“Hi, yu wait till we’ve fed,” Sandy cried in affected alarm. “We gotta drink that water.”
He paused. “Not that I wanta stop yu from washin’, Gawd knows.”
Sudden chuckled. “Talkin’ o’ washin’, I wonder how yu’d look with half yore head scrubbed?” he queried.
“Yu go to blazes,” Sandy retorted. “Poison the whole damn herd if yu gotta.”
The foreman arrived, bringing the news that save for sundry slight wounds and bruises, the outfit had come out of the ordeal unscathed. “I reckon we’ve discouraged them cattlethieves a whole lot,” he concluded grimly.
They had; the struggling light of the dawn revealed the twisted, contorted bodies of seven men between the brush and the barricade. Two prisoners had been taken and now sat, with bound limbs, in a far corner of the camp. Rugged, ill-favoured rogues, both of them, stolidly refusing to answer questions. yet not without a certain courage. They knew what was to come and could joke about it. One of them had awakened the other.
“Take a look at yore last sunrise, Hank,” he said. “yu don’t wanta oversleep—it’s goin’ to be a mighty short day for us.”
“Shucks!” the other replied. “We’ll have a long night to make up for it, hombre.”
They fed and smoked, interestedly watching the preparations for breaking camp. When the wagon rolled ponderously away, the foreman and three of the outfit remained behind with two unsaddled horses. Sudden, the last to leave, saw that the prisoners were lighting fresh cigarettes. He felt no pity for them; they had gambled, lost, and must pay, but he had a swift vision of two limp forms dangling in the sunlight-shafted shade of the trees, and was aware of a chilly sensation in the region of his spine. He had come near to meeting the same fate, and would yet if the sheriff of San Antonio or of Fourways laid hands on him.
Chapter XXV
HE was a long, scraggy fellow of middle-age, with a thin humorous face, and his rig-out proclaimed that he had recently visited a settlement, clothes, saddle and weapons being patently new. He came into view as they were about to bed-down the herd, and Eden rode to meet him.
“Howdy, friend,” the stranger opened, and then, as his gaze ranged over the milling horde of lean-limbed, fierce-eyed beasts, with their wide-branching horns, he added, “Where in hell have yu fetched ‘em from?”
Eden laughed. “On’y from Texas,” he said. “We passed through the place yu mentioned.”
Karson—so the stranger named himself—told the rancher that Abilene was less than a dozen miles distant.
“Mebbe we can do business. I’m in these parts to buy cattle.”
“I’m here to sell ‘em,” Eden replied, not too eagerly. The experiences of the past few months had made him distrustful. The cattle-buyer slept in camp, having decided to accompany them on the final day’s march. He advised that the herd be halted a couple of miles short of Abilene, where there was good grazing.
“She’s the toughest burg I ever see—an’ I’ve been in a few,” he said. “yu wanta warn yore boys to stick together an’ step light. Crooked men, women, an’ games are as plenty as ticks on a cow.”
Darkness was still distant when they sighted a haze of smoke on the horizon and realized that the end of the long trail was within reach. But no more than that, for until the herd was sold, the cowboys would lack money, and to visit town without anything to spend would be worse than not going at all. So. when the cattle were bunched and bedded on a raised stretch covered with short curly grass, it was but a small party which headed for Abilene; Karson, Eden, and the women would stay the night there, and the foreman had urged that Sudden should go also.
“Like enough Baudry an’ that Navajo fella is infestin’ the place,” he said. “‘Sides, yu may need to send me a word.”
They reached the town as dusk was falling. After months in the silent wilderness the noise and bustle amazed them. The principal street, a dusty strip between two rows of flimsy buildings, was ant-like in its activity, thronged with a hustling horde. Loaded freight wagons, driven by bull-voiced, blasphemous men churned up the surface, filling the air with a grey powdery deposit which covered everyone and everything; reckless riders flickered to and fro, swinging their mounts dexterously around pedestrians; at the hitch-rails stood rows of patient ponies, heads down, tails swishing in an endless battle against a myriad flies. From the windows of saloons. dance-halls, and gambling “joints” came a warm glow as the lamps within were lighted.
