Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 06 - Sudden Gold-Seeker(1937)

by Oliver Strange

  “Mister Mason would not murder,” the girl insisted.

  “Gold alone makes existence possible in this wild corner of the world,” he replied. “A man must get it—somehow, or go under. How long does it take to reach this mine of yours, Phil?”

  “Less’n a day, the way we come back,” the old man told him. “Got lost a bit goin’—a-purpose.”

  “When we go we might take the ladies—make a change for them. What do you think?”

  “It’s fearsome country an’ there’s a chance o’ them red devils,” Snowy said dubiously.

  “They’d have to live rough.”

  “We shall be a strong party,” Paul argued.

  “You may count on us,” Lora broke in. “Thank you, Paul.”

  “It won’t be yet,” Lesurge laughed. “You’ll have time to exercise the privilege of your sex and alter your mind.”

  “Don’t hope for it,” she cried gaily. “Nothing could keep me from such an experience. Think of it, Mary; riding, hunting and searching for gold.”

  “Your occupation will be mainly preparing meals,” Paul bantered.

  “Then I’m sorry for you,” she retorted. “When I die someone will be the worst cook in the world.” Later, in the seclusion of her room, Mary Ducane tried—not for the first time—to analyse her feelings for Paul Lesurge. Handsome, well-dressed, and apparently cultured, he stood out among the uncouth, coarsely-garbed men who formed the major portion of Deadwood’s population—men who spent their days burrowing into the hillsides and their nights drinking and gaming away their gains. Though there were many sober, industrious citizens, she had not met them, which heightened Paul’s pre-eminence in her mind. When he chose, he could be charming, and, so far, she had not seen him otherwise. It was inevitable that she should be attracted, yet she had doubts. She remembered, rather angrily, that Gerry Mason’s peril had interfered with the beating of her heart.

  “After all, he was good to me on that horrible journey,” she told herself, well aware that did not explain it.

  Lora, she had to confess, presented a conundrum to which she could find no answer.

  Though she had been kind, Mary was always conscious of a barrier she could not penetrate. Her uncle she liked, despite his eccentricity, which she attributed to the hard life he had led.

  Gerry, having decided that he had enjoyed all the excitement he needed for one day, elected to spend the evening at home, Jacob having promised to instruct him in the game of chess. Sudden, who watched the opening game, grinned widely when, after a few moves, the old man called “Check,” and sat back with a quiet smile. Gerry studied the board with ludicrous surprise.

  “My King ‘pears to be throwed an’ hawg-tied; yore Queen has him cornered an’ if he takes her, that Bishop guy gets him at long range. I’m good an’ licked. Tom Bowman said this was a slow game; he ain’t seen you play.”

  “That was just a little trap for beginners,” Jacob confessed. “You could have defeated it by threatening my Queen with that Knight—can’t afford to lose her ladyship—she’s the most powerful piece of all.”

  “The King fella just loafs around an’ let’s all the rest, includin’ his lady, fight for him,”

  Gerry said. “I reckon the gent who made this game didn’t think a lot o’ monarchs.”

  “The game is the oldest known,” Jacob said. “It is believed to have originated in Hindustan….’ Sudden left them to it, and made his way—on foot, for once —to the Paris, the proprietor of which greeted him with a reproving shake of the head.

  “My fren’,” he said. “I no like to see you—alone.”

  “Gerry stayed in—Jacob is teachin’ him chess.”

  “Ver’ good—for him,” Bizet replied. “But for you …”

  “Shucks, I’m man-size,” Sudden smiled.

  The saloonkeeper did not laugh. “I know not’ing, but I am disturb’,” he said. “Go home, my fren’, an’ learn ze chess.” The cowboy shrugged. “I’m playin’ it right now, Bizet, an’ waitin’ for the next move.” It came sooner than he expected. Having joined a poker party for a while, he left early on the plea that he had been riding nearly all day, and was tired. Though close to midnight it was, for Deadwood, and in the local idiom, “just the shank of the evening.” Clamour reigned supreme. All the saloons and dance-halls were in full swing and the light from their windows made progress along the street possible for the pedestrian. But as the puncher neared home he became aware that the night was very dark, and he had to walk warily.

