Sudden: Takes the Trail

by Oliver Strange

  “Who is there?” Instantly Jake’s rough hand closed her mouth. “One more sound an’ it’ll be the worse for you,” he said hoarsely. “Git some clothes on, an’ if you want yore brat to live, keep mum. Wrap up, it’s cold outside.”

  “Where is my child?” she cried. “What have you done with it?”

  “I told you not to talk,” was the stern reply. “The kid’s safe—so far; it depends on you. Git busy—you got five minutes.” The indistinct shadows in the room faded away. With frantic haste she dressed, her heart pounding with fear. Who could these men be, and what did they want with her? The voice of their leader, though obviously disguised, had a familiar note. She heard the door open.

  “Time’s up.”

  “Where are you taking me?” she ventured.

  “Wait an’ see.” With a sob of despair she surrendered and allowed them to lead her to where the horses were waiting, and lift her to the back of the spare one. Then the journey through the night began. Once she looked round, but could see no sign of the child; one rider, however, was behind the others, and it might be…

  Sick with dread, she rode on, sitting slackly in the saddle, utterly overwhelmed by this sudden catastrophe.

  They had been riding for hours—as it seemed to her—when the distant sound of tumbling water told her that they must be in the neighbourhood of the Silver Mane, the only fall of any size near Welcome. Were they bound for the Dumbbell? Had Sark dared to do this thing? But the voice of the leader was not his, and presently, having crossed The Step, they veered northward, climbing a long slope, fording the creek above the fall, and heading, as she now guessed, for the hill country. Her heart grew heavier, as tales of the wild men, cattle-thieves and outlaws, who found a refuge in those almost inaccessible heights, recurred to her.

  With the coming of the dawn, her gaze went anxiously to the rear, but the last rider was a mere blur in the grey, misty light.

  “Keep yore eyes on the hoss,” a harsh voice ordered. “The hardest part is to come.”

  Furtively she studied the speaker, but her scrutiny told nothing. Then, as his mount made a mis-step, he dragged on his rein, and she saw a white scar—relic of an old wound —running across the back of his hand. Mullins! She knew now why the muffled voice had seemed familiar.

  The knowledge contributed little in the shape of comfort.

  Worn out, listless, and full of fear, the girl was aware only of an unending procession of straight black tree-trunks through which they wound with unerring precision. These seemed to have a mesmeric influence, and she was indeed barely conscious when they rode into the growing daylight once more and stopped at a stout, two-storied block-house.

  “Git down.” The curt command aroused her, but stiff with cold and fatigue, she could not move; the man had to lift her from the saddle. The brief contact bred a repulsion which gave her new strength, and when he would have helped her further, she protested.

  “I—can—walk.” Nevertheless, he gripped one arm and led her into the building, through a large room, and up a rude staircase to a smaller one, in which was a pallet bed, covered with a couple of coarse blankets.

  “Rough quarters, but you won’t be here long—if yo’re wise,” he told her.

  He went out, locking the door, but returned in a little while with a glass containing liquor.

  She shook her head.

  “Drink it,” he ordered. “I don’t want a sick woman on my hands.” With an effort she swallowed the fiery spirit, which, though it made her choke, produced a warm glow in her chilled body.

  “Bring my child,” she said. “I’ve kept my part of the bargain.”

  “Go on keepin’ it an’ you’ll see him—later,” he replied, and with a leer in the slitted eyes,

  “I’ll have to learn you a lesson if you don’t behave, an’ I’m hopin’ you won’t. Sabe?” She sank down upon the bed and buried her face in her hands. The screech of the key as it turned in the lock drove home the helplessness of her position. While they held the child, she was tied, forced to comply with any demand they might make.

  Night was drawing on when Sudden reached his destination. Bentley was larger even than he had expected, and the main street—for the place boasted more than one—was thronged.

  The brightly-lighted stores and saloons lit up a scene which, at another time, might have been interesting, but the marshal’s long ride had left him with little appetite for further exertion.

  Moreover, he was not anxious for his presence to be known. So having secured a meal and a bed at one of the smaller hotels, he retired to rest.

