For though he had talked but little, the mere mention of his objective had produced raised eyebrows and other symptoms of surprise, and this had become more marked as he proceeded. A citizen of one town he stayed at even expressed his wonder verbally.
“I ain’t presumin’, stranger, but why ever should yu wanta go to Windy?” he asked. “On’y fella I ever knowed who visited there was bored to death.”
“Too slow for him, huh?” the traveller suggested.
“No, too fast—it was a .45 slug what bored him,” chuckled the speaker. “The drinks are shore on yu, stranger.”
The cowpuncher laughed and paid; he had been fairly caught. But beneath the surface he sensed a serious undercurrent, an unwillingness to talk about the town to which he was travelling. The keeper of the hotel at Doverton had flatly refused to answer his questions.
“Windy is bad medicine,” he had said. “King Burdette has a long arm an’ a heavy fist at the end of it.”
Sudden smiled grimly as he recalled the remark; the fact that Doverton was no less than forty miles from Windy suggested that Burdette was an opponent to be approached warily.
Beyond the bare statement that there was a mess to be cleared up, and that it would require a man with all his wits about him, some good luck, and an outstanding ability to take care of himself, the Governor had told him little. As a man will, who spends long, lonely hours with a horse, he confided in the animal.
“Dunno what sorta hornets’ nest we’re a-steppin’ into, Nig,” he said, “but there’s one way to find out. G’wan, yu cinder from hell.” The big black swung its head round, lips lifted to show the strong teeth, and the rider grinned sardonically. “Playin’ yu’d like to bite me, huh? Yu old fraud,” and he stroked the sleek neck.
The trail, which might have been no more than a runway for wild creatures, dropped down in a zigzag from the mesa and plunged into a big patch of pines. Pacing leisurely beneath the pillared arches of the forest, the puncher’s thoughts reverted to the little man who had sought him out to send him on this errand of danger. He knew that by doing so Bleke had saved him from a worse fate. Saddled, unjustly, with the reputation of an outlaw, hunted in certain parts of his own country, Texas, for offences of which he was not guilty, it would have taken little more to turn him into a desperado. Bleke had known it. Sudden himself knew it, and was conscious of a sense of satisfaction in being definitely arrayed on the side of law and order; though, as a young man will, he affected a quizzical disdain, even to himself.
“We’re respectable folk now, Nig, workin’ for Uncle Sam, an’ we gotta be good,” he drawled. “No more hellin’ round, no fights—the soft answer that turneth away wrath for us every time; we gotta let ourselves be tromped on, yu sabe?”
The animal shook its head and whinneyed softly.
“Makes yu laugh, huh?” the rider continued. “Well, I don’t blame yu at that, but allasame, if I catch yu chewin’ up another gent’s hoss I’ll just naturally larrup the linin’ outa yu.”
Emerging from the pines, they came upon evidence of civilization. Facing a small valley was a one-storeyed log-cabin, with a truck-patch and rude corral. Lounging in the doorway was a man of middle age, whose sullen eyes surveyed the intruder curiously. Chewing on the stem of a corncob pipe, his right hand was behind the door-jamb, and Sudden guessed that the fellow had a weapon handy; he was clearly suspicious of this capable-looking stranger who reined up and greeted him with a grin.
“Howdy, friend! Might this be the way to Windy?”
“It might, for a man who ain’t in a hurry.”
“So I’ve strayed some, huh?” the rider smiled. “Well, I got all the time there is.” His gaze took in the slovenly building, noted the half-hearted attempt at cultivation and the few cattle feeding in the valley. “Yu shore picked a nice location.”
The sneer on the man’s face deepened. “Place is all right if a fella was let alone,” he said;
“But what’s the use o’ gettin’ ambitious when yo’re liable to be run off any time? `Nesters’ ain’t popular in these parts, nor in any others fur as I can make out,” he added bitterly.
“If I’d filed on a bit o’ land like this it’d take a lot to stampede me,” the puncher stated.
“Mebbe, an’ then again, mebbe not,” the homesteader retorted, his querulous voice rising.
“Buckin’ the Burdette boys ain’t paid nobody yet.”