  He was less than a hundred yards from the cabin when, from a dense overhanging bush, a heavy weight dropped on his shoulders and the shock sent him to his knees. For an instant he fancied it was a bear, and then the fingers feeling for his throat told him otherwise. With a superhuman effort he staggered to his feet and managed to buck off the burden. But before he could get at his guns, other forms closed in out of the gloom and he had to use his fists. Right and left he struck, piston-like, short-arm jabs, delivered with all the vigour of perfect muscles, and a thrill of fierce exultation ran through him as he felt his knuckles impact on flesh and bone.

  It was too dark to see, but he knew that at least half a dozen men were trying to pull him down, and with berserk fury he flung his fists at them. Slipping in the loose dust, the tangled knot of humanity swayed to and fro, panting, cursing, and grunting when a random blow reached a billet.

  Suddenly conscious of hands clawing at his ankles, the cowboy swung his right foot back in a sharp kick and an agonized burst of profanity testified that the big spur had proved effective.

  But it was a costly success, for Sudden lost his balance and went down. Some of the assailants fell on him but the fight was not yet over. Utterly spent, with every sinew throbbing with pain, the cowboy battled on, striking, kicking, twisting in a hopeless endeavour to free himself. Then came a dull blow on the head and—oblivion.

  When he returned to the world again it was to find the sun shining. He was lying in a grassy glade hedged in by a thick growth of lodge-pole pines, and for a moment he could not comprehend. Then he realized that his hands and feet were bound; his chaps, Stetson and guns had vanished.

  “They seem to ‘a’ got me,” he muttered.

  He made an attempt to sit up and every bone in his body protested so violently that the pain drew an oath. Immediately a man appeared, to stand regarding him with satirical eyes through the slits of the bandana which concealed his face. His dress was that of a miner. “So you are alive?” he said. “Well, I’m glad.

  “I ain’t exactly sorry myself,” Sudden admitted, forcing his bruised lips to a difficult grin.

  “Don’t tell me I’m the on’y one in the hospital.” The man’s eyes hardened. “You ain’t,” he said harshly. “I’m allowin’ you damaged most of us, an’ Lem”—he paused, conscious of a blunder—“the fella you backheeled, has a cheek laid open an’ damn near lost an eye; kickin’ with a spur ain’t no way to fight.”

  “When six or seven men jump one in the dark anythin’ goes,” the prisoner returned bluntly. “I’m glad I marked him, case we meet again.”

  “If you do it’ll be in hell an’ you’ll have to wait—he’s young,” was the sinister reply.

  “Age doesn’t worry me none yet, an’ I never was scared o’ fair-haired fellas.”

  “He ain’t—” the man began, and stopped.

  Sudden laughed. “Lem, young, dark, with a scar on his cheek—why, I got his picture; yu needn’t tell me his other name.” With an unintelligible growl the fellow went away and, soon after, another appeared with food, took the rope from the prisoner’s wrists, and watched while he ate. This man was also masked.

  “Careful o’ yore complexions, ain’t yu?” the puncher said genially, and got no reply.

  “Mind if I roll some pills afore yu tie me up again?” Receiving a gruff assent, he got his “makings,” and constructed a supply of cigarettes. Then, with one between his lips and his back against a tree, he submitted to the repl
acing of his bonds, and was left alone. Though he felt easier, his body was still one big ache.

  Across the open space he could see a primitive erection of poles which provided some sort of shelter, and around a fire in front of it, four men were lolling. Completely closed in by the trees, with a sight only of the sky overhead, the puncher could not guess where he was nor why he had been brought there. The latter he was soon to learn, for presently, the man who had spoken to him first came over and squatted cross-legged a few yards away.

  “Well, I reckon it’s time we had a pow-pow,” he commenced. “Wonderin’ why we fetched you here, huh?”

  “I was admirin’ the view; ye just naturally ruin it,” the prisoner replied.

  “Gettin’ fresh won’t help you none, Sudden—we’ve drawed yore teeth. All we want is yore promise to take us to Ducane’s mine.” The cowboy’s face did not betray his surprise. So that was it? Despite the secrecy of their departure, it had been observed, and Snowy’s previous tall talk had given their expedition importance. This could not be Lesurge; someone else was taking a hand in the game.

