With a sinking heart she divined that she had fallen into a trap, baited by a letter which was not from Luce. Who were the abductors? A sudden chill came over her as she remembered that only one man knew of their meetings in the glade. King Burdette! She recalled his threats and his hatred for her father; it could be no other. One grain of comfort presented itself—her lover was not leaving the country.
She had no means of ascertaining where she was being taken, but the fact that her mount swished through long grass, slipped and slithered down stony declivities, and that branches brushed against her body, indicated that they were travelling a new or little-used route.
Occasionally, when a mis-step on the part of her steed caused her to sway in the saddle, a hand gripped her arm. She gathered that there were several in her escort, but they spoke little, and then only in low tones so that words and voices were indistinguishable.
Nearly choked by the stifling folds of the blanket and wearied by the constant effort to stay in the saddle, the ride proved exhausting enough to the prisoner. At length, however, it came to an end. Lifted down, she was led into a building, up some stairs, and, following a curt order, subsided upon a seat of sorts. Then the blanket was removed and she looked into the grinning, triumphant face of King Burdette. He bowed mockingly.
“Welcome to the Circle B, Miss Purdie,” he said. “The invite was a trifle pressin’ mebbe, but it shows how eager we were to have yu.”
The girl faced him with stormy, undaunted eyes. “What do you expect to gain by this outrage?” she asked.
“Just everythin’ I want, honey,” he replied. “An’ that, o’ course, includes yu.”
Her gesture was contemptuous. “You must be mad,” she told him. “How long do you think you can keep me here without it being known, and what will the men in town do to you when they hear?”
He smiled. “I ain’t aimin’ to make a secret of it, an’ the fellas won’t do a thing when they hear that yu came of yore own accord,” he said.
“Do you imagine they’ll believe that lie?”
“Why not? Yu won’t be able to tell ‘em any different. When yo’re my wife Her scornful, incredulous laugh moved him, but his face showed no sign of it. His insolent, appraising eyes travelled over her from head to foot, taking in the supple slimness of her rounded form, the youthful beauty of her features, weighing her up as he might have done a horse he contemplated buying. Under that searching scrutiny Nan felt the hot blood flame in her cheeks; she could not know that beneath his cold exterior the man’s heart was pounding with passion, and that she had never been in greater danger. Burdette nodded slowly as he continued :
“That is, o’ course, if I decide to concede yu a ceremony,” he said carelessly. “So far, it hasn’t been my custom, but in yore case it may suit me, even though yu are a Purdie.”
If he expected this outrageous insult to cow the girl he was woefully mistaken. Nan came of a fighting stock—the daughter of a woman who had dared the dangers of the wilderness and fought Indians side by side with her man, was not of the breed to scare easily.
“You unspeakable beast,” she cried, and the disgust in voice and look roused a demon of rage in him.
“Yu said it,” he snarled. “I’ll make that good.”
With the speed of a striking snake his arms shot out, clutching her round the waist, raising and drawing her writhing form to his. In that grip of steel she was well-nigh powerless, but as the leering, lustful face neared her own she lifted her bound fists and brought them down full upon it. She expected he would kill her, but King Burdette only laughed in savage glee.
“That’s the spirit,” he cried. “Fight, my beauty, fight; I love yu for it. I don’t give a damn for woman or hoss without some devil.”
A quick snatch with his left hand imprisoned her wrists, forced them down, and she was helpless. Sick with horror, she felt his hot lips bruising her own, and then, as her body went limp in his grasp, he flung her from him so violently that she staggered and fell. For some seconds he stood over her, his hands clenched convulsively, battling with the desire which turned his blood to liquid fire. Then he laughed again, contentedly.
“That’ll do—for now,” he told her. His hand went to his face, wiping away a little smear of red. “Yu ain’t begun to pay for that yet, but yu will; no man or woman ever struck King Burdette an’ got away with it.”
He went out, and she heard the key turn in the lock. Then despair claimed her and for long she lay sobbing on the floor.
