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Sudden Takes the Trail ~ Oliver Strange
(Book 08 in the Sudden Westerns series)
Chapter I
“MURDERER!” The man on the big horse spoke the word aloud, and never had the sound of it seemed so sinister, for he was applying it to himself. Then, as had happened many times in the past few days, his moody gaze swept over the vast expanse of semi-desert he was crossing. High overhead, an eagle, winging its unhurried way against the pale blue sky, was the only visible evidence of other living creatures.
“Reckon we’ve razzle-dazzled ‘em, of hoss,” the rider went on.
The black head of the animal came round to nuzzle its master’s knee. He bent and stroked the silken nostrils.
“Fella can get away from his own kind but not from hisself,” he mused. “Mebbe I’d oughta stayed an’ took my chances, but hell! there warn’t no chances.” His mind slipped back to that fatal evening only a week before, recalling the scene and the swift sequence of events which had forced him to flee for his life.
Absently he searched a vest pocket for cigarette papers and discovered a metal star which, in the bright sunlight, seemed to wink at him maliciously.
“Runnin’ off with the marshal’s badge makes me a thief too,” he said with a mirthless smile. “Shucks, they can buy another with the pay I didn’t collect.” He had been peace-officer of Pinetown for some months, and his habit of doing thoroughly any task he undertook speedily made him unpopular with the unruly—and larger—section of the community. But if they hated, they also feared this hard-faced stranger, who bore a name which bred hesitancy in the boldest when it came to defying him. For this was Sudden, cowpuncher, gunman, and outlaw, whose speed on the draw and accuracy of aim with a six-shooter had earned for him an unenviable reputation in the South-West. Because of it, he had been appointed marshal, for only such men could maintain any semblance of decency and order in a land where every man carried his own life in the holster slung at his hip.
“Masters is in trouble at Miguel’s. Hurry.” He heard again the whispered message which a white-faced boy had crept into the saloon to bring, sent by a man whose face the messenger could not see. Sudden had not hesitated. What was Dave doing in Miguel’s—a squalid hovel owned by a Mexican, where the vileness of the liquor was equalled only by the scum who consumed it? Outside the saloon, he had paused a moment to allow his eyes to adjust themselves to the darkness before stepping swiftly along the boarded sidewalk. Then, in a few tense seconds, the tragedy happened: the shadow of a building across the street was stabbed by two shafts of flame, an in-visible hand seemed to snatch at Sudden’s hat, and the wind of the other bullet fanned his cheek. Instantly his guns were out, spitting lead at shapeless deeper patches of shade, and a groan, followed by a curse, told him he had not fired in vain. A point puzzled him; if these were the men he suspected, there should have been three shots.
Then came the clatter of hastening feet from behind. He whirled round, peering through the gloom, and as the indistinct figure stumbled past a lighted window he caught the gleam of a drawn gun. This must be the other man. His weapon spoke again, and he smiled grimly as he heard the thud of a falling body. For a brief space he waited, watchful, alert, but no more shots came and he retraced his steps. It was plain now that the message had been but the bait to lure him into an ambuscade, but he wished to make sure. A form, sprawling untidily face downwards on the sidewalk, arrested him. He stooped and struck a match. The hat had fallen off, and the upper half of the head was an ugly blur of red, but one glance told him that he had shot the only man in Pinetown he could call a friend.
“God!” he muttered, and in a broken voice, “Dave, I never dreamed it might be yu. I’d sooner …” His stunned faculties began to function again as he became aware of a stir in the quiet street; heads were protruding from newly-opened doors. Shooting was common enough—noisy revellers frequently expressed their emotion hy emptying their revolvers, but four quick shots followed by a single one pointed to something different. Sudden stood up; he must get away, and speedily. He had slain one much more popular than himself, and with whom he could have no quarrel; his many enemies would see that he paid the extreme penalty.
He was not minded to give them this satisfaction, and though his heart felt like a stone, he hurried to his quarters for rifle, saddle, and horse. When he emerged upon the street again he was recognized and a yell of execration came from the crowd round the body.
