Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940)

by Oliver Strange

  “Sleepin’ it off in the calaboose. I’ll deal with him in the mornin’.”

  Chapter II

  UNEVENTFUL days slid by, and the marshal’s reputation grew. His calm demeanour, ready smile, and brevity of speech afforded a striking contrast to the bullying, loud-voiced, intemperate peace-officers so frequently found in frontier settlements. Sloppy became his slave and, to the amazement of all, a sober man. He had appointed himself general factotum to his preserver, doing all the domestic duties at the quarters which Welcome provided for its representative of the law.

  But the popularity of the new officer was by no means universal; Jake had his following, and though he made no open move, he was not idle. Nippert had news of this when, about a week after the appointment, a visitor strode into the Red Light and greeted him gruffly. Tall, heavily-built, little more than thirty, he had a puffy, clean-shaven face, small bloodshot eyes, and a weak sensuous mouth, the downward droop of which gave him a petulant expression.

  “‘Lo, Sark, anythin’ troublin’ you?” the saloon-keeper asked.

  “I hear you’ve given the post o’ marshal to a stranger.”

  “You heard correct.”

  “Then you gotta make another change.”

  “When did you buy it?” Nippert asked ironically. “Buy what?” Sark snapped.

  “This town.” The rancher glared. “Jake had the job comin’ to him.”

  “Jake has a lot comin’ to him,” was the retort. “He’ll be lucky if he ain’t here when it arrives.”

  “Quit foolin’,” Sark said angrily. “What d’you know about this outsider?”

  “Mighty little, but we knowed a deal about Jake, an’ there you have it.” Nippert grinned as the door was darkened. “‘Lo, marshal, meet Mister Sark, o’ the Dumbbell ranch.” The cattleman spun round and stared at the new arrival, his beady eyes clearly conveying hostility, but they soon fell before the steady gaze which met them. Neither man put out a hand.

  “Mister Sark was sayin’ I oughta bounce you an’ give the job to Jake,” the saloon-keeper went on.

  “I said you had acted unwisely, an’ unfairly to Mullins,” Sark corrected. “He’s the better man.”

  “An’ me a stranger to yu,” Sudden said softly.

  “He can shoot quicker an’ straighter than anyone in these parts,” the rancher asserted meaningly.

  “Well, that makes it easy for him—mebbe,” the marshal retorted. “All he has to do is—prove it.”

  “He’ll do that, give him the chance,” Sark promised, and with an ugly scowl, slouched out.

  Nippert looked a little apprehensive. “Jake’s mighty good on the draw,” he offered.

  Sudden’s smile was enigmatic. “He shall have his chance, but not in the way that fella thinks. I reckon there’s others around here who fancy their shootin’ some?”

  “Shore is.”

  “Good, we’ll stage a li’l contest.” He went on to explain his proposal, and as he listened the saloon-keeper’s face expanded in a broad grin.

  So, in the Red Light that evening, the saloon-keeper contrived to start an argument on marksmanship, always a fruitful topic of interest among Westerners.

  “I reckon shootin’ ain’t what it used to be,” he opined. “Where are you goin’ to find fellas like Bill Hickok, Doc Holliday, an’ the Earps, to name on’y a few?”

  “Right here in thisyer town—mebbe,” Jake retorted. “I’m holdin’ that the doin’s o’ the ol’-timers ain’t lost nothin’ in the tellin’—tales don’t as a rule.” Nippert, who had been angling for this, smiled genially. “Boys, we’ll try it out,” he said. “Welcome ain’t had much excitement recent an’ a gun-slingin’ match, free to all comers, oughta be interestin’. I’ll put up fifty dollars as a prize. It’ll take place the third day from now; I guess some o’ the Bar O an’ Dumbbell outfits’ll want to take a hand.” The proposal was received with acclamation and wagering on the result began immediately, Mullins being easily the most fancied competitor. This swift popularity was fully in accordance with his own views.