It made a charming picture, the shadowy dell with its green carpet gaily spangled with flowers and slashed with golden light where the sunbeams penetrated the leafy branches overhead; the saddled pony, reins trailing, contentedly nibbling the grass, and the seated girl, arranging a lap-full of blossoms and crooning an old Mexican love-song. It was her voice that had drawn the C P foreman from the trail, and for a little he sat watching her, before riding forward. Not until he reached her did she look up, and then she was prettily surprised.
“Why, it ees my so brave deliverer of distressed damsels,” she cried. “But thees time, senor, my pony no run away.”
The puncher grinned. “Yu look a heap younger out here, but that ain’t no reason for the baby-talk,” he said.
“But, how ungallant,” she reproached, “to accuse a lady of speaking childishly. Senor, I thought better of you.”
“It’s somethin’ that yu thought of me a-tall,” he retorted, and brought a tinge of colour into her softly-brown cheeks. “Yu have some right pretty blooms there.”
“I love flowers,” she said. “I think they’re so—pure.” She held up a Spanish bayonet, with its sheaf of creamy, waxen blossoms. “Doesn’t look dangerous, does it? Yet see what I got when I gathered it.” She pointed to a scratch on her slender wrist.
“I reckon every livin’ thing has to fight some way orother for existence,” Sudden smiled.
“An’ Nature provides the weapons accordin’. Roses has thorns, cats has claws”
“And poor woman?” she queried.
“Has a tongue—an’ it’s aplenty,” he finished.
She stood up, letting the flowers fall, and regarded him in mock displeasure. “I don’t think you are a bit nice,” she decided. “As a punishment I shall inflict my company on you for a while.”
Before he could get down to help her she was in the saddle, moving with a swift, easy grace, and sat there smiling.
“Li’l Miss Tenderfoot is shore learnin’,” she said, copying his own slow drawl, and set her pony moving.
“Shore is,” he agreed, and swung Nigger beside her.
Silence held them for a time, the girl covertly studying this long, supple young man with the spare, bronzed face and smiling eyes which, on occasion, could become ice-cold and deadly in menace. She admired the careless confidence with which he sat his mount, reins hanging loosely, the slightest pressure of a knee seeming sufficient to guide the animal. His eyes too were busy. She rode well, her body swaying in rhythm with her pony’s movements. She caught one of his admiring glances, and again the red blood stained her cheeks. She spoke hastily:
“I hope you haven’t been swimming again?”
The corners of his mouth puckered up. “I’m game to try anythin’ once, but I ain’t a hawg,” he replied. “As a bathin’-pool the Sluice is certainly over-rated.”
“I went to see it—a horrible place,” she said, and shivered. “I can’t understand how you ever got out.”
“I had a good friend,” Sudden said simply.
“Yes, Mister Yago, wasn’t it? I think it was fine of him. Some men would have left you there in the hope of getting your job.”
“Bill can have that, or anythin’ else I got—there’s no limit,” was the calm reply.
She knew he meant exactly that; his life even was included in the sweeping statement; it was no mere figure of speech. Though the words were spoken casually there was an undercurrent of feeling which carried conviction.
“Yet
you haven’t known him long,” she mused.
He shot a sharp look at her, wondering if there was anything behind the remark. “Yu don’t have to,” was his noncommittal reply.
Again the conversation halted. She was considering him, curious to know something of his past. The long stirrup-leathers, which left the rider nearly standing, told of California, while the braided rawhide lariat and heavy Visaliatree’d, single-cinch saddle spoke eloquently of Texas. He talked like a Texan too, but there were times when his voice dropped to a low, indolent drawl, reminding her of a man from Virginia whom she had known. Impatiently she shook her head; she could not place him. Watching her eyes, he had divined what was in her mind.
“I was raised in Texas an’ used to ride ‘Pache fashion, knees up,” he offered. “I reckon this is more comfortable.”
Mrs. Lavigne put a blunt question. “What brought you here?”
“A restless nature an’ this black lump of iniquity I’m a-top of,” he answered lightly, patting the neck of his mount.
She saw that he was not to be drawn, but she tried again.
“The handsome stranger falls in love with his employer’s daughter, rescues her from deadly peril, marries her and lives happy ever after,” she bantered.
