Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 07 - Sudden Rides Again(1938)

by Oliver Strange

  “Colonel, thisyer town is mighty pleased to see you lookin’ peart. Here’s hopin’ yore thirst won’t never git ahead o’ you.”

  “An’ that’s whatever,” chorused the six or seven other citizens, while the saloon-keeper thumped the bar enthusiastically, pride in his old master transforming his face into one huge grin.

  The Colonel bowed graciously. “My friends,” he began. “I am—”

  A harsh laugh halted him. From the doorway, a man dressed as a cowboy swaggered in, followed by half a dozen others, all of them—save the leader—gun in hand. Sam, the only one facing the street, had seen the intruders first; his smile vanished as though wiped off with a sponge, dismay taking its place. He knew them: Scar Roden and his two remaining rogues, three other Imps, and the sinister form in front, the mask beneath the slouched hat concealing all but the eyes and lips. Like men turned to stone the citizens stared at the red-badged rascals, conscious that a single hostile movement would start a slaughter. The negro made an effort to avert a catastrophe. Twitching the rancher’s sleeve, he stammered :

  “Yo done promised to speak to Mandy, sah. If yo step roun’—”

  The look he received struck the rest of the sentence from his lips. The Colonel drew himself up, and in a steady voice, said, “My friends, I thank you. It is our custom on these happy occasions to toast the prosperity of Dugout. We shall still be doing that if we drink to the utter destruction of that robbers’ roost, Hell City.”

  He raised his glass, but before he could sample the contents, a bullet shattered it; with one movement the masked man had drawn and fired, and now stood, his teeth uncovered in an ugly snarl, the smoking gun in his hand. The Colonel dropped the remaining fragment, drew out a kerchief to wipe his fingers, and said calmly: “The same again, Sam.”

  The hoarse tones of Roden issued a warning. “Stay put, you fellas; I ain’t breakin’ glasses.”

  With a terror-drawn face the negro mixed the drink, his hands trembling so violently that he spilled the liquor. When at length it was completed, the rancher slowly raised the glass, drank, and set it back on the bar. The man in the mask laughed mockingly.

  “Shakespeare said, `All the world’s a stage,’ and you never forget it,” he taunted. “A real man would have shot me down.”

  “I had the misfortune to bring you into the world, and I prefer that the hangman should help you out of it,” was the barbed retort.

  “You’ll never live to see it.”

  “So you have come to murder me? Well, it should round off your record nicely—a parricide.”

  The unruffled demeanour and biting sarcasm seemed to flog the younger man into a fury. “By Christmas !” he cried. “And who is responsible for that record? The stiff-necked slave-driver who treated his son as he did the black-skinned brutes whose bodies and souls he used to traffic in, and when the boy rebelled, disowned and drove him to desperation. Damn you, I’m no son of yours, and if ever it appeared so, your wife must have had a lover.”

  At this infamous aspersion on the dead woman he had worshipped the Colonel’s face became livid. He bent forward, as though about to spring upon the traducer, his gaze seeking to penetrate the blood-red mask.

  “You lying, foul-minded hound,” he almost whispered. “Son or no son—” He stopped and shook his head. “Pull your gun, you—” the other raged.

  The venomous insult failed. With a look of utter disdain, the rancher stood back and folded his arms. Instantly Satan fired, and the spectators saw the old man stagger under the impact of the heavy slug, clutch blindly at the bar, and fall prone on the floor. So swiftly had the tragedy happened that for a moment no one stirred. Then the black man, with a howl of grief, flung himself beside the body.

  “Stand back everybody,” Satan barked. “You can’t help him, you scum. He got what he asked for; if he hadn’t gone for that shoulder-gun—”

  The negro looked up; sorrow had made him reckless. “He ain’t wearin’ none—neber knowed him to,” he cried brokenly.

  The slayer ignored the remark, gazing with horrible satisfaction at the still form of his victim. He turned to Jansen.

  “I suppose I can trust you to see to the burying,” he said. “If not, I’ll—”

  “We’ll fix it,” the store-keeper replied, adding with bitter emphasis, “You’ve done yore part.”

