. “Where is Cal?”

  Riley stared at him. “How in hell should I know? Yu took him off yoreself.”

  “He’s got away,” Burdette informed him, and added a few particulars.

  “Damnation! Yu lost him,” the cowboy cried, and there was consternation in his voice.

  “Then he’ll know …”

  “Shucks, anybody could use that shack, an’ he thinks it was Green put him there,” King said mendaciously, unwilling to let the man know too much. “Point is, who’s got him now? He ain’t showed up in Windy. Sim reckons it was Luce—claims he recognized a footprint. Yu better keep tabs on him; we gotta find the of devil.”

  He swung away. Riley waited until he saw him riding the eastern trail, and then dived into Slype’s quarters. The marshal heard his story in silence, and then said.

  “Wonder if he’s double-crossin’ yu?”

  The same suspicion had already occurred to the Circle B rider—it was what he would have done himself—but he shook his head.

  “My hunch is he was givin’ me the goods,” he said. “Someone has stole a march on him, an’ likely enough it was Luce. I’m a-goin’ to sleep on that young fella’s trail.”

  The marshal nodded. “If yu find out anythin’, Riley, come to me,” he urged. “King Burdette couldn’t act straight if he wanted to, which he never does. Yu an’ me can put this through together. Sabe?”

  Riley agreed, not that he had any illusions regarding the honesty of the marshal, but he believed that, of two rogues, he was choosing the lesser. Also, he wanted the officer’s protection against Green, who might, at any moment, become actively hostile. Riley had courage, but it was the kind that requires the odds to be slightly in its favour, and he knew his limitations. For instance, he would never have dreamed of drawing a gun upon Whitey, and therefore the prospect of a “run in” with the slayer of the Circle B gunman aroused no enthusiasm in his breast.

  Chapter XIX

  To Nan Purdie, loping along the trail to the valley, the world would have looked very good indeed had it not been for the shadow of the recent tragedy and the trouble likely to come of it. The slanting rays of the sun were not yet too hot for comfort, and a light breeze, spicy with the odour of the pines, stirred the foliage and dappled her pathway with moving patches of shade.

  Birds twittered in the trees, squirrels chattered, and a tiny stream sang as it merrily danced down the hillside.

  Conscious as she was of the beauty around her—for she loved the land she lived in, and its many phases were a never-ending source of delight—yet she was not thinking of it. Her mind was dwelling on a certain glade, and a man she sometimes met there. She had not visited the spot since the day Luce had delivered her from his brother. Somehow this morning the handsome, insolent, debonair face of the eldest Burdette would intrude. The warm glow which filled her heart when she thought of Luce changed to a cold fear when her mind reverted to the other. A shrill, treble voice from behind brought her back to realities.

  “Hi, Miss Nan!”

  She pulled up her pony and turned; shambling along the trail in pursuit of her came a boy of twelve. Speed was a matter of difficulty, for the trodden-over boots into which the tops of his ragged pants were thrust had been originally the property of a grown man. Nan recognized the broad, freckled face, with its tousled head of tow-coloured hair, as belonging to a lad who did odd jobs at the hotel.

  “Why, Timmie, what has brought you into this neck o’ the woods?” she smiled.

  “I was headin’ for the ranch,” the boy explained, “An’ was havin’ a rest—guess I dozed some”—rather sheepishly. “See yu go by an’ took out after yu. These blame’ boots warn’t made for runnin’—none whatever.”

  “But you haven’t walked, have you?”

  “No’m, got the mare back in the brush—Turkey said for me to borry her.” ‘Turkey’ was the name by which McTurk, the proprietor of Windy’s one hotel, was universally known. “She ain’t much, but she was a good cow-hoss once, an’ we all gotta git old, I reckon,” the boy added philosophically.

  Nan divined the working of the youthful mind. “Quite right of you to give her a rest,” she told him. “But why were you going to the ranch?”

  Timmie’s face opened in an expansive grin. “Well, darn my whiskers if I warn’t near forgettin’; I’ve brung this for yu.” He dived into his one sound pocket and produced a somewhat crumpled and soiled envelope. “Turkey tol’ me to give it when yu was alone; I reckon I’m some lucky meetin’ up with yu.”

  The girl took the missive, saw that it bore her name and was marked “Private.” A suspicion as to the identity of the sender fetched a warm flush to her cheeks, the effect of which the boy noted.

  “She’s as purty as a spotted pup,” was his unspoken criticism.

  Somewhat to his disappointment, she tucked the letter unopened into the pocket of her shirt-waist.

  “Mebbe there’s an answer,” he suggested.

  “Then I’ll send one of the boys in with it,” Nan smiled. “Now, Timmie, you must thank Mister McTurk for the trouble he has taken, and…”

  The boy looked at the coin she slid into his hand.

  “Shucks, Miss Nan, I don’t want no pay doin’ things for yu,” he protested manfully, for the sum was more than he earned in a week.

  “That isn’t pay, Timmie,” the girl explained. “It’s just a little present—something to buy cartridges with, so that you can kill that thieving old coyote I’ve heard about.”

  For Timmie’s mother was trying to raise chickens, a difficult proposition in a land where those lean grey prowlers of the night were prevalent. The boy brightened up—this altered the case; the money was bestowed where the letter had been.

  “Yessir—miss, I mean; an’ I bet I’ll git that of pirut nex’ time,” he said, and pulling a lock of hair—he had
no hat—he went whistling cheerfully in search of the mare.

  Nan rode on and presently pulled out the mysterious missive, studying it. She did not know the writing, but then, the man she had instantly thought of had never written to her.

  Tremulously she tore upon the envelope; the note inside appeared to be no more than a hurried scrawl, in pencil.

  “DEAR NAN,

  I am leaving the country—can’t stand it any longer. Will you be at the old place to-morrow morning? Please come; I got to see you before I go.

  LUCE.”

  For a moment the girl thought her heart had ceased to function. He was going away—she would never see him again. In that instant she comprehended what this enemy of the Purdie family had come to mean to her. Though he had never spoken of it, she knew that Luce cared, and now, she too…. Hopeless as it all was, Nan felt that she must see him. Impulsively she swung off the trail, turning her pony’s head in the direction of the glade.

  It did not take her long to reach the place; one glance told her no one was there, and her feeling of disappointment frightened her; life without Luce was going to be harder than she had feared. Trying to account for his absence, she remembered that no time had been specified. Also, the writer could not have foreseen that his messenger would meet her on the way, thus enabling her to reach the glade earlier than he might expect. She decided to wait; that such an act might be unmaidenly did not occur to her frank, open nature.

  Seated upon the fallen tree, she took out the note again; it was the nearest approach to a love-letter she had ever received, and a sad little smile trembled upon her lips as she read and re-read it. So absorbed was she that a faint rustling of the bushes behind failed to attract her attention —until too late. She turned only to encounter a blackness which blotted out the sunshine, and the suffocating folds of a blanket which was being drawn around her head. At the same moment her wrists were gripped, forced together, and tied. Then, despite her resistance, she was dragged along the ground, lifted to the back of a horse, which, following a gruff command, began to move.