“I’m thankin’ yu,” Sudden said. “But what can I do?”
“Keep out’n his way,” Holt said eagerly. “you can hide—”
The grim smile stopped him. “Never look for trouble, son,” the puncher replied, “but when it’s lookin’ for yu there’s on’y one thing to do—stand up an’ face it.”
“But you ain’t got a chance—they say he never misses,” the lad urged.
“The best of ‘em is liable to slip up once, an’ that’s aplenty. It was right kind o’ yu to come.”
“You stood up for me,” Holt muttered, and, as he turned to go, “I hope you git him.”
“I hope I don’t have to,” Sudden replied gravely. Returning to the saloon, he declined to have his glass replenished, contenting himself with a cigar. He had no more than lighted it when the buzz of conversation abruptly ceased as a black-coated, stooping figure flung back the swing-door and walked slowly to the bar. The effect of his entry upon the company told that this was the man for whom they were waiting.
Sudden absorbed every detail as he advanced; the poor physique and malevolent features interested him not at all, but the one gun, slung on the left hip, did. It suggested a left-handed marksman, but the woman had warned him against the right. Moreover, the butt of the weapon was turned back instead of forward, as would have been the case had the wearer intended to use the other hand. He had seen gunmen who did that, but it was an awkward method. Then his eyes hardened and his teeth shut like a vice; he had solved the problem.
Meanwhile Butch had reached the bar and called for drink. He poured himself a modest dose, tossed it down his throat, and turned his half-shrouded, reptilian eyes upon the lounging form of his quarry, a few yards distant.
“What you think o’ this liquor?” he asked.
“Pretty good,” was the quiet answer.
“I say it’s damned bad,” Butch snarled. “So now what?”
“Matter o’ taste, I s’pose,” the cowboy said. “Anyways, I ain’t sellin’ it.”
A sinister silence ensued; gamblers ceased their games, and men forgot to drink as they watched a duel which they knew could end only in one way. The mild snub, however, had produced a snigger which died swiftly when Butch glared towards the spot from whence it came. Then he turned his rancorous gaze on the man he had undertaken to destroy.
“One o’ them funny fellas, huh?” he sneered. “You carry a couple o’ guns, too, I see.”
“Yore sight ain’t deceivin’ yu.”
There were professional gunmen who had to flog themselves into a fury to arrive at the point of killing; others simulated anger with the object of flurrying an opponent into a false move. Butch belonged to neither class; he slew with the cold deliberation of one pursuing his trade, and the inoffensive demeanour of his victim aroused in him merely a feeling of contempt. Sudden knew that a clash was inevitable but he would do nothing to provoke it.
“I’ve put ten hombres outa business an’ eight of ‘em toted a pair o’ sixes,” Butch announced loudly. “I allus call a two-gun bluff.” His frowning stare fastened upon the puncher.
“Shuck yore belt an’ git down on yore knees, you son-of-a—” he barked.
The insult was deadly, and every eye in the room turned on the man at whom it had been hurled, still leaning easily against the bar. Breathlessly they waited for him to speak. Tense seconds, pregnant with menace, ticked by, and then the lolling figure slowly straightened, as though to obey the shameful command.
“Gawd, he’s goin’ to take it,” whispered a card-player.
The neighbour to whom he spoke shook his head; the narrowed, ice-cold eyes were not those of a quitter.
“Yu can go plumb to hell,” the puncher said contemptuously.
Another silence, for the killer, too, had not expected defiance. Then he rasped, “I’m sendin’ you on ahead.”
Vicious face thrust forward, shoulders hunched, his left hand moved in the direction of his holster, but not swiftly. Sudden’s right, fingers outspread, was dropping over his gun-butt when the other’s right hand flashed upwards to his arm-pit, whipped a second weapon from beneath the black coat, and fired.
A woman’s scream was followed by a gasp of amazement from the spectators. They had heard but one report, yet it was Butch who lurched blindly, gave at the knees, and slumped heavily to the floor. One spasmodic attempt to raise the pistol still gripped in his nerveless fingers, and that was the end. Then they noticed that blue smoke was wisping from the cowboy’s left hip, and that there was a red streak along one cheek. Sudden gave a glance at the man he had been compelled to kill, sheathed his revolver, and wiped the warm smear from his smarting face.