“There’s the dawg what done it, that butcherin’ marshal,” shouted one who was nursing his right arm. “Never give the boy a chanct. Git him, fellas!” A rush was made, and shots followed, but the light was poor; with a gesture of contempt, the fugitive vanished into the night.
Pursuit had been prompt and patient, but Sudden’s Indian upbringing stood him in good stead and he was now satisfied that he had succeeded in throwing the posse off the trail. His body was free, but his mind was fettered by a merry, impudent face which grinned at him, mockingly, as it now seemed.
From a near-by sage-bush a rattlesnake—disturbed by their approach—reared its ugly head and sounded a warning. Instinctively the rider’s right hand went to one of the walnut-butted weapons in his belt, only to drop away again.
“Hell, no,” he said bitterly. “Can I do nothin’ but kill? If it had been that whelp Javert now …” The name of his chief enemy in Pinetown brought a brooding frown. Javert’ the gambler, whose crooked play he had exposed, thus earning the fellow’s undying hatred; cunning, malignant, and cold-blooded as the reptile Sudden had just refrained from destroying. He it was who had planned the marshal’s murder and so brought about Dave’s death.
“I’m thinkin’ a long whiles afore I draw a gun on a human bein’ again, but that don’t go for yu, Mister Javert; yu ain’t human.” The low voice, devoid of passion, made the threat doubly menacing.
“So Welcome is shy a marshal?” the customer said meditatively, as he stowed away the sacks of tobacco he had asked for.
The girl behind the counter nodded. “They got a meetin’ about it—dunno why, seein’ there’s only one applicant,” she replied.
“The job don’t appear to be popular,” he remarked. “It’s unhealthy,” she told him. “Our marshals seem to be unlucky, we’ve lost a couple in less than a year.” The man’s eyebrows rose.
“Sounds kind o’ wasteful,” he said. “One o’ them tough li’l towns, huh?”
“Our boys ain’t so bad—mostly,” the girl defended. “It’s the no ‘count visitors what drift in.” She saw the dawning grin and blushed hotly. “O’ course, I ain’t meanin’ ”
“Shucks ! ” the customer said gently. “Where did yu say this meetin’ was?”
“At the Red Light Saloon—Ned Nippert, the owner, more or less runs Welcome. you ain’t thinkin’ of ?” She stopped, unaware that she was forgetting her Western upbringing.
“Why not?” came the unresenting reply. “I’m foot-loose ‘bout now, an’ a fella has gotta eat.” He put down a bill and pushed back the change. “Buy yoreself a pretty,” he smiled, and went out.
The girl’s gaze followed him reflectively. “A cowpuncher, ridin’ the chuck-line,” she decided. “I hope he don’t get that post—he couldn’t hold it.” Meanwhile, the object of her concern, having noted the name over the door, and mounted the black horse, was leisurely making his way to the Red Light. It proved to be a fair-sized building, constructed of timber and ‘dobe, with a raised covered veranda in front. On this five men were sitting round a table bearing a bottle and glasses. The visitor got down and stepped towards them.
“I’m lookin’ for a gent named Gowdy,” he opened.
A stocky man with a wellnigh bald head s
tood up. “You’ve shorely found him,” he said.
“What you want?”
“Just bought some smokin’ at yore place,” the messenger explained. “Yore daughter asked me to mention that she’s waitin’.”
“Cuss it, I clean forgot,” Gowdy exclaimed. “Ned, can’t we settle this business now?” The big, red-faced fellow to whom he appealed shrugged his massive shoulders. “Seein’ there’s no other candidate, I s’pose we gotta appoint Jake Mullins,” he replied.
In his tone was a very evident reluctance which was apparently shared by three of his companions, to judge by their silence. The fourth was Jake himself, a tall, big-boned, sallow-faced individual, with small eyes, thin lips, and snaky black hair which suggested mixed blood. The newcomer made a quick decision.
“Sorry if I’m hornin’ in, gents, but I hear yo’re needin’ a marshal,” he said quietly.
For a moment the only reply he received was a scowl from Mullins; the others were studying him with surprised curiosity. Nippert unconsciously betrayed his thought with a shake of the head.
“It’s a risky job,” he pointed out. “Unless you can handle yore hardware above the average… .”
