He too mounted and trotted leisurely away, his mind full of a young, slim girl with curly, honey-coloured hair and wide blue eyes, who now would one day own the C P ranch.
Sudden spent the evening in “The Lucky Chance.” It was a fair-sized place, with a sanded, boarded floor on which tables and chairs were dotted about, and a long bar which faced the swing-doors. Light was afforded by three big kerosene lamps slung from the roof, and a few gaudy chromos formed the only decoration save for a large tarnished mirror immediately facing the entrance. Behind the har stood the proprietor, Mick Magee, whose squat, turned-up nose and twinkling blue eyes proclaimed his nationality before he opened his mouth. A genial man until roused, and then he was a tornado. Tough as the frequenters of “The Lucky Chance” were, few of them had any desire to tangle with the sturdy Irishman when he “went on the prod.”
Just now he was all smiles, for business was brisk; most of the tables were occupied and the faro, monte, and other games were being well supported. The crowd presented the usual medley to be found in any cow town at that time, save that there were more miners, oldish men for the most part, with craggy, weather-scarred features, bent backs, and fingers calloused by constant contact with pick and shovel. Lured on by the will-o’-the-wisp of a “big strike,” they spent their days grubbing in the earth for gold and their nights in dissipating what little they found. There were those among them who remembered the hectic days of ‘49, others who had sneaked into the Black Hills, dodging the troops sent by the Government to keep them out, and risking a horrible death by torture at the hands of the Indians; days of feverish toil, with a rifle always within reach, and the knowledge that at any moment they might hear the dread war-whoop. They had found fortunes in a day and lost them in a night—and still hoped.
There was a constant hum of conversation, punctuated by bursts of laughter, and an occasional oath as the goddess of chance favoured or flouted a gambler.
Lounging carelessly at one end of the bar, Sudden’s eyes were busy, not that the scene was any novelty, but he had come to live amongst these people for a time, and he wanted to know something of them. Presently the proprietor noticed the solitary stranger and spoke to him.
“Would ye be after stayin’ wid us, Mister Green?” he asked.
“I’m all undecided,” the puncher told him with a smile. “I like the look o’ the lay-out, but, yu see, my appetite keeps regular hours, an’ I gotta work. I had a notion to find me a gold-mine.”
The saloon-keeper regarded him humorously. “Good for ye,” he replied. “But take it from me, the best way to look for wan is from the back of a hoss somewan is payin’ ye to ride.”
The hint was plain enough, and the man to whom it was given nodded a smiling acquiescence. “I guess yo’re right,” he said. “As a matter o’ fact, I’m seein’ Purdie in the mornin’.”
The remark, coming from a stranger, amounted to a question, and the Irishman took it as such. “A good man, Purdie,” he said. “His, sort, they don’t make ‘em no better.” He studied the other furtively for a few moments and decided that he was capable of taking care of himself.
Nevertheless, he uttered an indirect warning. “Chris is takin’ the loss of his only boy hard,” he went on. “I misdoubt it’ll mean bad trouble between the C P an’ the Circle B, which is the Burdette brand. Easy now, here’s a couple of them.”
Through the swing-doors came two men in cowboy trappings, tall, big-boned, dark of hair and brow, with bold, hard faces and insolent, dominant eyes. Though one was a few years the elder, and a veritable giant in build, they were sufficiently alike for their relationship to be obvious. Magee looked uneasy.
“Mart an’ Sim Burdette,” he said in an undertone. “Pretty well primed too, begad.” Then, as he turned to welcome the newcomers, the puncher caught the added words, “An ugly pair to draw to.”
Through narrowed eyes Sudden watched the brothers swagger up to the bar, and decided that the landlord was right. He noted that each wore only one gun in sight, a heavy Colt’s .45, slung below the right hip. Though they were laughing, their eyes were as cold as those of a snake. They greeted the saloon-keeper boisterously and inquired for the marshal. At that moment Slype came in.
“Hey, Slippery, I hear yo’re tryin’ to pin this Purdie play on the Burdettes,” Mart—the bigger man—said threateningly.
“Yu heard a lie,” the marshal retorted. “One or two things sorta suggested Luce, but he claims he had nothin’ to do with it.”