  “Nice place yu got here,” he remarked pleasantly.

  “Glad you like it; yo’re liable to remain permanent unless you come across,” the other retorted grimly. He pulled a revolver from his waist-belt. “I’m givin’ you ten seconds.” The threatened man launched a perfect smoke ring at the levelled barrel. “Why waste time, hombre; let her rip,” he said.

  For an instant he thought the fellow would fire; he saw his grip of the butt tighten and steeled his body against the numbing shock of a bullet. But it did not come.

  “You’ve got nerve, Sudden,” the man admitted, as he replaced his weapon and stood up.

  “Mebbe we’ll find another way o’ persuadin’ you.” He slouched away and the prisoner leaned back against his tree; only just in time had the kidnapper remembered that a dead body could tell them nothing. But the prospect was not heartening—there would be other ordeals. Telling himself that it was no good climbing hills till you came to them, he went to sleep.

  A slight commotion in the camp awakened him some hours later. A man on a black horse had just arrived, leading another animal on which was a woman; her hands were tied behind and she was blindfolded. Amid deep-throated mirth, one of the gang lifted her from the saddle and removed the handkerchief; it was Lora Lesurge. He had but little time for speculation. The man who had threatened him with death brought the woman to where he sat.

  “Told you we’d find another way,” he jeered. “Here’s a friend o’ yores who’ll mebbe get you to see things different—for her sake. I’ll leave you to chew it over.” Lora sank down wearily; she was utterly exhausted. The supercilious, self-assured woman, serenely conscious of her charm had, for the time being, receded, leaving only a frightened girl.

  “God I never was so pleased to see anyone,” she cried. “But how come yu to be here?” Sudden asked.

  “I came to visit you—for Paul,” she explained. “I rode towards your claim, but before I reached it I heard a shot from up on the hillside, and just afterwards, a rider came out of some bushes ahead of me. Before I could utter a sound he gripped my throat and squeezed it till I lost consciousness. I recovered on the way here, to find myself packed like a piece of merchandise on the back of my horse.” Incredible as the story seemed, Sudden could not but believe it; those cruel, livid marks on the slender white neck were real enough. He had already decided that his leggings and hat had been taken for some purpose but it could not be this—they could not have known of the girl’s errand.

  “But why are you here?” she questioned, and, noticing the battered condition of his face,

  “What have they been doing to you?”

  “We had a li’l argument ‘bout my comin’,” the puncher told her, with a lopsided grin, “but there was too many of ‘em an’ they persuaded me.” He gave a sketchy account of his adventure, including—as an experiment—the question he had been asked. The result was disappointing; unfeigned admiration was all he could find in her face, and that was not what he wanted.

  “Why didn’t you promise?” she cried. “It isn’t your gold-mine.”

  “Snowy trusted me,” he said simply.

  “You could have taken them to the wrong place.” He looked at her quizzically. “Yeah, it don’t matter much where a fella is buried.” She was silent for a while, fighting to regain her self-control. Apparently she succeeded, for when the leader of the gang approached again she faced him boldly.

  “I suppose you know me?” she said, and when he nodded, “My brother will have a hundred men out searching, and if you are caught you will hang, every one of you.”

  “We’re givin’ you the shack,” he said gruffly. “Better turn in an’ git some sleep. I’ll speak with you in the mornin’.”

  “I prefer to stay here,” she replied.

  “Do I have to carry you?” he asked.

  “Good night—Jim,” she said.

  Chapter XIII

  Sudden’s disappearance caused consternation in the cabin of the gold-dealer, and Gerry’s first job in the morning was to interview Bizet. The proprietor of the Paris could only tell him that the puncher had left early, sober and alone.

  “I warn him to be careful,” he said. “He have made enemy, you understan’?” One or two men remembered meeting him in the street, heading for home, and that was all he could learn.

  On the way back from his futile quest, his plainsman’s eye noted the signs of a scuffle near the big bush, turf torn up, stones dislodged, and, in one place, a splash of blood. The ground behind was trodden flat and littered with cigarette stubs. A little way off, horses had waited. Gerry swore.