  Early next morning, he presented himself at the prison, situated about half a mile from the town. To the armed guard at the great iron gate, he explained who he was, and requested an interview with the Warden. After a short wait in a cell-like room furnished only with a couple of forms and a table, he was conducted across a wide yard to the main portion of the structure.

  The room into which he was shown differed vastly from the one where he had waited. A comfortably-fitted office, the walls book-lined, chairs which invited occupation, a leather-covered desk, and behind it, a grey-haired man of fifty, who scanned his visitor closely.

  “Have a seat, marshal,” he said. “And tell me what I can do for you.”

  “I thought mebbe yu could give me some information which might help in a matter I’m lookin’ into,” Sudden explained.

  “I’m at your service.”

  “I’ve heard that yu had here, some years back, a man named Jesse Sark. Is that so?” The Warden rose, reached down a heavy register, and turned the pages. “Here we are,” he said. “Jesse Sark, clerk, convicted of robbing the bank where he was employed, and sent down for two years.

  There’s a picture of him, if that interests you.” It did; the marshal stared at it in astonishment.

  “That’s not the fella,” he said disappointedly.

  “It was taken when he came in, and the name is an uncommon one.”

  “He must ‘a’ changed considerable,” Sudden reflected aloud.

  The Warden looked up sharply. “He probably has—men do when they’re under the turf, I believe,” he replied drily, and added, “Sark died just before his sentence was completed—we had an epidemic of fever in the prison.” Sudden’s face fell. “Seems I’ve been followin’ a blind trail an’ bothered yu for nothin’,” he said. A thought occurred to him. “There’s just one point: did yore Sark have a confederate called Kent?” The Warden consulted another volume, and, after a short search, pointed to a page. “This must be the one: Ezra Kent, convicted with, and sentenced to the same punishment as Sark. Discharged at the end of his term. His portrait is here also. Why, what is the matter, marshal?” For Sudden’s expression was one of complete puzzlement. “But that’s the man I know as Jesse Sark,” he cried. “Yu couldn’t ‘a’ got the pictures mixed up, I s’pose?”

  “Not possible,” was the reply. “And if it had happened, this man”—tapping Kent’s photograph—“would be in his grave.”

  “Shore, that don’t explain it,” Sudden agreed. “Well, seh, I was beginnin’ to fear I’d wasted my time, but what yu’ve told me is goin’ to be mighty helpful, though there’s some straightenin’ out yet.”

  “Anything more I can do?”

  “If yu could give me a writin’ that Jesse Sark is dead,” the marshal suggested. “Somebody may want to call me a liar.” The Warden smiled, his gaze taking in the lithe, muscular frame, resolute jaw, and steady eyes. “Hardly a likely occurrence, I imagine, but in case …” He wrote a few lines, signed them, and passed over the paper. “That will save any argument.” Sudden thanked him, and stowed away the document.

  The Warden observed that the visitor’s eyes were roving along the orderly rows of registers. “Records of rascality—. a sad indictment of the human race.”

  “I was admirin’ the system. I s’pose yu can turn up partic’lars of any person who has been through yore han’s?”

  “Certainly. Ha
ve you any name in mind?”

  “Two—Webb an’ Peterson.” It did not take long. The first name appeared twice, but when he saw the portraits, the marshal shook his head; the second name was not to be found.

  “We don’t seem to have entertained your—friends,” the Warden said.

  “It was on’y a chance, but friends ain’t just the right word.” Looking at the set face, which had suddenly become cold and grim, the man from the East realized that he was plumbing unknown deeps; he would not have cared to be one of those two men. The visitor had picked up his hat, and was speaking:

  “Yu been mighty good, seh. I’m obliged.”

  “Glad to be of use, marshal,” he replied. “Come or send, if you need further assistance.”

  Getting his horse, Sudden set off at once for home, his mind full of the astounding discovery he had made. Jesse Sark was no more, and Kent was personating him in order to steal the Dumbbell range. A friend of the dead man, he would know enough about him to make the imposture possible, the more so as Sark had never been seen in Welcome.

  Lyman must know, and probably the whole plan was his contrivance.

  “He certainly has Kent cinched, an’ there ain’t much doubt as to who drilled Amos,”

  Sudden mused.