“It ain’t but a scratch,” he said, when the saloon-keeper offered to tend it. “That was a cute move, goin’ for the other gun; it mighty near fooled me.”
Morbid curiosity brought the crowd pushing and jostling one another to get a glimpse of the dead man. Among them was Scar, who thrust a way through, took one look, and with a malicious leer at the cowboy, said: “I reckon the Chief’ll want to hear o’ this.”
“Yu needn’t to worry, Roden,” Sudden said quietly. “I’ll carry the news myself.”
“Since when do we take orders from you?” the fellow scowled.
“From now on,” the puncher retorted.
“I’ll see you in—”
He was given no time to finish. Sudden took a long stride, gripped his throat, shook him till his head rocked on his shoulders, and flung him away so forcibly that a table he collided with collapsed utterly. Lying amongst the fragments, he looked up into a blood-stained face, the fierce eyes in which conveyed a plain message. Scar read it, and having no desire to die, forgot that he had a gun.
“No ideas?” the cowboy gibed. “Yo’re shorely wise.” He faced the evil throng. “Listen: the Chief has put me in charge—after hisself. Any one o’ yu who ain’t satisfied can speak up now, an’ leave Hell City by sunrise.”
Deliberately turning his back, he stepped to the bar. He knew that if they chose to call his bluff he could be overwhelmed in a few minutes, but he was gambling on their fear of Satan, and now, of himself. Violence was the only argument they understood, and his prompt and savage scotching of Scar’s incipient mutiny would impress them more than anything else. No one spoke until that worthy arose from the debris of the table, and with a poor effort at a grin, said: “You win, Sudden; I’m stayin’ put. What the Chief sez, goes, for all of us, I guess; if he’s give you Butch’s job, there ain’t no more to say.”
The others appeared to accept this decision, and the cowboy nodded to the man behind the bar.
“Good enough,” he said. “The drinks are on me; we’ll celebrate my promotion.”
Scar drank with the rest, but Sudden had no faith in the ruffian’s submission. He had remained in Hell City because he was afraid to leave it, or, more possibly, to await an opportunity of squaring his account with one who had bested him three times. The body of the gunman was removed, and the saloon soon presented its customary appearance. The puncher remained for a while, and then, having bathed the graze on his cheek, went to see Satan.
“So you—won?” was the greeting he received.
“Not much of a guess, seein’ I’m here,” he replied.
“Only fools guess,” Satan said, his gaze dwelling on the livid mark of the killer’s bullet. “He almost got you.”
“I was a mite careless,” Sudden admitted. “Posin’ as a one-gun man an’ usin’ a hideout ain’t nothin’ new, but it would trick some.”
“Was it necessary to beat up Roden?”
“Shore, he was insolent. If I gotta handle these fellas they have to understand I can do it. Scar can figure hisself lucky not to be travellin’ the one-way trail after Butch; I was in the mood.”
The bullying air did not blind the bandit to the fact that this man who had beaten Butch might be a braggart, but was also dangerous, and likely to be—difficult. Yes, that was the word. Well, there were
ways … He glanced almost involuntarily at the picture behind which the dead gunman had stood only a few hours earlier. Sudden saw the look.
“Gives me the creeps, that paintin’ o’ yores,” he remarked. “Him there with his six-shooter trained on me allatlme. D’yu mind if I put a coupla pills through his eyes, just to show him?”
“I certainly do mind,” was the instant reply. “I have fondness for that canvas, it is a work of art, and bullet-holes wouldn’t improve it.”
Sudden laughed; he had noted the gleam of apprehension in the dull eyes, and it told him that his suspicion was correct—the Chief was well protected.
“Shucks, I was on’y joshin’,” he said. “Sold them steers I stole?”
Satan looked sharply at him, but the cowboy’s expression was serious. “Not yet, the beasts must be worked on first,” he replied.
“I’m pretty good at blottin’ brands.”
“No doubt, but that can wait—the herd is in a safe place. Are you short of money?”
“Not any,” Sudden assured him, adding with a grin, “Them Double K boys don’t know the first thing ‘bout poker.”