Ere Sudden could reply to this a horseman galloped round a bend in the trail just beyond the cabin and pulled his pony to a slithering stop in front of them. He was young—little more than twenty—with a freckled face and blue eyes which had a frosty glint in them as they rested on the nester.
“What yu belly-achin’ about the Burdettes for, Fosbee?” he asked, and when the man did not reply, he asked, “Who’s yore friend?”
“Dunno,” Fosbee said sulkily. “Stopped to ask the way to Windy.”
The young man turned an interested gaze upon the puncher, who, lolling easily in his saddle, returned it with amused indifference. A likeable enough youth, he decided, but somewhat over-imbued with his own importance. He got out the makings, rolled and lighted a cigarette, waiting for the question he knew would come. The freckled one fidgeted with his reins for a moment.
“Yo’re a stranger here?” he said.
Sudden smiled. “Someone musta told yu,” he replied with gentle sarcasm.
The young man flushed. “What’s yore business in Windy?” he asked bluntly.
The cowpuncher was still smiling. “Well, it ain’t advertisin’,” he replied meaningly.
The snub brought the hot blood again into the boy’s cheeks, and for a moment it seemed that he would give vent to his anger. Then, with a little lift of the shoulders, he swung his pony round and spurred away without another word. Sudden watched him disappear with a speculative eye, and then turned to Fosbee, whose countenance was more lugubrious than ever.
“Member o’ the Royal Family, I take it,” he said, and seeing the man did not get his meaning, he added, “One o’ the Burdettes, huh?”
“Yeah, that was Luce—they called him Lucifer ‘count of his havin’ a red head like a match,” Fosbee explained. “An’ he’s the best o’ the bunch, though that ain’t sayin’ a lot.”
“He certainly don’t actually despise hisself,” the puncher grinned. “How many o’ the tribe is there?”
“King Burdette an’ three brothers—use ter be five in the family, but the Ol’ Man got bumped off three-four months back; shot from cover, he was, over on War Axe Ridge. Nobody knows who done it, but the Burdettes blame the Purdies—there’s allus been bad blood between ‘em. If I was young Kit Purdie I’d leave the country.”
“Folks would take it he was guilty,” the puncher pointed out.
“Mebbe, but he’d be alive,” the other said dourly. “Yu mark my words, the Burdette boys will get him.”
Sudden changed the subject; he did not want to betray more than the natural curiosity of a stranger in local affairs. “What chance for a cow-wrastler around her?” he inquired.
“Middlin’ slim,” was the reply. “There’s the Circle B —that’s Burdette, the C P — Purdie’s ranch, an’ the Box S —a small one owned by Slype, the marshal, who’s too mean to spit. Purdie is yore best bet; he’s a white man.”
“Yu don’t recommend Burdette, huh?” the puncher smiled.
“If yo’re quick with a gun an’ ain’t pertic’ler, yes,” retorted the other. “I’m takin’ it yo’re honest.”
“Thank you,” the visitor said gravely. “Likely I’ll go gravel-grubbin’ for a spell; I’m told there’s gold around here.”
“That’s so—Windy started on a gold boom, but it soon petered out. Yu can get `colour’ a’most anywheres in the sand o’ Thunder River, but that’s all yu do get. There’s fellas still pannin’ an’ pocket-minin’ the slopes o’ the valley, but they don’t hardly make more’n a grub-stake.”
“If they could strike the mothe
r-lode —”
“Yu ain’t the first to think o’ that,” Fosbee cut in. “I reckon every man in town has searched one time or another. Some claims it’s up on Ol’ Stormy, an’ mebbe that’s why ” He paused suddenly. “I’m jawin’ too much,” he added. “See yu later, p’raps.”
He turned abruptly into the house, leaving the traveller no choice but to ride on, thoughtfully considering what he had learned. Actually it did not amount to much. Fosbee did not impress him favourably—a sour, disgruntled fellow who would vent his venom on any more successful than himself, but his fear of the Burdettes was evident.
“An’ I’m bettin’ that boy ain’t bad,” the puncher mused. “O’ course, his manhood is some recent”—he himself was but a few years older—“an’ I expect he ain’t had much experience, but I liked the look of him.”