  “Don’t be insolent,” Satan snapped. “I’m the rightful owner of the Double K now, and—”

  “You can take yore damned custom somewhere else,” Jansen retorted bluntly. “I reckon that goes for all of us; Dugout can get along without stolen money.”

  “You bet it can,” Naylor chimed in, and the others nodded assent.

  The bandit’s fists clenched, and his men waited for the word which would set guns roaring and turn the place into a shambles. But it did not come.

  “Dugout had better mind its step, or one morning it will wake up and find it isn’t,” Satan threatened, and followed his band out of the saloon.

  As soon as they had gone, Sam, who was still crouched by his old master, beckoned the others.

  “He ain’t daid, but he’s hurt pow’ful bad,” he whispered. “Dasn’t say nuffin’ ‘case dat debbil mak’ sho’.”

  The bullet had gone right through the body, just missing the heart. Jansen, who supplied the town with the simple medicines it required, and had some experience of injuries, shook his head as he busied himself with the bandages.

  “His lungs is damaged an’ he’ll be bleedin’ inside,” he pronounced. “He’s got the chance of a snowball in hell. There, I can’t do no more; mebbe a jolt o’ liquor will offset the shock.”

  The strong spirit brought the stricken man to consciousness, his eyes opened, staring at them in wonderment. Then recollection came.

  “It—was—an—accident,” he murmured laboriously, and his voice growing somewhat, “Remember—all of you: I was handling my gun—it went off.”

  “Shore, Colonel, we won’t forget,” Jansen replied.. “Good,” the sick man whispered. “Now—take me—home.”

  His eyes closed again. The men looked at one another in consternation; the bumping of a vehicle over the rough trail would certainly complete the work of the bullet. Black Sam rolled his eyes in despair.

  “We jus’ gotta do it, gents,” he said. “If de Kunnel come roun’ an’ fin’ he ain’t at de ranch, he’ll sho’ly raise Cain an’ pass right out. ‘Ordehs is ordehs,’ he allus sez, an’ he’s de obstinatest man I eber did see.”

  It was the blacksmith who found a solution. “We’ll make a sling outa blankets an’ a couple o’ poles, an’ four of us can carry him, with two others along to take turn. Polter, you ride to Red Rock for the doctor, an’ take yore gun in case he don’t fancy the journey.”

  So it was arranged. Naylor, as he turned away to help in the preparations, had a last word.

  “Accident!” he said scornfully. “If ever I git my paws on that young devil’s windpipe suthin’ will happen but it won’t be an accident. No, sir.”

  Along the road through the foothills Satan paced behind his retainers; he trusted no man or woman. Matters had gone according to plan and a fierce elation possessed him.

  “I deceived them, everyone, even my father,” he exulted. “And those idiots away East said I couldn’t act. This will make a stir in the country and drive Jeff back to me. And then, Satan must die and Lander vanish, to reappear later as a wealthy stranger in search of a ranch. He will fall in love with the Double K, also its fair owner, and those boors in Dugout will lick the dust off the boots of the man they would hang to-day if they dared. But I must get rid of that cursed cowboy—he knows—or suspects—too much.”

  His low laugh reached the ears of the riders in front and moved Squint to speech: “I ain’t what you’d call mealymouthed, but if I’d just bumped off my of man I dunno as I’d be all that amused.”

  The man beside him, a half-breed, furtively crossed himself. “He make bargain wit’ de Evil One,” he muttered, with
a fearful glance over his shoulder.

  Scar grinned hardily. “I ain’t carin’ if he’s the Evil One hisself so long as he pays well,” he said. “But we ain’t had no luck since that blasted cowpunch showed up.”

  Satan’s satisfaction was to be short-lived; some hours later Belle Dalroy burst in on him, still in her riding-kit and obviously excited. He received her with a studied indifference.

  “What’s the news from Dugout?” he asked.

  Her eyes widened. “Who told you—oh, well, perhaps you also know what happened there?” she said petulantly.”Tell me.”

  “Colonel Keith was in Black Sam’s this morning and was doing something to his gun when it exploded, and—he’s dead.”