He came away from the interview conscious of two failures. The attack on Scar had been intended, mainly, to drive the man and his intimates from Hell City, thus weakening the bandit force. His enquiry about the cattle was inspired by the hope of a hint as to their whereabouts, but Satan was giving nothing away. Well, he must find them.
Others also were concerned about the stolen stock, though they knew where it was to be found. Roden, and his three shadows, sitting round a table in the saloon, were ostensibly playing poker, but the game was but an excuse for a conference. And, naturally, Sudden was the subject of the discussion.
“There ain’t room in Hell City for him an’ us,” Scar said. “We gotta down the—.”
“Yeah, an’ make a quick getaway,” Squint added. “Even if he don’t know—an’ there ain’t much he misses—the Chief will pin it on to us, an’ we ain’t too popular in that quartz just now.”
“For which we gotta thank that cursed cowpunch,” Coger said.
“We’ll thank him—our own way,” Scar growled. “I’d like to see Muley take the flesh off’n him in strips. The point is, we don’t wanta go empty-handed.”
“You said it all,” Daggs agreed. “The Chief must have a lot o’ coin hid up in his place. What about us interviewin’ him, strictly private, an’—”
Scar’s scornful laugh cut him short. “Ever seen him play with a gun? Thought not. I’m tellin’ you, he’s better than Butch or Sudden. One bright fella tried yore idea an’ was dead before he could pull. Besides, there’s allus Silver behind you. No, gents, that flea won’t jump. Also, I know a safer dodge—the cattle.”
Daggs, who was dealing, slapped the pack on the table with an expression of approval. “Scar, yo’re a great man,” he said. “There’s on’y them two Mex boys in charge.”
“Git the herd away to a safe place where we can lie doggo for a spell, change the brands, drive north, an’ sell,” Scar went on.
“The Chief’ll think the Double K has stole ‘em back,” Squint chortled. “Won’t he be wild?”
“That’s a good notion—we’ll make it look thataway,” Scar greed. “I’ll mosey over tomorrow an’ sound the Greasers—they’s pretty sore over Pedro gettin’ his. If they’ll throw in with us, we can use ‘em; it’s a big bunch to handle.”
“Shore is, but it means splittin’ the dinero six ways,” Coger objected.
“Does it?” the other retorted meaningly. “Four of a kind allus beats a pair.”
Which promised ill for the Mexican herders.
Chapter XVI
“Wonder what’s fetched that hombre out’n his blankets this early?”
Sudden, peering through the grimy panes of the saloon window, watched Roden ride past, evidently making for the western exit of the town.
“Looks like he’s changed his mind ‘bout leavin’ us after all. Anyways, time spent watching him won’t ever be wasted.”
Devoutly thankful for a meal already eaten, he secured his rifle and saddle, and in a few moments, was on his way. The guardian of the gate regarded him with respect and lost not an instant in opening; the man who had slain Butch was not to be kept waiting.
“Yep, Scar’s just ahead,” he said in reply to a question. “Which road? There ain’t but one till you come to the fork, an’ you’ll catch him afore then.”
The puncher had his own opinion about this, but he made a show of haste until the first bend afforded concealment, dropping then to a more leisurely pace; Scar had not appeared to be in any hurry. Fortunately for his purpose, curves in the trail—a mere shelf along the mountainside—were frequent, enabling him to approach his quarry unseen. Presently he saw that they were nearing the fork, the left prong of which headed westwards into the hills. Hidden behind a jutting spur of rock, he waited until Scar had swung into it, and then followed. It proved to be a mere bridle-track, winding amongst miniature mountains, through brush-cluttered ravines and thickets of birch and scrub-oak. Only at rare intervals did he get a glimpse of the man in front, but this did not worry him; the path was plain.
The miles fell behind and Sudden was beginning to speculate as to whether the ruffian was really bidding farewell to Hell City when he noticed they were climbing again. Through a break in the trees he could see that the ascent ended in a ragged rim of bare rock like the broken battlements of a great fortress, the approach to which was masked by a scanty covering of mesquite, catclaw, and other thorny growths.