Karson conducted them to his hotel, where they secured rooms and dined. Then he carried the cattleman off to “take in the town.” Eden, having warned his daughter to remain indoors, told Sudden he was at liberty to amuse himself. The cowboy did not like this arrangement, but could hardly protest.
Leaving the hotel, he mingled with the motley mob streaming along the street.
At the door of the Palace Saloon he hesitated a momentand then went in. Ordering a modest drink he leant against the bar, studying the ebb and flow of mixed humanity, drinking, gambling, and exulting or complaining as fortune favoured or flouted them. A bleary-eyed individual sidled up to him.
“Yo’re a stranger,” he accused, shooting out a grimy finger. “Yu must be a magician,” the cowboy quizzed.
“I ain’t, but I savvy all the fellas in this yer burg,” the other replied. He pointed to a big, red-faced, flashily dressed man near the bar. “Know who that is? Mick Donagh, owner o’ this joint. They say he’s good for a hundred thousand dollars.”
The corner of the cowboy’s eyes crinkled up. “What of it?” he asked lazily. “I’d be good my own self for a lot less’n that.”
The bleary citizen decided to take this in a friendly spirit; the nonchalant young stranger did not look too easy.
“I’m bettin’ yu would,” he agreed. “Me too, don’t yu reckon?”
This time he got it straight from the shoulder. “Yu?” the cowboy drawled. “I’d figure yu good—for—nothin’.”
The level look which accompanied the contemptuous speech apprised the bleary one that he had selected the wrong victim, and muttering something about “fresh fellas,” he drifted away.
His place was soon taken by a short, pot-bellied man with mean little eyes and a ludicrous air of importance.
“I’m the town marshal o’ this yer city,” he began pompously.
Sudden regarded him gravely. “That so? What am I s’posed to do—throw a fit—or somethin’?” he inquired.
The marshal’s bloated face got redder. “I can tell yu what yu ain’t s’posed to do an’ that’s wear them guns,” he snapped. “It’s agin the law. I’ll trouble yu to hand ‘em to me.”
Sudden’s eyes narrowed. “I hate trouble,” he said. His gaze swept over the room, noting that nearly every man in it wore a weapon. “Why start on me? Clean up on them others an’—I’ll think about it.”
“Yo’re a newcomer; I know them fellas,” was the lame reply. “yeah, that’s where the rope rubs—I don’t know ‘em,” the cowboy said quietly. “See here, marshal, I’m attached to my guns an’ they’re attached to me”—he smiled—“partin’ would be—difficult. Don’t yu reckon yu’d better take a drink instead?”
Looking into those frosty grey-blue eyes and observing the lean, out-thrust jaw, the officer discovered that he was thirsty
“I’m trustin’ yu not to raise no ruckus,” he said.
“Marshal, I’m a li’I woolly lamb long as folks treat me right,” the cowboy assured him.
Having absorbed his liquor, the keeper of the peace went in search of another, and presently Sudden saw him in converse with two men whose entrance he had not noticed-Baudry and Dutt. Even as he caught sight of them they were moving towards him. The gambler opened the ball:
“Yes, marshal, that’s the man,” he said. “Known as `Sudden’ in Texas, and wanted for cold-blooded murder and robbery.”
“An’ that fella, marshal,” parodied the cowboy, “is Monte Jack, a tinhorn who was run outa Kansas City for shootin’ a pilgri
m he had cheated.”
Baudry drew himself up. “That’s not true,” he protested. “This is,” Sudden rasped, his open hand striking the gambler on the cheek with a crack like a pistol-shot.
Staggering back under the force of the blow, his face livid with passion, Baudry clawed at his shoulder-holster. Dutt flung his arms round him.
“Don’t be a fool, Monte, he’ll get yu,” he cried.
At the name unwittingly used the marshal’s pig-like eyes widened. He snatched out his own gun.
“If there’s any shootin’ here, gents, I’m doin’ it,” he announced. “Settle yore differences outside.”
“Good enough,” Sudden said, and looked at Baudry. “At eight tomorrow mornin’ I’m walkin’ down the street; if yu ain’t lost yore nerve an’ skipped by then, yu can come an’ meet me.”