“I don’t go much on gun-play,” was the reply. “I’m what yu might call a methodis’ an’ ” A guffaw of mirth from Jake cut him short. “A psalm singer, huh?” he sneered. “Prayer an’ fastin’ won’t land you nowhere in this man’s town, brother, ‘cept mebbe the cemet’ry.” The grey-blue eyes behind the goggles surveyed him sardonically. “Yu got me wrong. I’m not strong on religion, but I have my own ideas o’ dealin’ with trouble; shootin’ ain’t allus the best way.”
Distant high-pitched yells, punctuated by the cracking of pistol-fire, interrupted the conversation.
Away down the trail they could see a billowing cloud of dust in which moved the indistinct forms of scampering horsemen.
“Some o’ the Bar O boys, an’ by the look of ‘em they’re aimin’ to stand the town on its ear, as usual,” Nippert said. “What’s yore notion o’ tacklin’ the situation, Jake?”
“Hold ‘em up an’ perforate the first one what pulls a trigger.” The saloon-keeper frowned.
“They’re good spenders an’ pay for any damage they does,” he objected.
“Mebbe this fella has a better plan,” Jake jeered, with a jerk of the thumb at his rival.
“Good chance to try out his methody ideas; if he can make the Bar O see the light without a ruckus I’ll throw in my hand.” Nippert looked at the stranger. “That’s fair enough.”
“Suits me,” was the reply. “Wipin’ out customers is shorely pore policy.” He stepped into the street and went to meet the advancing riders, who, shooting, shouting, and spurring their ponies, bore down upon him like a human avalanche. When they were but a few yards distant he raised his right hand, palm downwards, the Indian sign of peaceful intention. To avoid running him down—for he was directly in their path—the cowboys, with a chorus of oaths, pulled their mounts to a slithering stop, and the leader, a sandy-haired youth, regarded him darkly.
“What’s the giddy game, stickin’ us up thisaway?” he demanded.
The man on foot studied them for a moment. They were five in number, all young, reckless, and ready for any devilment, but, he decided, not evil. His answer took the form of a question:
“Yu happen to know Widow Gray?”
“Shore, her man let his bronc throw him a piece ago. Pore luck for her, though mebbe—well, he didn’t amount to much anyways. What of it?”
“She’s sick an’—expectin’,” the stranger explained. “I don’t savvy much about it, but I reckon a racket can’t help a woman none at them times. I figured yu’d like to know.”
“Is that the straight goods?” Red-head asked.
“I’m stayin’ in town,” was the meaning reply.
“I take that back,” the cowboy said, and thrust his gun into his belt. “Friend, we’re shore obliged. Widow Gray is one nice woman, an’ we ain’t savages.” He looked at his followers.
“Boys, the jamboree is in the discard for this trip.”
“That goes, Reddy,” they chorused, and pistols were promptly replaced.
“This is one time Welcome is lucky two ways—she gains a citizen an’ don’t risk losin’ any,” Reddy remarked, and grinned at the man who had put a stop to their pleasure. “What about takin’ a snort with us an’ gittin’ acquainted?”
“I’ll be glad—presently,” was the reply. “Got a li’l business to settle first.”
“So’ve we,” Reddy smiled. “Allus begin with our buyin’, ‘case we don’t have any coin left later.” They got down at the store and the peace-maker rejoined the party on the veranda, who had watched the scene wonderingly. Unable to hear the conversation, and knowing the Bar O outfit, it seemed little short of a miracle.
Nippert was the first to speak.
“Well, friend, I dunno how you worked it, but you must shorely have a medicine tongue.”
“Why, there’s no mystery,” was the quiet reply. “I just told ‘em that Widow Gray is sick, an’ liable to add to the population o’ Welcome any time.”
“Hell!” Jake said disgustedly. “Anybody could ‘a’ done that.”
“Yeah, anybody could ‘a’ discovered America, but Columbus did it,” Nippert retorted.