“Did yu expect he’d own up?” sneered the other. “An’ if he did down Purdie I’ll say he done a good job, though it don’t even the score. What yu goin’ to do about it?”
He glared round the room as though daring anyone present to dispute his callous assertion. The marshal, who knew the challenge was directed chiefly at himself, shrugged his shoulders in a poor assumption of indifference.
“Ain’t no call for me to concern m’self,” he replied. “Like I told Luce, Ol’ Man Purdie reckons him an’ his outfit can deal with it.”
“Is that so?” Mart growled. “Wants a fight, does he? Well, that suits us fine, eh, Sim?”
The younger brother laughed. “Yu betcha,” he agreed.
Slype made a gesture for appearance’ sake. “Now, see here, Mart, a range war ain’t goin’ to do this yer town no good,” he protested. “All Chris wants, I reckon, is to find out who bumped off his boy.”
“Bah! He’s plastered it on the Burdettes a’ready,” Sim said angrily. “Awright, we’ll let it go as it lays; the Burdettes can take care o’ theirselves.”
“An’ whose side are yu on, anyways, Slippery?” snapped Mart.
“I represent the law, an’ I’m agin both o’ yu,” the marshal evaded, a reply which drew an ironic laugh from the brothers. “Where’s King? Left him at Lu Lavigne’s, I reckon?”
“Yu reckon pretty good,” Sim replied, adding slyly, “Why not send if yu want him?”
“I don’t,” the officer said hastily. “I just asked. What about a little game?”
Sudden stayed a while longer, hoping to see the eldest of the Burdettes, but was disappointed. Weldon, the blacksmith, a bluff, bearded giant with whom he got into conversation, explained the marshal’s reference to King’s whereabouts. He would be at “The Plaza,” the only real rival establishment to ‘The Lucky Chance.’ It was owned and run by a woman, who had bought out the former proprietor less than a year before. Save that she was young, attractive, and wise to her business, nothing was known of her.
“Calls herself Mrs. Luisa Lavigne, but no husband ain’t showed up yet,” the blacksmith said. “She’s certainly restful to the sight, but I’m layin’ she’s got Spanish blood in her, an’ a temper to match. Soon after she hung out her shingle, a cowboy tries to get fresh with her, an’ she slips a knife into him middlin’ prompt. No, he didn’t die, but it shorely puts a crimp in his affection. O’course, it don’t stop others sufferin’ from the same complaint, but it makes ‘em careful, an’ when King Burdette starts hangin’ round, most of ‘em loses interest.”
Sudden ventured to ask one direct question, and to his surprise, received an answer.
“If it comes to a fight, I opine Purdie would have most of the town against him?”
“Stranger, Purdie is liked, but the Burdettes is feared.”
Which was exactly what the puncher wanted to know.
Chapter V
THE C P ranchhouse occupied a little plateau in the foothills around the base of Old Stormy, facing the great valley in which, ten miles distant, lay the town of Windy. Solidly built of ‘dobe bricks and shaped logs, with chimneys of stone, it had an imposing appearance despite the fact that it consisted of one storey only. A broad, covered verandah, paved with pieces of rock, stretched along the front of the building, and to the left were the bunkhouse, barns, and corrals. A few cottonwoods, spared when the ground had been first cleared, provided shade. At the back of the house a grassy slope climbed gently to the black pines which belte
d the mountain.
Sudden found the owner on the verandah.
“Mornin’, friend,” Purdie greeted, and pulled forward a chair. “That’s a good hoss yu got.”
“Shore is,” replied the puncher, and waited.
“Made them plans yet?” came the question, and when the visitor replied in the negative, another silence ensued. Sudden was aware that the cattleman was sizing him up, turning over some problem. Presently he straightened as though he had come to a decision.
“Kit was my foreman,” he said slowly. “Like his job?”
The puncher stared at him in surprise; he had expected an offer to ride for the ranch, but not to be put in charge. His reply was noncommittal :
“Yore outfit won’t admire takin’ orders from a stranger.”