  The news of the contest spread rapidly, and despite the fact that the result was regarded as foregone, there was a goodly gathering to look on or take part. John Owen, of the Bar O, with Reddy, his foreman, and some of the punchers had ridden in. Sark brought a half-dozen of his riders, craggy-featured, rough-looking, and rather older than those from the other ranch. The two groups kept apart, for there was no friendship between owners or outfits.

  The crowd was congregated in front of the calaboose, on one of the stout timbers of which a card—the five of diamonds—had been nailed breast-high. From this, Nippert stepped twelve paces and laid down a short board.

  “Reckon that’s about right,” he said. “What d’you say, John?”

  “Seems fair to me.” The owner of the Bar O was a tall, thin man in the middle fifties, with a long face on which a smile was seldom seen. His black coat, dark trousers thrust into the tops of his spurred boots, and soft felt hat added to the gravity of his appearance.

  “Who are you aimin’ to gamble on, Red?” Owen asked.

  “Well, they all ‘pear to think there’s on’y one man in it, but I got my own notions,” the young man replied. “Hey, Jake, what odds yu offerin’ on yoreself?”

  “I ain’t heard the conditions yet.” At that moment Nippert held up a hand for silence.

  “Entrants will stand on the board, draw an’ fire on the word from me. One shot only, an’ any hesitation will disqualify,” he announced.

  Mullins laughed. “Snap-shootin’—that suits me fine. You can have four to one, cowboy.”

  “Take yu to five dollars.”

  “Chicken-feed, but every little helps,” Jake said insolently. “Any more donations?”

  “I’ll take the same bet—twice,” Owen said quietly. “An’ I’ll go you—once.” The layer of odds spun round and saw that the last speaker was Sloppy. “You?” he jeered. “I don’t trust wasters.” Sloppy searched his clothing, produced a crumpled bill, and gave it to Owen. “Now you cover that,” he challenged. “Me, I don’t trust—anybody.” Jake’s face was furious. “Why, you drunken little rat” he began, but the rancher intervened.

  “He’s put up his stake, an’ it’s on’y fair for you to do the same,” he pointed out.

  Having no wish to quarrel with the Bar O man, the bully handed over the twenty. “You won’t have it long,” he boasted, and turned to his latest client. “As for you, next time yo’re starvin’ don’t come to my place beggin’ for a square meal.”

  “Nobody never does git a square meal there, even if they pay for one,” Sloppy retorted, with unusual hardihood.

  The bystanders sniggered, for Jake’s “place” was the local eating-house, grandiloquently styled “The Welcome Restaurant,” and famous for neither quality nor quantity. Jake opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again as the marshal came up to greet Reddy and be presented to his employer. They shook, and the rancher’s eyes travelled from the lean face to the worn butts of the guns in his belt.

  “Goin’ to have a try, marshal?” he asked.

  “Why, mebbe I will.”

  “Wanta risk anythin’ on yore chance?” Jake invited . “I never gamble on my shootin’.”

  “Well, you know it better’n we do,” came the sneer. “Hello, they’re startin’.” The onlookers were closing in, taking advantage of any inequality in the street—and they were many—which would give them a better view. Amid cheers and ironical advice, the first competitor—Gowdy—took up his position on the board and, at the word, snatched out his gun and fired, missing the target by nearly a foot. Shouts of laughter rewarded the effort.

  “You hit the calaboose, anyways,” one comforted.

  “Yeah, an’ if you’d bin standing where the card is you wouldn’t be chirpin’ none,” the storekeeper grinned.

  And indeed, as one after another men stepped forward and shot, it became evident that Gowdy’s attempt was better than it had seemed,
for few of the citizens did as well, and Chips—the carpenter—covered himself with ignominy by hitting the sand yards in front of the building.

  “Them `rickoshay’ shots need a lot o’ practice,” Rapper said gravely, as the unlucky marksman retired in confusion to face the banter of his friends.

  Among the competitors were many who knew that only a lucky fluke could gain them the prize, and when this did not materialize, they accepted defeat with good-humoured grins. But there were others who took the affair seriously—the punchers, to whom victory meant more than a month’s pay, and a reputation.

