Sudden

by Oliver Strange

  “I tell yu I never had it—that dust is mine,” the youth said savagely.

  “Yo’re sayin’ so don’t prove nothin’,” the officer retorted. “I’m a-goin’ to take yu in.”

  “Hold on, marshal,” Sudden interposed, and turned to Evans. “Did all the dust in yore belt come outa the claim yo’re workin’?”

  The man nodded sullenly.

  “Got any more of it on yu?” the cowpuncher continued.

  Goldy dug down into his pocket and produced a little leathern sack—his “poke”. “What I took out today—kept it for spendin’,” he explained, and with an ugly look at Luce, “Yu missed that, didn’t yu?”

  “What’s the big idea?” Slype inquired.

  “Just this, marshal,” the C P foreman replied. “I’ve heard old miners say that gold dust varies considerable, even when it comes from the same locality. P’raps there’s someone here who can speak to that?”

  A shrivelled, bent man of over sixty, dressed in patched, nondescript garments, thrust through the crowd. Out of his lined, leathery face the small eyes still gleamed brightly. In a high, cracked voice which was not improved by the quid of tobacco he was chewing, he corroborated the puncher’s statement.

  “I c’n see what the young fella’s drivin’ at, an’ he’s dead right, marshal; any old

  `Forty-niner’ could tell yu as much. If the dust in them two pokes ain’t exactly sim’lar, Luce didn’t slug Evans, an’ yu c’n bet a stack on it. Lemme look at ‘em.”

  The marshal scowled, but he could not refuse the test. Two sheets of paper were brought and, amidst breathless silence, the old miner poured a little of the dust from each poke and bent over the tiny heaps. Then in turn he took a pinch from each and rolled the particles between his gnarled finger and thumb. Straightening up, he looked round triumphantly.

  “They ain’t noways the same,” he announced confidently. “Goldy’s dust is coarser in grain an’ a mite darker in colour. Reckon any o’ yu c’n see it for yoreselves.”

  The spectators surged forward to look; not that for a moment they doubted the decision of this old man who had spent nearly the whole of his life in the service of the god of Gold, and who, even now, looked at and handled the shining atoms as though they were indeed worthy of worship. Even Slype, disgruntled as he was at the destruction of what he had regarded as convincing evidence, knew that he must bow to the expert. What “California” did not know about gold had yet to be discovered. But the marshal was a poor loser.

  “Well, that seemin’ly lets yu out, Luce,” he remarked. “But I ain’t right shore allasame, an’

  I’m keepin’ an eye on yu.”

  “Keep both on an’ be damned,” the young man told him, and gathering up his belongings, pushed his way through the crowd and went to his own room.

  Sudden found him there a little later, hunched in a chair, his face buried in his hands.

  “Brace up, boy,” he said. “That’s one frame-up didn’t come off, anyways.”

  “Thanks to yu,” Luce replied. “Yu figure it was fixed?”

  “Looks thataway. It warn’t yu Evans saw, was it?”

  “Might ‘a’ been, but I fancy I was further up the valley at the time, an’ I didn’t hurry.”

  “Then the jasper who did it has a grey hoss an’ was careful not to show hisself till he was far enough off to be mistook for yu. Who do yu guess is back of it?”

  “King—my own brother,” Luce said bitterly. “He swore he’d hound me outa the country, an’ I might as well clear —I ain’t got a friend in it.”

  “Shucks, I know of two,” the puncher smiled, and the boy was instantly contrite.

  “I’m right sorry, Green; I oughta remembered yu, but I shore can’t place the other,” he said.

  “Some fellas would be satisfied with Nan Purdie’s friendship alone,” Sudden told him.

  Burdette’s face lighted up. “She still believes in me?” he asked. “How is she?”

  “Well, I gotta admit she’s lookin’ a mite peaky,” the C P man said, and grinned understandingly at the other’s expression of his regret. “Yeah, yu look as grieved as if yu’d filled a straight flush,” he bantered. “Now, yu cut out this runnin’ away chatter. Yo’re playin’ in tough luck just now, but yu’ll make the grade.”

  His confidence was infectious and, despite his despair, Luce found himself hoping again.

  There was a new decision in his voice when he said: “Yo’re right, Green. I’ll stay an’ take my medicine.”