  The latter part of the interview recurred to him. That his final inquiry proved a failure did not disappoint him; he had expected it. “They’ll have swapped names frequent by now,” he muttered. “Allasame, I’ll find ‘em.” (How he eventually kept his promise has been told in another place.1) “Get some action on them triflin’ legs o’ yourn, yu dollop o’ darkness.” The horse whinnied a reply, and lengthened its stride into a long, easy lope which sent the ground sliding beneath its feet and could be maintained for hours. Nevertheless, when the sun, a red ball of fire, was slowly sinking behind the western sky-line, he had still about ten miles to cover. But this contented him, and he eased the black to a more leisurely pace as they breasted a slope mottled with patches of brush. Here his complacency suffered a rude awakening.

  He had bent forward to stroke the shiny neck of his steed when the silence was routed by the roar of a rifle and his hat went skimming into the dust. Instantly he flung himself headlong from the saddle as a second bullet followed the first. He landed on all-fours and scuttled behind a near-by clump of scrub. Nigger dashed off, but his master knew he would not go far.

  Peeping through his cover, he could see small clouds of smoke vanishing above another bunch of bushes some fifty feet away. He shook a branch to the left of his position, and dropped flat; a rifle crashed and the slug cut the twigs above his head; he fired at the flash, more to gratify his resentment than with any hope of hitting the hidden marksman.

  Lying broadside on to the enemy, he agitated the foliage with a foot. Immediately a bullet tore through the spot, and he sent two quick shots to the right and left of the spirt of flame, at once shifting his own position. It was well he did so, for the reply was instant. Silence ensued, and Sudden puzzled over the problem of putting an end to this strange duel. It was difficult, for there was no cover between the parties, and until dark came, neither could leave his shelter. A possibility suggested itself. Prone on his stomach, a revolver in each hand, he fired a dozen shots, spaced at about a foot apart and aimed at the bottom of the bushes behind which his antagonist must be lying. Then, reloading rapidly, he waited for the response.

  None came. Half an hour passed and nothing happened. It was now almost dark, and the marshal resolved to run a risk. Gun in hand, he stood up and backed away, keeping the friendly scrub between himself and the enemy. Then, when he judged he could not be seen in the deepening dusk, he circled round and approached from the rear, moving with the stealth of an Indian. A shapeless blotch lay on the ground, a rifle beside it.

  “I’ve got yu covered; keep still,” he warned.

  Getting no response, he stepped forward, turned the senseless form over, and struck a match. The man’s eyes opened; it was Squint.

  “For Gawd’s sake, gimme a drink,” he croaked.

  A long, low whistle and Nigger appeared from the shadows. The marshal unbuckled his water-bottle and held it to the wounded man’s lips.

  “How much is Sark payin’ yu for this?”

  “Five hundred,” Squint replied, and then, “What you drivin’ at, Sark ain’t ”

  “Too late, fella; second thoughts are not allus best,” Sudden said. “Where yu hit?”

  “In the chest, an’ it hurts like blazes. Hop yore hoss—I guess I’m through.”

  “Shucks, yu’ll swing yet,” the other retorted, as he examined the hurt and fixed a crude bandage. “Think yu can make it to Welcome?”

  “Don’t wanta go there,” Squint protested.

  “O’ course, I could waste another ca-tridge an’ plant yuhere,” Sudden said meditatively, and this, being what the bushwhacker himself would have done, closed the argument.

  His horse was fetched from a thicket where it had been hidden, he was hoisted into the saddle, and they took the road.

  “I was told yu’d thrown in with Mullins,” Sudden hazarded.

  The man shot a sly glance at his questioner. “Never heard of him,” he said.

  “A pore liar too. How did Sark get hold o’ yu?”

  “I was busted an’ went to him for a job.”

  “An’ fell down on it. But don’t yu fret, yore future is provided for. Come to think of it, yo’re lucky to have one, for if I didn’t happen to be the marshal …” Squint shivered; he knew that it was true; this man whom he had treacherously sought to slay had every right to put a period to his existence.

  Chapter XVI

  IT was late when the marshal and his prisoner arrived at Welcome to find it unusually awake for that hour. Lights were shining in almost every building. Sloppy’s face, when he saw them ride in, expressed both relief and anxiety.