“I’ll be there,” Baudry spat out.
Followed by curious glances—for the fracas had attracted attention—Sudden left the saloon. At the hotel he found Eden and told him only that the gambler was in town.
“Glad of it,” the rancher said. “I can square my account with the dirty sneak an’ be a free man again.”
Abilene, on the following morning, presented an unwonted appearance of emptiness, save on the sidewalks of the principal street where a number of daring souls had lined up; others, whose courage did not equal their curiosity, contented themselves with the windows and doors of the buildings. For the news of the challenge had quickly spread and a crowd had come to see one man kill another, and to wager on the result.
An excited whisper ran through the throng when, on the stroke of eight, the cowboy walked from the hotel to the middle of the street. That he was a famous gunman from the south was already known to all. For an instant he stood there, his arms hanging down, fingers almost touching the butts of his guns. Silence seized the spectators as, a hundred yards away, another man was seen to be unhurriedly approaching. So the gambler had not gone. Sudden’s lips tightened.
The seconds ticked on, each bringing one of the men, or both, nearer eternity. The onlookers gazed breathlessly as the gap between the combatants lessened. Then the angry bark of a pistol smashed into the silence and Sudden’s hat was swept from his head. Almost without looking, the cowboy drew and fired, and a man who had stepped into view round the corner of a store reeled and went down, his smoking gun clattering on the boards, It was David Dutt, and a howl of disgust came from the nearest. spectators when they realized the treachery he had attempted. Sudden himself, bareheaded and swinging the revolver loosely in his fingers, paced steadily on. He had eyes only for the man he was going to meet.
To Jethro Baudry, the failure of the plot was a crushing blow; it had seemed so sure and easy to explain: an unknown enemy, seizing the opportunity to pay a debt. Why had Dutt let himself be seen, and above all, why had he missed? Savagely he cursed the man who had died for him, and gazed with anxious, haggard eyes at the advancing figure.
Step by step the cowboy came on, relentless, inevitable as death itself. A cold sweat oozed from the gambler’s forehead and his heart seemed to become a lump of ice. He had killed, and was no novice in gunfights, but they had been quick affairs, over in a moment or two, allowing no time for thought; the deliberation of this encounter called for a courage he did not possess. Forty yards—thirty—twenty—damnation, would the fellow never stop? He felt like a condemned criminal. awaiting execution, and watching the leaden hours creep by, but in his case they were moments, seconds, and at that thought he pulled up.
“Can’t miss at this distance,” he muttered, and wondered who had spoken.
He tried to raise the gun he was carrying but found he could not; it seemed to weigh a ton. His antagonist was now only a dozen paces away and he could see the grim, grey face and narrowed ice-cold eyes. A shiver shook him as he realized that he was nothing more than a target. Already he seemed to feel the scorching, blinding pain of lead tearing through his body.
Desperately he made another effort to fire but his paralysed muscles refused to act, and in a panic of frenzied fear, he dropped the weapon, flung up his arms, and bolted. Staggering, slipping in the loose dust, expecting every instant the numbing jar of a bullet in his back, he did not hear the yell of derision which followed him as he vanished behind a convenient building.
The cowboy watched him go, a mingled expression of contempt and doubt on his face.
“I figured him right,” he said to himself. “Allasame, I’d oughta got him.”
Men crowded round the victor, patted him on the back, invited him to drink, and hailed him as a good fellow. Dutt, they told him, was dead, with a bullet between the eyes, and all agreed that it was less than he deserved. Sudden had hard work to get away from his admirers, but he pleaded that he had a job, and his boss was waiting for him. Which was no more than the truth, for on returning to the hotel, he found Eden and the buyer ready to ride out and inspect the herd.
“I’m glad yu didn’t kill him, Jim,” the rancher said. “It would ‘a’ looked like yu were payin’ my debt.”
“It may come to that yet,” Sudden told him.
“Yu don’t think he’s finished?” Eden asked.
“There’s on’y one way to keep a rattler from bitin’,” was the meaning reply.
Karson was evidently of the same opinion, for as they passed the scene of the gambler’s humiliation, he said:
“Yu oughta rubbed that fella out like a dirty mark, which is what he is; it was a plain frame-up.”