  The Dumbbell representatives fired first, and though their lead thudded all round it, the target remained undamaged. The Bar O followed, and Reddy—the star performer—got within an inch, the best so far, a feat which gained him a round of applause. The ranchers and Nippert having declined to compete—the latter modesty stating that he did not wish to win his own money—Mullins swaggered forward, a confident smirk on his face. Feet firmly planted on the board, right hand hanging in close proximity to his gun, he waited the word, and when it came the report followed almost instantly. It was a good draw and shot, for the bullet cut a neat half-circle out of the top of the card. He looked triumphantly at the saloon-keeper.

  “I’ll trouble you for that fifty,” he said.

  “Back up an’ git out’n the way,” was the reply. “There’s another to come.” Mullins turned to see the marshal waiting to take his place.

  If he could have read the officer’s smile aright he would not have made his next remark,

  “I’m layin’ five to one he can’t better my shot.”

  “Yo’re on—fifty dollars to ten,” Nippert snapped, adding, “This fiesta ain’t goin’ to cost me nothin’ after all.” The wager concentrated attention still more on the man who, with bowed head, stood slackly waiting for the signal.

  No one there had seen those guns drawn from their holsters, and his aversion to using them was known. Certainly he did look like a world-beater, and his seeming indifference worried the saloon-keeper.

  “Ready?” he called. “Go!” As the word left his lips the marshal’s right gun rose hip-high, exploded, and the middle pip on the card was blotted out. Then, quicker than a man could count, came four more shots, each of which partly obliterated a corner diamond.

  Thrusting the smoking weapon back into his belt, the marshal turned away without even a glance at the target. The jarring crash of the gun was followed by a complete silence; the speed, deadly accuracy, and absence of undue care betrayed a mastery the like of which no man there had ever seen, and for the moment they were dumb. Reddy was the first to recover.

  “My Gawd!” he said, in a tone of awe. “An’ I nearly pulled on him the day he come.”

  The naive remark raised a laugh and relieved the tension. Then came the applause, for even those who had lost their money on Mullins could not refuse this tribute to superlative skill. But the man who, in the very moment of triumph, had received this shattering blow to his conceit, stood motionless, his murderous eyes on the stranger who had again beaten him. A bystander provided a vent for his rage.

  “Tough luck, Jake,” he commiserated.

  “Keep yore blasted sympathy for them as needs it,” Mullins snarled, and stalked away.

  “A pore loser, as I told you,” Nippert said to the marshal. “Here’s the prize, an’ you shorely won it.” Sudden did not take the proffered money. “It’s comin’ back to yu,” he smiled, and raising his voice, “Everybody drinks with the winner.” This produced another cheer and the crowd promptly headed for the Red Light. Nippert followed, having first removed the target, which some of the curious were examining.

  “This’ll be somethin’ to show next time there’s any talk about gun-play,” he remarked, and in reply to a question, “No, it was a surprise to me—I’d never seen him shoot.”

  “I’ve met some o’ the best in my time, but …” Owen finished with an expressive shrug.

  “Yeah, an’ you’ll be sorry yet,” Sark rapped back. “A fella who can sling a gun like that is bound to have a dirty record, an’ I’ll bet there’s a sheriff or two lookin’ for him right now.”

  “They’ll be unlucky if they find him, I’d say,” Reddy grinned.

  Later, when the crowd had dispersed, the storekeeper drew Nippert aside and congratulated him.

  “It was Jim’s notion. Look at it: he puts it over Mullins, services notice on the other rough-necks that he’s dangerous to monkey with, an’ no blood spilled. He shore is a methodis’.”

  “So’s Jake, but his methods is different. An’ Sark ain’t none pleased; he musta bin raised on curdled milk he’s that sour. Jim’s got trouble comin’, certain as cats has kittens.”

  “Well, I guess trouble an’ him ain’t exactly strangers,” Nippert said shrewdly. “I’ll bet he can handle it.”