He waited until he saw Scar disappear behind a boulder and then toiled laboriously up the slope. It took longer than he expected, for the trail twisted serpent-like around patches )f cactus, the dreaded cholla, its cruel spines glistening frostily in the sunshine. Arrived at the top, he saw a breach in the stone rampart, and through it, a scene which drew from him a low whistle of wonderment.
Before him lay an almost circular hollow, thickly carpeted with grass, and divided by a line of willows which indicated a running stream, from which the ground rose gently at first, and then steeply, to a saw-toothed ring of grey cliff. The place, as he learned later, was known as the Devil’s Bowl, and me look told him that it was an ideal spot from a rustler’s point of view. So the presence of a herd of cattle, grazing near _he water, did not surprise him. He was too far away to decipher the brands.
“Must be over five hundred head,” he muttered.
He watched Roden ride along the side of the valley to a log shack built in the shade of a group of pines, heard his hail, and saw two men run out to meet him. Their attire told him they were Mexicans, and the visitor appeared to be welcome, the more so when on dismounting, he produced a couple of bottles from his saddle-bags, for one of them slapped his comrade on the back. Seating themselves on a grassy bank outside the hut the three fell to drinking. Sudden could see no way of overhearing the conversation, and having learned what he wanted, left them to it.
Instead of taking the back trail he worked southwards round the Bowl, and presently, as he had expected, came upon a cattle-track leading up to another break in the wall of the valley. He noted that all the hoofprints pointed in one direction—towards the hiding-place; this was where the stolen steers had been brought in, and therefore … A humorous quirk creased the corners of his mouth as he urged his mount along the telltales traces.
“Step lively, Nig,” he said. “We’ve a fine chance to give Mister Satan a kick where he sits if that Twin Diamond fella ain’t dippy.”
For an hour he followed the trodden road, which ran through low hills like a carelessly flung rope, winding this way and that, to avoid obstacles likely to hinder the progress of a herd, and came to a broad stretch of powdery sand, the surface swept smooth by the wind; on the edge of this the hoofprints ceased abruptly.
This diminutive desert was not extensive, for he could see more hills and broken country on the far side, but it was big enough to make the task of fi
nding where the cattle had entered it a long and tiring one. The puncher decided it was not worth while, and skirting the arid area, headed for where he believed the Twin Diamond ranch to be. Mile after mile he rode, trusting to his plainsman’s sense of direction, and presently pulled up outside the dilapidated homestead. His shout brought its owner to the door, a pistol in one hand, an oily rag in the other. At the sight of the gun the visitor’s eyes narrowed.
“Just cleanin’ her up,” the rancher explained. “Thought I reckernized the hoss but there’s other blacks in this neck o’ the woods. Light an’ help yoreself to a seat.”
He laid his weapon on the bench as he spoke. Sudden got down and trailed his reins.
“Do yu allus clean a gun when she’s loaded?” he asked sardonically.
“Me, I’m a poor liar,” Merry laughed. “Fact is, I warn’t just lookin’ for yu to call—yu left us a shade abrupt the other night.”
“My neck suits me the way it is, an’ I don’t reckon Keith can improve it any.”
“Yu can take it I ain’t got no ambition thataway. What’s yore errand?”
“I thought mebbe yu’d like to get yore cows back.”
The other’s face grew hard. “Doublecrossin’ yore new boss, huh?” he said, and when the cowboy’s eyebrows rose, “Yo’re wearin’ his brand.”
“Shore forgot that, an’ yu’d better do the same—I ain’t explainin’,” Sudden shrugged. “If yu want the steers, I can tell yu where to find ‘em.”
“What’s yore price?” the rancher asked.
The puncher stood up. “I allowed yu had sense, which is why I took a chance an’ came here. Yu can go to blazes.”
“Wait a minute,” Merry cried. “I take that back. I guess I’m thick in the head as well as body, but I don’t savvy yore game.”
“Keith hired me to fight Hell City, an’ when things looked ugly he turned me down—cold,” Sudden pointed out. “I didn’t know about the rustlin’ till I heard it from him—as yu said just now, there’s other black hosses around. Well, he may be finished with me, but I ain’t finished with the fella who framed me.”
Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 07 - Sudden Rides Again(1938) Page 13