“Yu needn’t worry about that; they’re good boys an’ they’ll back my judgment,” Purdie said confidently. “Yu see, it ain’t just a question o’ runnin’ the ranch—a’most any one o’ them could do that—but outguessin’ that Burdette crowd is a hoss of a different brand. I’m gamblin’ yu can swing it—if yo’re willin’ to take the risk.”
The visitor’s jaw hardened. “Here’s somethin’ yu oughts to know,” he said, and went on to relate the scene he had witnessed in “The Lucky Chance” the previous evening. The cattleman nodded gloomily.
“Yu’ll be buyin’ into trouble aplenty,” he said. “I dunno as it’s fair to ask yu. Them Burdettes is the toughest proposition. For about a year past there’s been doin’s–bank robberies, stage hold-ups, cattle-stealin’s, within a radius of a hundred miles, an’ that gang on Battle Butte is suspected. They’s a hard lot—half of ‘em ain’t cowmen a-tall, just gun-fighters, an’ there’s twice the number necessary to handle their herds. I sent a writing to Governor Bleke—rode the range with him when we was both kids tellin’ him how things was an’ that the Burdettes was a plain menace, but I s’pose he’s a busy man; I ain’t had no reply.”
“I reckon mebbe I’m it,” Sudden smiled, and went on to tell of the happenings in Juniper, omitting, however, the name his gun-play had earned for him.
The cattleman’s face shone; his hand came out to grip that of his guest. “I’m damned glad to meet yu, Green?” he said heartily. “Yu got any plan?”
“I’m takin’ the job yu offered, Purdie,” he said. “But I gotta play ‘possum, remember; I’m just an ordinary cowpunch who has pulled his picket-pin an’ is rovin’ round, sabe?” Purdie nodded, and Sudden added irrelevantly, “I don’t believe that fella Luce did the killin’.”
“His own brothers didn’t deny it,” the old man pointed out.
“That’s so, an’ I can’t quite savvy it,” Sudden admitted. “Allasame, Luce struck me as bein’ straight.”
The rancher was about to reply when his daughter appeared. Seeing the stranger, she would have retired again, but her father called her.
“Meet Mister Green, Nan,” he said. “He’s goin’ to be foreman here.”
She shook hands, a kindness in her eyes for which he could not account. Her words explained it, or at least he thought so.
“I have to thank you for—what you did,” she said.
The new foreman fidgeted with his feet; he would rather have faced a man with a gun than this dewy-eyed, grateful girl.
“It don’t need mentionin’,” he stammered.
“Green’s goin’ to help us find the slinkin’ cur that did it, Nan,” Purdie put in harshly : and to the puncher, “Well, Jim, fetch yore war-bags along an’ start in soon’s yu like; it’ll be a relief to know yo’re on the job.”
“I’ll be on hand in the mornin’,” the puncher promised. They watched until a grove of trees hid him from view, and then the rancher asked a question.
“I like him,” Nan replied. “But isn’t it taking a chance? We know nothing about him.”
“Mebbe it is, but I’m playin’ a hunch,” her father told her. “That fella ain’t no common cowpunch. He’s young, but he’s had experience, an’ them guns o’ his ain’t noways new. I’m bettin’ he’ll make them Burdette killers think.”
Just at the moment, however, it was the other way about, for the new foreman’s brain was busy with the burden he had so promptly undertaken. He had no illusion as to the nature of his task; he had been hired to fight the Burdette family, and, judging by the samples he had seen, and the information he had gained regarding their outfit, he was likely to have his hands full. A thin smile wreathed his lips; the little man in Juniper had not over-stated the case.
Absorbed in his thoughts, he was pacing slowly through a miniature forest when a little cry aroused him, and he looked up to see a woman running along the trail ahead of him. Fifty yards in front of her a saddled pony was trotting. A touch of the spur sent Nigger rocketing past the pedestrian and in a few moments Sudden was back again, his rope round the runaway’s neck.
He found the woman sitting on a fallen tree-trunk. She was young—about his own age, he estimated—and her oval face—the skin faintly tanned by the sun—black hair and eyes, made her good to look upon. A neat riding costume displayed her perfect figure to advantage. He noted that her cheeks were but slightly flushed and her breathing betrayed no sign of haste.
“Gracias, senor,” she greeted in a low, sweet voice. “I descend to peek ze flower an’ my ponce vamos.”