Less than half an hour brought him to the rim of a widish gully, the sloping sides of which were covered with vegetation—spruce, juniper, cactus, and tall grasses. Along the bottom ran a tiny, twisted stream fringed with willows and cottonwoods. The sight of the water made him thirsty, and he was casting about for the best place to descend when the angry crash of a rifle awoke a succession of echoes, giving the impression of a fusillade. There was but one shot, however, and a ballooning puff of smoke, a little way up the opposing incline, showed whence it came. In a flash the puncher was out of the saddle and crouching behind an outcrop of rock. A moment later he realized that he was not the target, for, from a dense mass of brush almost on the floor of the gully, a rifle spoke in reply. Two simultaneous reports from the other side followed, and leaving his horse, Sudden searched for a break in the foliage.
Meanwhile the strange duel continued, but now only two were firing, one against the other. Had the third man been wiped out? The puncher, whose sympathy had instinctively been for the weaker party, found himself hoping that this was the case. Presently he happened upon a spit of grass-covered rock which jutted out, and, by worming along it on his belly, was able to overlook the spot where the lone marksman was ensconced. Kneeling behind the prostrate trunk of a windfall, his rifle in readiness, a man dressed in the garb of the range was peering intently across the gully. For a while nothing happened, and then from the opposite slope came a single shot. Sudden saw the man below raise his rifle, but ere he could press the trigger another report rang out and he slumped down, the weapon dropping from nerveless fingers. High up on the rising ground behind the stricken fighter, smoke curled from the midst of a tree. The watcher cursed as he realized what had taken place.
“Damnation, they’ve outplayed him,” he muttered, and scrambling back to the rim of the gully, grabbed his rifle from the saddle, and began to run in the direction from which the fatal shot had come. Before he could reach it, however, the thud of hoofs on the trail told him that he was too late. And so it proved. Hundreds of yards distant he had a momentary glimpse of a grey horse, and fired at it. He knew the shot was useless, but it relieved his feelings. He found the tree, a big spruce, the abraded trunk of which showed how the killer had climbed up to get a clear shot at his victim. Save for an empty shell, a Winchester .38, and some faint footprints, there was no further evidence. The puncher hoisted himself into the branches, and, as he had expected, found that nothing interrupted his view of the dead man.
“Pie like mother made,” he said savagely. “One coyote keeps him busy while the other sneaks round an’ plugs him from behind. I’d shore like to meet them hombres.”
With grim, unblinking eyes he searched the valley, but beyond the frequent flash of a bird’s wing no sign of life rewarded his scrutiny. Satisfied that the assassins had decamped, he dropped from the tree, and, leading his horse, began to work his way down to the scene of the tragedy. This took time, for he had often to force a passage through the tangle of undergrowth, and detours to avoid miniature precipices were necessary. So that it was nearly half an hour before he stood, hat in hand, beside what, only a short time ago, had been a human being in all the vigour of early manhood.
One thing the puncher saw at a glance—it was not, as he had suspected, young Burdette.
Though about the same age, the dead man had dark hair, and the glazed eyes which stared up at the blue sky when Sudden turned the body over were a deep brown. Death had been instant, for the bullet, entering under the left shoulder-blade, had penetrated the heart. A whinny took him to a neighbouring thicket, where he found a tied pony bearing the brand C P. At the sight of this his frown deepened.
“Looks like them Burdettes has got even,” he muttered; and then, “That fella Luce was ridin’ a grey. Well, s’pose I’ll have to take him in; can’t leave the body here for the buzzards.”
He draped the corpse, face downwards, across the saddle of its own pony, securing it with the lariat hanging from the horn, and then, riding his own horse and leading the other, headed into the valley, where he found a dim trail which appeared likely to take him to the town. Pacing soberly along, his thoughts naturally dwelt upon the grisly burden jolting spasmodically on the back of the other animal. That it was a corpse concerned him little—violent death was no new thing to him, but the manner in which it had been brought about put a savage set to his lips and gave the grey-blue eyes a flinty expression.
“It shore looks bad for Mister Luce,” he mused. “I wouldn’t ‘a’ said he was that sort.”