“I expect yo’re right, seh,” Sudden agreed.
When they reached the camp, Eden had the cattle lined out and driven past, he and the buyer counting independently. Their figures nearly tallied.
“Call it two thousand, two hundred,” the rancher offered. “Good enough,” Karson nodded. “They’re a likely lot an’ in fair fettle, but I on’y want four-year-olds—twenty-five a head.”
Eden’s face fell; this meant taking the pick of his herd and leaving him with the less saleable residue.
“That ain’t a square offer an’ yu know it, Karson,” he said bluntly. “Gimme an all-over price of twenty an’ take the lot. With the northern ranches yelpin’ for stock, yu can’t lese.”
The buyer took one look at the cattleman’s stubborn jaw. “Yu know yore business,” he smiled. “I was hopin’ yu’d let ‘em go for fifteen.”
“I’ve been lookin’ at cows’ rumps since I was weaned,” Eden grinned. “Well, what do yu say?”
“It’s a deal,” Karson replied, aware that he had made a good bargain. “Of course, yore boys’ll hold the herd here till I can arrange for shippin’? Good.”
The news that the steers they had safeguarded through so many vicissitudes were actually sold caused great jubilation among the cowboys, and the difficulties of the trail were made light of in a way which vastly amused the buyer.
“Trouble?” Jed echoed in answer to his question. “Why, nothin’ to notice. O’ course, cows git contrary an’ thinks they knows a better road than the one yo’re takin’ ‘em, but yu expect that.”
I heard somethin’ about Indians,” Karson smiled.
Jed’s bony face was sardonic. “Mebbe we had to flap a blanket now an’ then to scare them critters off,” he confessed.
And Karson, who had been told much of the real story, grinned delightedly and distributed cigars all round.
“Yu’ll do,” he said. “If ever I want a herd o’ real classy liars I’ll come to Texas.”
They saw nothing of Rogue. He had, the foreman said, ridden off the previous afternoon and had not re-appeared. The news brought a frown to the rancher’s face; he still distrusted the outlaw.
When the party returned to town, Sandy—at Sudden’s suggestion—went with them. Eden was to receive payment for his cattle at once, and had announced his intention of taking charge of the money himself. Banks were few and far between in Texas and he had little faith in such institutions. So he tucked the big roll of bills into an inside pocket and t
apped the butt of his gun meaningly.
“Any fella who tries to lift those off’n me will shorely get a shock,” he boasted.
From this resolution he could not be turned, even by his daughter, who was obviously apprehensive of the risk he was running.
In the back room of a Mexican dive at the other end of the town, Navajo, with contemptuous amusement on his thin lips, listened to the stumbling excuses of the man before him.
“Can’t think what came over me, but I couldn’t have raised my gun for a million dollars,”
Baudry said. “Never felt like it before; I must have been sick.”
“Yu shore looked it, but for a sick man yu ran almighty well,” the half-breed sneered.
The gambler’s eyes grew malevolent. “I’m not sick now, Navajo,” he warned.
“Glad to know it,” was the reply. “Yu’ll be better able to bear the shock o’ hearin’ that Eden has sold his herd an’ got the mazuma. To put it plain, we’re beat”
If he meant to anger his companion he did not succeed; Baudry was regaining his habitual veneer of imperturbability.
“Quite a slice of that money is mine,” he said, “and, do you know, I believe the old fool would pay up.”
“Better ask him, but mind Mister Sudden ain’t around or yu’ll be meetin’ Dutt mighty soon.”
“So it was Davy?” the gambler mused. “I suspected it. Well, he was always fond of me.
How many would do a thing like that for you, Navajo?”
“Not one, even if I asked,” the half-breed replied, with an incredulous laugh; he was not deceived. “I do my own dirty work.”
“But you got Lasker to shoot his employer,” came the reminder.
“I offered him a price—same as yu did me,” Navajo said sullenly.
Baudry’s brows went up. “you are in error, my friend,” he pointed out. “I made a bet with you—quite a different thing, and you look like losing it. I shall deduct the amount from your share of the herd-money.”
The outlaw straightened up. “yu are goin’ to get it?”
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