  The rays of the rising sun were invading the misty hollows of the foothills around the base of Old Stormy when a rider loped leisurely up the trail and pulled his mount to a stop in front of the C P ranchhouse. At the sight of the girl lazily swinging in a hammock on the verandah a look of mingled admiration and satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. He swept off his broad-brimmed hat and bowed low over his horse’s mane as she descended hastily but gracefully from her perch, staring at him in amazed surprise. Still holding his hat, he surveyed her slowly from head to foot, and something in his eyes sent the hot blood to her face and neck.

  “My word, yu’ve growed up into a mighty han’some woman, Nan,” he said, and there was a caress in his tone.

  “Miss Purdie, please,” Nan retorted, and then, “I presume you didn’t ride up here to pay me compliments?”

  King Burdette laughed. “No one couldn’t blame me if I did—there’s plenty excuse,” he said. “Why, when yu were a little tad of a school-kid, yu used to think a lot o’ me.”

  It was true, though she had never suspected that he knew. Years back, when she was in her early teens, this dashing, spectacular young rider had figured largely in her dreams, though the two families were by no means friendly. She had, as a young girl will, made a hero of him.

  But, as time went on, stories of King Burdette filtered through and dispelled her childish illusions. She came to know him for what he was, handsome undoubtedly, but utterly without principle. Yet, as he sat there easily in his saddle, his lazy eyes drinking in her beauty, she was conscious of his fascination, and fought against it. Her voice was studiously cold when she spoke:

  “I’m still waiting to hear the object of your visit, Mister Burdette.”

  “Shucks! Come outa the ice-box, Nan,” King laughed, and seeing that her face did not change, he added, “Oh, well, is yore dad around? I wanta see him.”

  “Really?” she said with mild sarcasm. “Has it occurred to you that he may not share that desire?”

  Burdette smiled to himself. “Beauty, brains, an’ spirit,” he reflected. “I gotta hand it to yu, Luce, but she’s for yore betters.” Aloud he said, “Please tell him I’m here, Miss Purdie; if he’s got any sense, he’ll see me.”

  Apparently sure of the result, he got down, trailed his reins, and taking a seat on the verandah, began to roll a cigarette. Nan went in search of her father. When the ranch-owner appeared, alone, he found the unwelcome visitor smoking and surveying the landscape.

  “Mornin’, Purdie,” he greeted. “Fine view yu got here.”

  “Mebbe, but I don’t know as yu improve it,” came the blunt answer. “What’s yore errand?”

  Before Burdette could reply, a thud of hoofs announced another arrival—the marshal.

  Getting down in front of the verandah, he nodded heavily to the pair.

  “The C P is gettin’ precious popular seemin’ly,” Purdie said sarcastically. “What might yu be wantin’, Slype?”

  “Heard King was headed this way an’ thought I’d better come along,” the officer replied.

  “Which of us was yu aimin’ to protect?” asked the rancher sneeringly.

  “It’s my job to prevent trouble,” Slype replied.

  “Yu needn’t to have bothered, Sam,” Burdette said easily. “There won’t be none—o’ my makin’—but seein’ yo’re here, yu might as well listen to what I have to say to Purdie.”

  “Fly at it,” the cattleman said curtly.

  “Well, Purdie,
I’m here to propose peace,” Burdette began. “We’re the two biggest outfits in Windy, an’ if we start scrappin’, the whole community’ll suffer. Where’s the sense in it?”

  “My boy lies over there,” the old man said grimly, waving a hand towards the valley.

  “Killed by a cowardly coyote who carries yore name.”

  “It ain’t been proved, an’ anyways, until he clears hisself, he’s a stranger to the Burdettes,” King pointed out. “I reckon that puts the attitude o’ the Circle B pretty plain.”

  “Mart did that the other night in `The Lucky Chance’ when he said Luce had done a good job,” Purdie said incisively.

  “Mart was drunk,” King replied, adding meaningly, “An’ he thought a lot o’ Dad.”

  “The C P had nothin’ to do with that,” Purdie rasped.

  “Yu say so, an’ I’m tellin’ yu the same about Kit,” Burdette retorted. “If Luce bumped off yore boy it was a personal matter. What else yu got against the Circle B?”

  At this moment Sudden stepped from the house on to the verandah and paused when he saw that his employer had visitors. Purdie presented his new foreman as such, and a little frown creased the brow of King Burdette.