  The news shook him so severely that he forgot his pretence of omniscience; in a flash he saw that such an explanation would defeat the purpose for which he had committed the crime.

  “Who told you that fine tale?”

  “Mrs. Jansen, the store-keeper’s wife; her husband was with the Colonel; he ought to know.”

  “All the same, it’s a lie,” Satan replied vehemently. “Keith was killed in a gunfight.” He paused, and with sinister emphasis, added, “I ought to know; I was there.”

  In those stony, implacable eyes she read the truth. “You, Jeff?” she stammered. “You—shot—your own father?”

  “My own father,” he mimicked. “Who forced me to herd with the dregs of humanity, hired one of them to slay me, and when that failed, tried to do it himself. Yes, I shot him, and would do it again—gladly.”

  The last word was spat out with vicious intensity. He had no object or interest in justifying his action to this woman for whose opinion he cared nothing, but he had been playing the part of the prodigal son so long that it had become almost second nature.

  That he had succeeded was soon evident. Appalled at first by the terrible confession, her shallow temperament, inured to an atmosphere of violence and wrong-doing, soon reacted, and having her own aims, she adopted his cynical attitude.

  “Well, if that’s how you feel about it,” she said. “But I don’t see it helps you to hand the Double K to the girl.”

  “It brings me a step nearer; if anything happened to her …” His laugh chilled her blood. “In any case, I have two ways of regaining my heritage: take it by force, or marry Joan; this accident story should help me there.”

  “She might not consent.”

  “My dear Belle, I’m afraid you don’t realize my persuasive powers,” he drawled. “Obstinacy in a human being is not one of the incurable diseases.”

  She did not look at him, fearful that he would divine her chagrin, for his marriage to Joan Keith spelt an end to her hopes. Again she asked why this man whose face she had never seen should have such a fascination? Possibly his cold ferocity appealed to her own lawless spirit. She could not answer; he was her man, and to keep him, she was prepared to dare anything, even his vengeance. With all his cleverness, he did not dream that this woman—fit only, in his estimation, to pander to his pleasure—was resolved to baulk him.

  “It would be impossible, he could never get away with such an outrage,” she told herself, but with no great conviction. “If he does …”

  Chapter XXII

  That same afternoon, Sudden, stepping down to the store, saw Scar, Squint, and Coger leave the Chief’s quarters. They were talking and laughing boisterously, but at the sight of him they ceased, and, bunching together, discussed something in low tones. He stalked past, obtained the tobacco he needed, and set out again for the saloon. The men had vanished, but aware that Satan’s patience must be nearly exhausted, he was on the alert. Anita slid by, her averted head hidden in a mantilla.

  “Roden is waiting for you, behind the stones,” she murmured.

  Sudden took no notice, save to slacken his stride while he rolled and lighted a cigarette; he required a few moments to consider this new development. One thing was certain—he had outstayed his welcome; Scar would not dare to act without instructions. They would be three to one, but of course, they counted on a surprise.

  “An’ they may get one,” the puncher said grimly.

  Twenty yards further along were the remains of a log shack; the roof had gone, and the walls rose only a few feet, but would afford some protection to a kneeling man. Almost opposite was a group of boulders, fallen fragments from the cliff too big to be removed, and affording ideal shelter for the ambushers. The street appeared to be empty, but from several doorways Sudden saw protruding heads.

  “Friend Scar has passed the word that I’m to be dealt with,” Sudden told himself.

  He strolled carelessly on, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, but with every nerve and muscle keyed for immediate action. At the moment he came to the shack, three men with levelled guns rose from behind the boulders and Scar’s rasping tones rang out.

  “Reach for the sky, Sudden; we got you to rights.”

  Two lightning leaps to the left and the threatened man was crouching among the tumbled timbers of the cabin. Three bullets which whizzed past his ears left him untouched.

  “An’ now yu ain’t,” Sudden retorted, punctuating the remark with a couple of shots, one of which tore the hat from Scar’s head, while the other brought Coger staggering into the open, only to fall, face downwards, in the dust, the sun glinting on the barrel of the pistol in one outflung hand.