The puncher grinned, twitched his loop from the animal’s neck and flung the reins to the ground.
“If yu’d done that he’d ‘a’ stayed put,” he exclaimed. Her eyes widened. “So?” she said.
“The senor weel see zat I am w’at is call a sore-foot, yes?”
Sudden laughed and said. “The word is `tenderfoot.’ ” His gaze travelled to her trim high boots. “Yu’ve shore got a pretty one,” he added.
The lady dimpled deliciously, and lifting her feet from the ground, inspected their shapeliness critically.
“You like heem?” she asked archly.
“I like heem,” the puncher repeated. “I like heem both. Now, s’pose we drop the baby-talk an’ speak natural; yu ain’t no Greaser.”
The girl’s eyes danced. “So young, and yet—so wise,” she bantered.
“My second name is Solomon,” he told her gravely. “Mebbe yu’ve heard of him?”
“Oh yes, he was the first Mormon, I believe,” she smiled. “I hope you…”
Sudden shook his head emphatically. “Not one,” he said.
“Why, of course not, at your age,” she replied, and then, as he bent down from the saddle to study the sleek black head—from which she had now removed the hat—more closely, her feminine fears were aroused. “What is the matter?” she cried.
“I’m lookin’ for the grey hairs,” he said solemnly. “They seem to be plenty absent.”
“Dios! But you scared me,” she said, in real or pretended relief. “I thought that you had found some, or that a rattlesnake was looking over my shoulder. You are rather a disconcerting person, Mister Green.”
“Yu know me?” the puncher queried.
“Of course,” she smiled. “Your arrival created quite a sensation.” Her voice sobered.
“That poor Mister Purdie, and Kit was such a nice boy. Now, can you guess who I am?”
“No need to guess—yu must be Mrs. Lavigne,” Sudden replied. “Someone was tellin’ me about yu.”
“Nothing bad, I hope?” she asked anxiously.
“No, it was a man,” the puncher grinned. “He said yu were restful to the sight.”
She laughed delightedly. “So you might venture to come and see me at `The Plaza,’ ” she suggested. “That is, if you are staying in Windy.”
“I’m goin’ to ride for Purdie,” he told her.
The news struck the merriment from her face. She hesitated as though about to speak, and then put on her hat, settling it with a deft touch, stood up, grasped the reins of her pony and was in the saddle before he could dismount to help her.
“I’m goin’ to town too,” he suggested.
She shook her head. “No, no, my friend, but—you may come to see me,” she smiled.
Ere he could remonstrate, the pony was racing along the trail. At the first bend, its rider turned in the saddle, waved gaily, and vanished, leaving the puncher pondering. Why had she changed when he told her he was to ride for the C P? The answer was not hard to find—he would be opposed to King Burdette, and King Burdette was what—to her? He patted the satiny neck of the black horse, which, in colour and sheen, matched the hair of the girl who had just left him.
“I’m bettin’ she stampeded that pony,” he said reflectively. “Nig, this yer neck o’ the woods is a heap more dangerous than the governor man let on. The matrimonial noose is harder to dodge than a ha’r rope, an’ we ain’t got no time for foolishness. There’s a tangle here to straighten out, an’ then …”
The furrow between his eyebrows came into evidence as his thoughts went to the quest which had sent him—a mere boy—prowling the country like a lone wolf. Years had been spent on it, and more were to pass ere its fulfillment, which has been told in another place.
**
The Circle B ranch was a bachelor establishment. Old Man Burdette had lost his wife many years before he met his own untimely end, and the housekeeping and upbringing of the boys had devolved upon Mandy, a negress who had served the family nearly all her life.
The ranchhouse was a pretentious one for the time and place. Two-storeyed, built of trimmed logs chinked with clay, it occupied a bench about half-way up the face of Battle Butte, and was reached by a rough, winding wagon-road from the valley. At the back of the building, the brush and tree-clad ground rose steeply. It was not an ideal location, and Old Burdette never forgave himself for not having a look at the other end of the valley. It was not until Purdie arrived and settled on Old Stormy that the first corner realized he had blundered, and this was the beginning of the ill-feeling between the families.
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