The picture drew unrestrained merriment from her companion. “This ain’t no dime novel,” he pointed out. “The lady ain’t liable to be in deadly peril, an’ her affections unless I’m mistook—is already corralled. As for the ‘handsome stranger’ “—he grinned joyously as he repeated the phrase—“he’s got a job that’ll keep him driftin’ mebbe for years.” The mirth died out, his face grew hard as granite, and his next words were spoken more to himself than to her, “I gotta find two men before I think of—one woman.”
In that single flash the girl saw a phase of him she had not suspected—the careless, good-humoured cowboy had suddenly become a grim, relentless instrument of vengeance. There was death in the chilled gaze—death for those two men. She could not repress a shudder. The sardonic voice of the puncher recalled her straying thoughts.
“Shucks, I’m talkin’ like a dime novel my own self,” he reproved, and then, “What’s been happenin’ here?”
They were passing through the glade which had been the scene of Nan’s capture, and the foreman’s keen eyes had at once noted the hoof-torn, trampled grass near the prostrate tree. He slid from his saddle to examine the marks more closely, but they told him nothing save that a struggle had taken place. Then he picked up a crumpled scrap of paper—the note the girl had received, which had fallen unnoticed from her hand when she had been overpowered —and read it with knitted brow. In the bushes at the back of the fallen tree he found traces of waiting riders.
Lu Lavigne watched him wonderingly, but asked no question, thereby raising herself in his estimation.
“Somethin’ queer ‘bout this,” he remarked, as he mounted again. “I’ll have to see Purdie right away. Do yu reckon yu can find yore way back?”
She looked at him, and the dark eyes were a shade reproachful. “You don’t trust anyone overmuch, do you?” she said.
“This ain’t my business,” he evaded. “I’m real distressed I can’t see yu on yore way.”
And since he very evidently meant it, she smiled and again mimicked his own speech.
“Li’l Miss Tenderfoot can take care o’ herself, I reckon, partner,” she said.
With a wave of her hand, she whirled her pony and trotted down the trail. His gaze followed the trim form until it vanished amid the trees.
“Partner,” he mused. “Yu’d shore make a staunch one too.” And then, “Hell, I’m gettin’ soft in the head. Shake a bit o’ life into them legs o’ your’n, Nig; we got no time for dreamin’.”
He reached the ranchhouse only to find that Purdie was out on the range. An inquiry for Nan elicited the fact that she had gone out early for her morning ride and had not returned for the mid-day meal; the cook, who supplied the information, had to admit that this was unusual.
“She mighta gone to town,” the foreman suggested, but the kitchen autocrat negatived the notion; on such occasions she always asked if supplies were needed. All the same, Sudden sent Curly to Windy, and sat down to wait for his employer. It was two hours later that Purdie came in and learned of his daughter’s absence. At first he appeared little concerned.
“Nan was raised here, an’ she knows the country,” he said. “Happen her hoss has played out on her.”
But his attitude altered abruptly when the foreman produced the scrap of paper and told how and when it had been found. Purple with passion, Purdie slammed one fist into another.
“That skunk writin’ to Nan, an’ askin’ her to meet him?” he stormed. “By God, I’ll…”
“Slow down, Purdie, we don’t know that Luce Burdette sent that note,” Sudden said quietly. “I’ve a hunch it’s more serious than just a love affair.”
“Nothin’ could be more serious than my girl’s carryin’ on with one o’ that crowd,” the old man said savagely. He pulled out his gun, spun the cylinder to make sure it was in order, and said grimly, “Get me a hoss, Jim.”
The foreman saw that in the rancher’s present state of mind, argument would be useless.
When he returned, riding Nigger and leading another horse, he found the cattleman striding up and down the verandah.
“No call for yu to come,” he said. “I don’t need help to kill a snake.”
“I’m goin’ along,” Sudden said firmly. “If Luce had anythin’ to do with this business I’ll not interfere, but I’m thinkin’ different; that boy may be a Burdette, but he’s a white one.”