  “Damnation! They laid for him,” he growled. “I oughtn’t to ‘a’ let him go alone.” He tried to follow the hoof-prints, but soon had to give it up as hopeless. He returned to Jacob and told him what he feared.

  “He ain’t gone willin’—the marks show that,” he concluded. “An’ he’d never leave Nigger behind.”

  “We can only wait,” the old man said. “I’ve great faith in your friend; if he’s in trouble, he’ll get out of it.” But two days passed and there was no news of the missing man, and then Gerry got a shock. He was in the Paris, talking to Bizet and Hickok, when a half-drunken miner lurched up and said sneeringly:

  “Still mournin’ that pardner o’ your’n? Well, you needn’t to worry ‘bout him. He’s holed up somewheres handy an’ he’s the swine who’s killin’ an’ robbin’ we’uns of our dust, one at a lick.

  But mebbe I ain’t bringin’ you news?” For a moment the cowboy did not comprehend; then the full import of the accusation came to him, and he acted. His left fist swung out, caught the speaker full in the mouth and sent him sprawling on the sanded floor. When, spitting out curses and blood from badly gashed lips, he started to rise, he found Gerry’s gun slanted on him.

  “Own yo’re a liar,” the boy gritted, his face pale with fury. The blow and the threat sobered the miner. “Mebbe, but I’m on’y tellin’ you the common talk,” he said sullenly.

  Hickok put a hand on Gerry’s arm. “Let him get up an’ we’ll hear what he has to say,” he suggested.

  The man climbed to his feet. “There was a digger shot an’ cleaned out two days back an’ a fella wearin’ leggin’s, a ‘two-gallon’ hat, ridin’ a black hoss, was seen around just before,” he said.

  “This afternoon another is clubbed, an’ dies, but not before he’s able to say one word, ‘Sudden.’ Them’s fac’s, mister,” he concluded triumphantly.

  “My partner is not the killer,” Gerry retorted angrily. “I know Jim.”

  “You may, but there’s a-plenty in this city as don’t, an’ if he’s catched he’ll take the high jump, I’m tellin’ you. He wears the duds an’ rides a black.”

  “Which has been in Jacob’s corral the whole time,” the boy pointed out.

  “Havin’ bin left as a blind,” suggested a bystander, and earned a look from th
e gunman which sent him sidling towards the door.

  “I too know Green,” Hickok said loudly. “He is not the kind to commit cowardly crimes.”

  This pronouncement finished the discussion so far as the Paris was concerned, but in the other saloons the matter was being fiercely commented on and the puncher was already adjudged guilty and condemned. The only other topic which vied with it in importance was the disappearance of Miss Lesurge. At first Paul had accepted her absence with a quiet confident smile.

  “Lora can take care of herself,” he said.

  But when the second day passed and he learned that Green was also missing, he became uneasy, and sent out searchers to comb the district; they returned without news.

  “Mebbe they’ve run away to git hitched,” Snowy suggested. Paul’s eyes flashed, but he smiled. “Forty dollars a month wouldn’t keep Lora in shoe-leather,” he said. “But of course, he knows where your mine is.” The old man looked alarmed for a moment, and then replied stoutly,

  “Jim wouldn’t do a thing like that—he’s white.”

  “According to what they’re saying in town he’s as black as Satan’s soul,” Lesurge contradicted.

  Though he had scoffed at it, Snowy’s guess returned to him when he was alone, and brought a heavy frown to his brow. Pacing up and down the room, he weighed the pros and cons, and knowing Lora’s tempestuous nature, had to admit that it was possible.

  “She wouldn’t dare,” he muttered, and knew he lied.

  Meanwhile, in the kidnappers’ camp, the prisoners were playing for time. In the morning, their leader paid Sudden another visit, bringing the lady with him. The night’s rest, a wash in a nearby spring, a few deft touches to hair and dress, had transformed her into a different person, and the puncher saw admiration in their gaoler’s eyes when she greeted her companion in captivity with a gay smile. But the fellow’s voice was gruff when he asked:

  “Any new ideas this mornin’?”

  “Nary a one,” Sudden told him. “Yo’re what a friend o’ mine calls `stale-mated.’ Murderin’ me won’t get yu what yo’re after, an’ lettin’ me live won’t neither.”