  “Yu didn’t tell me yu was takin’ charge here when I offered yu a job,” he said.

  “Did I have to?” the puncher asked coolly.

  “What was yu sayin’ this mornin’ ‘bout some steers yu found, Green?” the rancher cut in.

  The foreman told of the re-branded cattle he had discovered hidden on the range, and the face of the Circle B man flamed as he heard the story.

  “Yu accusin’ me o’ rustlin’ yore cows?” he asked stormily. “What’s the great idea?”

  “Well, when the brands are healed the cattle could be sneaked over an’ thrown into yore herds, or they could be found where they are, when it would look like we’d been stealin’ from yu,” Sudden pointed out. “On’y yore outfit would be interested in puttin’ yore brand on our beasts.”

  “Bah! Chicken-feed,” King sneered. He turned to the marshal. “Looks to me like a plain frame-up—tryin’ to pin a rustlin’ on the Circle B.”

  “Shore does,” the officer agreed.

  “See here, Purdie,” King went on. “It’s the first I’ve heard of this, but I’ll look into it, an’ if I find any o’ my outfit have been usin’ a straight iron I’ll hand ‘em over to yu, even if it’s my own brothers. Can’t say fairer than that. Now all this chatter ain’t gettin’ us nowhere. I’m offerin’ yu my hand; will yu take it?”

  The rancher’s jaw was set, his eyes cold. “I’d sooner shake with a rattlesnake than a Burdette,” he said harshly. “Fetch me the murderer o’ my son, with a rope round his neck, an’ mebbe I’ll tell yu different.”

  Burdette looked at the marshal, and Sudden could have sworn there was satisfaction in the glance; the man had hoped for such a termination to the interview. He stood up, lifting his shoulders in a gesture of hopelessness.

  “Yu heard that, Sam?” he said, and there was little of disappointment in his tone. “Good thing yu happened along; yu can bear witness that I did my utmost to dodge trouble, but this old fool wants war. Well, by God, he shall have it, an’ that goes.”

  The exultation in the savage, sneering voice was plain enough now; the man had cast off all pretence.

  Purdie too had risen, his hand not far from his gun. He laughed scornfully. “Yu can’t bluff me, Burdette,” he said. “Mebbe I’m what yu called me, but I ain’t blind. Yu egg yore brother on to kill Kit, an’ yu stand aside an’ let him bear the blame; yu brand my cattle an’ leave ‘em where they’ll be found so’s I’ll start somethin’. Then yu come here with lying offers o’ peace which yu know damn well I don’t listen to o’ purpose to put me in wrong with the town.”

  “Lookit, Purdie…” the marshal protested.

  “Shut yore trap,” the old man told him, and to Burdette, “Get off my land, pronto, an’ take yore tame dawg with yu.”

  Sudden saw the man’s face whiten under the tan, sensed the passion that was urging him to pull his gun and shoot Purdie then and there, and realized that only his own presence prevented it. For a brief moment Burdette fought his fury, and then came an ugly snarl: “Yu take the pot—this time, but I’ll get yu, yore ranch, an’ yore girl, Purdie, even if yu pack yore place with two-gunmen.”

  With a glare at Sudden he swaggered from the verandah, sprang into the saddle, and spurred his horse down the trail. The marshal would have spoken, but a contemptuous gesture from the cattleman stopped him.

  “Get agoin’,” Purdie said. “Yore master will be whistlin’ for yu.”

  When the pair had vanished, the ranch-owner turned and looked at his foreman. “What yu think of it?” he asked.

  “I reckon yu got their measure,” was the reply. “Funny ‘bout them cattle, though; I don’t believe he knowed of ‘em.”

  Purdie laughed incredulously. “When yu savvy the Burdettes as well as I do, yu’ll figure ‘em at the back o’ most o’ the dirty work around here,” he said. “Anyways, they know what I think of ‘em. King would ‘a’ drawed on me if yu hadn’t been here.”

  The puncher’s eyes twinkled. “Yeah, but I was, an’ not bein’ a fool, he didn’t forget it,” he replied.

  “What d’yu guess’ll be their first move?”

  “I expect they’ll try to abolish that two-gun hombre King mentioned.”