The rancher snorted his disbelief, climbed into the saddle, and sent his pony down the trail on a dead run. The trip to town was accomplished in silence. The elder man was too full of anger to talk, and the younger’s mind was busy with the problem of what had happened in the glade. It was possible that Luce and the girl had cut the knot of their perplexities by running away together, but they would scarcely have left the tell-tale note behind, and there would have been no indications of a struggle, or of hidden riders. If Luce had not written the note…
Daylight had departed when they reached Windy, and the town was a blur in which occasional blotches of pale light from a window here and there only served to accentuate the surrounding gloom. From “The Plaza” came the tinkle of a guitar and the chorus of a cowboy ditty; behind a cabin the dismal howl of a dog ended in a yelp of pain and a curse of content as some unseen sufferer hurled a rock successfully. Outside the saloons, rows of patient ponies announced that the usual evening entertainments had commenced. The C P pair dismounted at the hotel and inquired for Luce.
“He rid out this mornin’, an’ I ain’t seen him since,” McTurk informed them. “No, his war-bags is in his room.”
The rancher’s face grew darker. “Think he’s at ‘The Lucky Chance’?” he asked.
“Guess not,” was the reply. “He’d have put his hoss in the corral, an’ it ain’t there; thinks a lot o’ that grey, he does.”
“We’ll be back,” Purdie said. “If young Burdette shows up —”
“Who wants me?” a quiet voice asked.
The man they were seeking had just entered; his tired, listless face hardened when he saw the elder of the visitors. Sudden stepped forward.
“Luce, can we have a word with yu—private?”
The boy led the way upstairs, lighted the lamp in a small sitting-room, and then faced them.
“Well, Jim, what is it now?” he asked wearily.
The foreman came to the point at once. “Is that yore writin’, Luce?” he questioned, and placed the pencilled note before him.
Burdette read it with widening eyes. “No, it ain’t,” he said immediately, “but it’s a pretty fair imitation.”
“Yu didn’t write or send it?” Sudden persisted.
“I did not,” was the reply. “I wouldn’t have the nerve anyway. What’s it all mean?”
> “We’re tryin’ to find out,” the foreman explained, and told as much as they knew.
On the boy’s face as he listened, bewilderment, suspicion and anger displayed themselves in turn. Even Purdie, prejudiced though he was, could not doubt his ignorance. But another aspect of the matter was rankling in the rancher’s mind.
“Why should a writin’ from yu fetch my gal to this place?” he asked. “Yu met her there afore?”
“Two-three times—allus by chance,” Luce admitted, and then looked the old man squarely in the face. “See here, Purdie, I’m ownin’ to bein’ in love with yore daughter, an’ that’s why I couldn’t pull on yu a piece back, but if yu think there’s anythin’ between us yo’re insultin’ her. I’d give my life to keep her from harm, but whether she cares for me I dunno; we never had no love-talk. She once said, in my hearin’, that she could not marry a Burdette.”
“She told yu that?”
“No, she said it to King; I was present. Things bein’ as they are, yu may as well hear it all.”
He went on to describe what had taken place at his last meeting with Nan in the glade, and the father’s hard face grew grimmer and his fingers knotted into fists as he heard the story.
“She never let out a word,” he muttered.
“Why should she?” Luce asked bitterly. “Warn’t there trouble enough a’ready between yore family an’ mine?”
“An’ yore guess is that King has carried her off?” the foreman queried.
“Who else?” the boy retorted. “He alone knew of our friendship—must ‘a’ seen us there one time, an’ he’d have some o’ my writin’ to copy. This must be the move he was talkin’ about to Sim.” A hot gust of rage shattered his control. “By heaven, if he hurts a hair of her head I’ll kill him, brother though he may be.”
Chris Purdie stood up. “Yu won’t have to,” he said, and his voice was cold, passionless, set with resolve. “If Nan is harmed I’ll send King Burdette to hell myself. Jim, we’ll go get the boys an’ clean up the Circle B right now.”
Luce shook his head. In the last few moments he seemed to have sloughed his youth, and when he spoke it was with the assurance of a man speaking to men.
Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) Page 19