  “Thank heaven you’re back,” he cried. “There’s bad news an’ we duuno what to do.”

  “Bad news’ll keep,” Sudden replied. “Shove this hombre in the calaboose, feed and fix him up, an’ don’t forget to lock the door.”

  “But, Jim ”

  “Fly at it. I’m bone-tired, but I guess I can stagger to the Red Light; Ned’ll wise me up.”

  The saloon was busy, but there was a difference; men drank, but no games were taking place, the customers standing around in groups, conversing with unwonted seriousness. He made his way to the bar, where Nippert was deep in a discussion with Gowdy, Rapper, and others.

  “What’s the excitement?” he inquired.

  “Thunderin’ glad to see you, Jim,” the saloon-keeper greeted. “Ain’t you heard?”

  “I’ve on’y just got in,” Sudden explained. “Sloppy tried to tell me somethin’, but I wouldn’t let him.”

  “Mrs. Gray has disappeared.” The marshal stared at him. “Disappeared?” he repeated.

  “Well, this mornin’—as usual—Miss Chips goes along to the Widow’s, raps at the back door, an’ there’s no an Awer. She can hear the kid cryin’ inside, so she keeps on hammerin’. After a bit, she gits scared somethin’ is wrong an’ fetches Chips. He busts the lock an’ they go in. There ain’t a sign o’ Mrs. Gray, but the bedroom looks like she’d dressed in a hurry. I’ve had search-parties out all day but they ain’t struck a trace of her. She didn’t own a hoss, none is missin’, an’ she couldn’t ‘a’ got far a-foot. What d’you make of it, Jim?”

  “Can’t say—yet. Where’s Dave?”

  “He’s gone too,” Nippert replied. “Soon as he got the news, he saddles his bronc, an’—judgin’ by his face—it’ll go hard with anybody who gits in his way. Dunno where he was makin’ for, but he went west, an’ was in a hurry to git there; I never seen a pony’s legs move faster.”

  “Well, we can’t do anythin’ tonight,” the marshal decided. “Better hit the hay—tomorrow may be a long day.” He was turning away when the saloon-keeper stayed him. “Any luck at Bentley?”

  “Pl
enty, but we gotta get Mrs. Gray back before I spill it.”

  “Who’s the jasper you fetched in?”

  “Fella called Squint. We had a li’l argument ‘bout ten mile out; he wanted to down me, but I persuaded him agin it. Sloppy is patchin’ him, an’ I reckon he’ll recover.”

  “He ain’t done yore lid no good, an’ from the position o’ the holes, he loosed at you from behind,” Rapper remarked.

  “Shore he did,” the marshal replied airily. “Squint holds that bushwhackers should be heard an’ not seen.”

  “But why was he after you?” Nippert queried.

  “Oh, he mistook me for five hundred bucks. Yu see, he was broke, an’ when Sark offered just that sum for my scalp…” Ejaculations of anger followed this revelation. “Sark did that?”

  Rapper exploded. “Don’t we have anythin’ to say about it?”

  “Yeah, at the right time, but that’s not yet,” he was told.

  When the marshal encountered Sloppy in the morning, he put a question: “Did yu ever see Sark before he turned up to claim the Dumbbell?”

  “No, he was a stranger to me.”

  “Would he be known in Drywash?”

  “Never heard of him bein’ there,” Sloppy replied, and as though anxious to change the subject, “Jim, what d’you figure has happened to Mary—I mean, Mrs. Gray? I on’y use her front name to myself—she’s like a daughter to me.”

  “I dunno, or-timer, but we’ll find an’ fetch her back,” the marshal said heartily.

  “S’pose you got what you went to Bentley for?” the little man ventured. “You allus git what you want, don’t you, Jim?”

  “I do not,” Sudden laughed. “I’m needin’ breakfast right now, an’ it don’t look like I’ll get any.” Half an hour later he was studying the ground outside the rear of the restaurant. There were footprints in plenty, but presently he picked out those of a woman and several men which led back from the building towards the open plain. These brought him to a spot where horses had waited —the deep dents of pawing hoofs were clear. For a short distance he followed them, but soon they were merged in a multitude of tracks on the road eastwards. He returned to the Red Light.