  A torrent of curses testified to the feelings of the dead man’s companions, and then Scar spoke again: “Hey, Sudden, whatsa use shootin’ us up? The town is closed an’ you can’t git away. We got orders to take you in.”

  “Come ahead,” the puncher replied. “Yu won’t do it burrowin’ behind them rocks like the poison toads yu are.” A succession of shots answered the invitation, but the marksmen were hampered by the necessity of having to bob up, fire, and vanish all in a second or so, the accuracy of the other man’s shooting leaving no margin for delay. As it was, Squint lost half an ear, and Scar’s temple was scorched by a bullet which came within an inch of putting a period to his interest in earthly affairs. Followed a lull, the attackers being unwilling to take any further risks with this lean-visaged devil, who laughed at danger and shot as one inspired.

  “Keep close—he can’t git away,” Roden growled. “If he don’t give in soon, I’ll sing out for help, but I didn’t want the Chief to think we couldn’t curry a li’l hoss like this.”

  “So it’s easy, huh?” Squint replied, wiping the blood from his torn ear. “Glad you told me—I mightn’t ‘a’ noticed it.”

  Secure behind his timber rampart, Sudden, while keeping a keen eye on the enemy, was trying to find a way out of his difficulty. Even if he slew Scar and Squint, there were others to take their place, and he could not fight the whole town. He had almost decided to surrender and trust to the slender chance of bluffing the bandit leader once more when a faint footfall from behind made him look round. He was just in time to leap to his feet as Muley, with a bellow of rage, hurled his huge bulk at him.

  Sudden’s right-hand gun spoke viciously but could not stop the bull-like charge. The great arms gripped their prey, and the attacker’s weight, with the impetus of his spring, sent both men to the ground. Winded by the fall, and pinned down by his heavy opponent, the puncher was powerless. Then, when an exultant shout proclaimed that Scar and his companion had seen what was happening and were hastening to Muley’s aid, he made a desperate effort and succeeded in flinging the burden aside. He scrambled to his feet only to look into the muzzles of two guns.

  “Put ‘em up!” Roden roared. “Squint, take his hardware an’ frisk him.”

  With an evil grin, the cross-eyed rogue drew the weapons from their holsters and pawed the prisoner over for a possible “hideout.” Then, gazing curiously at the prostrate giant, stooped and shook him by the shoulder.

  “Hey, Muley, you got him, of hoss,” he cried. “Hell’s bells, he’s dead!”

  Scar’s remark was characteristic: “Muley usually had money.”r />
  Sudden watched Squint despoil the body. “Buzzards ain’t got nothin’ on yu two,” he said acidly. “What now?”

  “March,” Roden ordered. “An’ don’t try no tricks or you’ll be travellin’ to hell on the heels o’ them others. You’d be startin’ now on’y the Chief said, `Alive, if possible.’”

  “I’m agreein’ with him,” Sudden rejoined airily.

  He stepped out and his escort followed him, their weapons ready for instant use. Curious citizens, comprehending that, the battle over, there was no longer danger of flying lead, emerged to see them file by. Ignorant of what it was all about, they gathered that this stern young stranger who had slain Butch and seemed on such good terms with their leader, was now in disgrace. Men who had witnessed the affray from the saloon now came hurrying down, bringing news of the casualties, and a hum of excitement passed along the line of onlookers.

  “Muley an’ Coger, huh?” one commented. “An’ damn near Scar an’ Squint as well. He’s got guts.”

  “He’ll need ‘em,” said a second. “There’s others can use a whip, ‘sides Muley.”

  Even after the prisoner and his guards had entered the Chief’s abode, they hung about; judgments in Hell City were apt to be swiftly given and executed.

  The bandit leader, seated at his table, looked up as the three men entered. The prisoner spoke first.

  “What’s the meanin’ o’ this?” he demanded. “If yu wanted me yu’d on’y to say so.”

  Through the holes in the mask the unblinking eyes regarded him with malicious satisfaction. “Where is the man you took away?”

  “I dunno—ain’t seen him since.”

  “you are lying, as you have been all through. Are you the outlaw, Sudden, or is this a lie, too?”

  He held up a paper, the bill issued by the sheriff of Fourways. The puncher laughed scornfully.