“Stranger, I like yore method, an’ you win.” He fumbled in a pocket, produced a nickel star, and proffered it to the new officer. “Jake, you’ll have to wait till there’s another vacancy.” The disappointed candidate’s face was poisonous. “Which won’t be long, I’m bettin’,” he snarled, with a disparaging glare at the man who had beaten him. “You others standin’ for this?” and when he got no reply, “Helluva note, ringin’ in a perishin’ tramp; reckon Jesse Sark may have somethin’ to say.” Jake flung away; the saloon-keeper lifted his shoulders and turned apologetically to the visitor.
“A pore loser, an’ would ‘a’ bin a wuss marshal,” he said. “I’m mighty glad you drifted in, Mister?” His eyes were on the black horse, the left hip of which bore the brand J. G. “Stands for `James Grover’ but `Jim’ will do just as well,” the owner told him.
Nippert nodded; he had noted the momentary hesitation, and knew that for some reason the newcomer was sailing under false colours, but that was too common in the West to have much significance, and he liked the man. Moreover, he was grateful for the opportunity to turn down Mullins, whom he regarded as something lower in the scale of Nature than the Gila monster. So, when the Bar O riders arrived, he duly presented the new officer under the name given. Reddy’s eyes twinkled.
“We’ve met,” he said, and then, “Jake looks like someone had trod on his tail.” They all laughed and, at Nippert’s invitation, lined up at the bar and drank with the man who had been put in power —as they well knew—partly on their account. When Gowdy had departed to placate his daughter, Rapper drew the saloon-keeper aside.
“Good work, Ned,” he complimented. “We won’t have no trouhle with the Bar O from now on; Jim has made a hit with them.”
“Quick thinkin’ will beat quick shootin’ off’n as not, an’ the two of ‘em is a combination hard to win against,” Nippert replied. “Them guns he’s totin’ don’t look exactly new. Jake will be difficult, but I figure this fella can take care of hisself.” The evening passed off quietly enough.
In the course of it, the newcomer met most of the townsmen, and, save for the rougher faction which disapproved of restraint as a matter of course, created a favourable impression. He spoke and drank sparingly.
One incident alone called for the exercise of authority, and it occurred in the Red Light.
Two men were playing cards, a doubtful-looking stranger who had ridden in late and a citizen known as “Sloppy,” reputed to be rarely sober.
The marshal strolled over and stood watching the pair. Presently what he had anticipated happened: the Welcome player had won at first, but now he began to lose, and as the pile in front
of him diminished, his caution and temper followed his cash. A further reverse which would have nearly wiped out his winnings proved the last straw and in a drunken fury he hurled an accusation calling for only one reply. Rasping an oath, the other man rose and reached for his gun, only to find an empty holster. A calm voice said.
“I’ve got yore shootin’ iron, hombre. The door is straight ahead.” Out of the corner of one eye the trouble-maker saw the marshal just behind him. A gentle jab in the short ribs from the muzzle of his own weapon apprised him that he was helpless, and with a lurid epithet he moved forward. Outside the saloon he ventured a protest:
“This ain’t no way to treat a visitor. Did you hear what that soak called me?”
“Shore, an’ he got yu right,” the marshal replied.
“If I had my gun …”
“Here she is—I don’t want her—got two better ones.” The fellow snatched the weapon eagerly, hesitated a bare second, and then—as he discovered it had been unloaded—thrust it into his belt with a curse.
The marshal laughed.
“I’m growed up,” he said. “Get agoin’ an’ keep agoin’our graveyard is middlin’ full.” The cold, ironic tone carried conviction. The speaker waited while the fellow found his pony, mounted, and was gathered up by the gloom. Returning to the saloon, he found Sloppy sprawled across the table in a half-stupor. Hoisting him to his feet, he piloted the drunkard out and down the street to a stout log shack standing next to the marshal’s quarters, pushed him in and turned the key of the big padlock. When he entered the Red Light again, the proprietor met him with an approving smile.
“Slick work, marshal. What you done with the pilgrim?”
“Sent him on his way, not exactly rejoicin’. A cheap tinhorn, lets the other fella win till he’s too pie-eyed to notice crooked play. We can do without his kind.”
“We can that. Where’s Sloppy?”
“Sleepin’ it off in the calaboose. I’ll deal with him in the mornin’.”
Chapter II
Sudden: Takes the Trail Page 1