  The rancher’s face grew grave. “Jim, I’d no right to rope yu into my trouble—this ain’t no ordinary foreman’s job,” he said. “If yu wanta reconsider…”

  “Forget it, seh,” Sudden smiled. “I came here knowin’, an’ when I start anythin’ I aim to finish it.”

  Purdie’s relief was evident. In declaring war on the Circle B he had relied greatly upon the aid of this lean-jawed, level-eyed stranger, of whom he knew nothing and yet trusted implicitly.

  Chapter IX

  IN the big, littered living-room at the Circle B that same evening four men sat in conference—King Burdette, his brothers Mart and Sim, and one of their outfit. This last had an arresting appearance. Between thirty-five and forty years of age, of slight build, he had one remarkable feature —a skin, which even the fierce sun of the South-west could not colour; his clean-shaven face was white, the unhealthy, sickly white of something grown in darkness, and in this deathly pallor were set blue eyes like polished stones, un-winking, expressionless.

  “Whitey”—for so the man was known—never smiled, his face might have been a marble mask, but lacked the dignity of the carven stone. He wore two guns, and his long, talon-like fingers were never far from their butts.

  “Well, boys, I saw Purdie this mornin’ an’—like I guessed—he’s all set for war—wouldn’t listen to nothin’ else,” King began, and grinned. “Slippery was there, by chance, o’ course. That puts us right with Windy; Chris won’t get no sympathy there. So we can go ahead.”

  “An’ with Kit outa the way there shouldn’t be no difficulty,” Mart added.

  “There’s on’y one, far’s I can see,” King rejoined. “Purdie has scooped in that two-gun stranger, Green, an’ made him foreman. I’m tellin’ yu this; he’s got a good one.”

  “We oughta’ve gathered him in ourselves,” Sim stated.

  “I tried to, but Purdie had beat me to it,” the elder brother told him. “Mark me, that fella means trouble for us; twice he’s got Luce out of a jam—if it hadn’t been for him that young fool would ‘a’ been off our hands for good. There’s another thing; he claims to have found a bunch o’ cattle with the C P brand changed to Circle B, penned up on Purdie’s range. Any o’ yu know about it?”

  They all shook their heads. “Odd number that,” Mart said. “Our boys wouldn’t do it without orders. An’ why leave ‘em there?”

  “It’ll need lookin’ into, but can wait.” King decided. “The main point is what we goin’ to do about Green?”

  “Leave him to me,” Whitey said.

  Callous as
they were, the cold, passionless voice sent a shiver through the others; they sensed an eagerness to slay for the sake of slaying—for they knew his proposal meant nothing less than death. Whitey was a killer of the worst type—one who sold his dexterity to the highest bidder, and regarded the taking of human life as no more important than twisting the neck of a chicken.

  “He totes a coupla guns an’ we don’t know how good he is with ‘em,” King observed.

  “If he can beat me to the draw he’ll do what twelve other fellas failed at,” the killer replied darkly.

  “Thirteen’s an unlucky number, Whitey,” Sim commented.

  “Shore will be—for him,” came the grim retort. “I’ll be in town to-night; mebbe meet up with him.”

  King shook his head. “We gotta wait a week at least,” he decided. “To do it sooner would be a fair giveaway.”

  “Well, what’s a week, anyways?” the gunman grimaced. “He’ll be a long whiles dead. It’ll cost yu boys five hundred.”

  The “boys” nodded agreement, regarding him curiously. They had no illusions about the man, being well aware that he would have undertaken to destroy any one of them for a sufficient sum.

  “Yo’re a cold-blooded devil, Whitey,” Mart said. “One o’ these days yu’ll tumble up against a fella who’s a mite quicker’n yu are, an’ then…”

  The killer’s thin, pale lips twisted a little, which, in him, signified amusement. “I’ve met that fella,” he said. “Yes, sir, some years ago, way down in Texas. He warn’t much more’n a boy, but his draw was a shinin’ merricle. I was reckoned fast, but he left me standin’ still. Had an odd trick o’ speaking his piece, half turnin’ away, an’ the next yu knowed he had yu covered.”

  “He let yu off, Whitey?” King queried, with lifted eyebrows.

  “He let me off, yeah, when he had me set,” the gunman said. “I’ll never forgive him for that.” In his voice was a bitter hate for the man who had allowed him to live. “Said I looked sick, an’ I’ll bet I did too, an’ that a spell o’ travel would be good for my health.”