It was possible that the slain man was only one of the C P outfit, but remembering what Fosbee had said, Sudden shook his head at the thought; he was only too sure that the nester had been a true prophet.
“It’ll mean trouble, ol hoss,” he confided to his mount —“big trouble; an’ what I’m packin’ in will certainly start it, but I couldn’t do nothin’ else.”
Chapter III
WINDY, so called—according to a facetious dweller therein —because it never was, lay in the middle of a large saucer-like depression enclosed by forest-clad slopes which were themselves walled in by an oval of craggy, granite hills. At the western end of the valley towered Old Stormy, a formidable cone of ribbed and turreted rock, the source of Thunder River, which, after a tempestuous journey through the wild gorges of the mountain-side, became a wide, and, in summer, a shallow stream rolling lazily along its sandy bed to depart placidly by way of a break in the hills. The eastern limit of the valley was dominated by a tree-and scrub-covered, squat pile known as Battle Butte.
The westering sun was sinking behind the hills in a flare of crimson fire when Sudden rode into the town. The place presented no features of interest, and save for the surrounding scenery, might have been any one of the many he had passed through. The same dusty, hoof-and wheel-rutted street formed by two irregular rows of buildings, the most pretentious of which were of log or ‘dobe, the others being mere shacks with dirt roofs, or dug-outs. Only a few of the erections boasted a second storey; several displayed the false front, but the sun-scorched, warped shingles rendered the device a transparent one in both senses of the word. The absence of paint was remedied by the grey-white alkali dust which covered everything, and a rubble of tin cans which hemmed in each habitation formed a sordid substitute for vegetation. A cynic might well have reflected that in the whole of the valley only the work of mankind was an abomination.
Sudden found the street deserted, but before he had ridden far along it a man emerged from one of the shacks and paused, staring, when he saw the new arrival, who promptly asked for the marshal’s office.
“Furder up, but if yo’re needin’ Sam, yu’d better try Magee’s. I’ll show yu,” the man replied. “Whose remainders are yu totin’?”
“That’s what I wanta find out,” the traveller told him.
Anxious to be first with the news, the other asked no more questions. Clumping along the board sidewalk, he made better time than could the horses in the loose sand, and presently disappeared through the swing-doors of one of the larger buildings, which bore on a battered sign the inscription “The Lucky Chance.” By the time the puncher reached the spot
he had a following of every person he had met, and this was soon augmented by those in the saloon. The last to appear was the marshal, a smallish, wizened fellow of about thirty-five, with a narrow, crafty face, mean eyes, and a still meaner mouth which a drooping black moustache unfortunately failed to conceal. Sudden recognized the type, a bullying, arrogant jack-in-office, who would take every advantage and give none. The man’s first words confirmed this impression.
“Yu wanta see me?” he asked truculently.
“No, but I reckon I gotta,” Sudden said acidly. “I’ve brung yu a job.”
The retort evoked an audible snicker from the onlookers and a spot of colour in the sallow cheeks of the officer. He looked disgustfully at the limp form on the led horse.
“What d’yu s’pose I am—the undertaker?” he sneered.
“I’m reckonin’ that as marshal its yore job to find out who bumped off this fella,” the puncher retorted.
At a word from the marshal two of the bystanders untied the body and laid it on the sidewalk. “Hell’s flames, it’s Kit Purdie—thought I reckernized his roan! ” cried one of them; adding meaningly, “yu won’t have far to look for them as did this, Sam.”
“Keep yore fool trap closed—Up to now there ain’t nothin’ to show who done it,” the officer snapped, but his forehead wrinkled in a worried frown. “Why didn’t the damn young idjut pull his freight like I told him?”
He bent over the body and then straightened up. “Somebody fetch Doc. Toley,” he ordered, and turned to the puncher. “What d’yu know ‘bout this?”
Sitting slackly in his saddle, the puncher told his story. The mention of the glimpsed grey horse brought a curse from Slype. He looked malignantly at Sudden.
“We on’y got yore word,” he said. “Yu mighta done it yoreself.”
The accused man smiled in derision. “An’ fetched him into show yu? Oh, yeah,” he scoffed.
“It would ‘a’ bin a good bluff,” retorted the officer. “Lemme see yore gun.”
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