  Chapter III

  For a week or so it appeared that Gowdy’s fears were groundless; the town remained quiet. Only once did the peace seem to be in danger and that was when, on a broiling afternoon, a shaggy-haired, wild-eyed rider came rocketing in at the eastern entrance, rolling from side to side on his saddle, gun out, and yelling like one possessed.

  “I’m a lone wolf from Pizen Springs, an’ I’m yere to blow this prairie-dawg community to hellangone. Emerge from yore holes, you varmits, or I’ll smoke you out.” Receiving no answer to this challenge, he pulled up, his slitted, drink-inflamed eyes roving right and left.

  “Ain’t there a man amongst you with spunk enough to Show hisself?” he vociferated.

  There was: the marshal stepped from his office and walked unconcernedly towards the intruder, whose weapon was at once slanted upon him.

  “Stop right there an’ h’ist yore paws,” came the command.

  The marshal obeyed the first order only when he was a yard from the horseman, and ignored the second entirely. “Yu were allus a fool, Squint,” he said.

  The low voice brought a quick look of apprehension on the bluster’s unpleasing face, and he bent forward to peer at the man who defied him so casually. The marshal pushed his hat back, and taking off his spectacles began to polish the lenses; the simple act appeared to have a mesmeric effect on the visitor.

  “You?” he gasped. “What of hell …?”

  “Put that gun away an’ punch the breeze—pronto. An’ listen, if yu open yore mouth about me within a hundred mile o’ here, I’ll—take—yore—trail.”

  “But ” Behind the replaced glasses the marshal’s eyes grew hard; he pointed to the west.

  “yu have sixty seconds to get outa range, an’ I’m meanin’ it,” he said.

  Evidently Squint was not of the doubting type; the cruel, big-toothed spurs raked the ribs of his pony and sent it racing in the direction indicated.

  The citizens who witnessed the incident rubbed their eyes in amazement.

  “That’ll teach these glory-huntin’ sots not to come pirootin’ around here like they owned the place,” Nippert exulted. “We got a fella now who can talk to ‘em.”

  “Yeah, talk seems to be his strong suit,” Mullins—whowas in the Red Light at the time—sneered. “Can’t he use them guns when he’s facin’ a man?”

  “There’s an easy way o’ findin’ out.”

  “Shore, an’ I ain’t forgettin’ it.”

  “You’d better, or I’ll be shy yore custom,” Nippert advised.

  Jake went without replying; he had conceived an idea which called for immediate action.

  Some miles out of town the wagon road to the west sprung round in a wide curve where it reached the foothills of the Mystery Mountains, but knowledge of the country would enable one to save this detour. The nearest settlement was Drywash, fifty miles distant.

  Towards this place the fugitive from Welcome was steadily making his way when he sustained a second shock in the shape of a curt order to halt and raise his hands. It was backed by the barrel of a rifle protruding from a bush on the edge of the trail. Squi
nt obeyed.

  “Good for you,” the ambusher said. “I couldn’t miss if I tried, an’ it ain’t worth it; all I want from you is information.”

  “What about?”

  “Yoreself. Why did you run like a jackrabbit from Welcome?” The traveller looked perturbed, and craned his neck in an endeavour to see his questioner, but without success. “Who are you?” he asked.

  The unknown laughed. “Not the fella you was so scared of,” he replied. “An’ I don’t like him no more’n you do.” This sounded better, and Squint’s business instinct began to function.

  “What do I git out of it?” he growled.

  “Yore money, weapons, hoss—an’ life,” was the cool reply. “You know what they’re worth better’n I do.” The threatened man’s tone betrayed irritation. “Killin’ me won’t git yu no place,” he pointed out.

  “Shore, but it will git you to hell. I’m givin’ you one minute to decide.”

  “If I talk you won’t let on to—anybody?”

  “Not a whisper, an’ anyways, I don’t know you. Now, who is this fella what sent you packin’?”

  “His name’s James Green, but he’s better knowed as `Sudden’ in Texas, where he’s wanted—had. With a six-gun he’s lightnin’ in a hurry.”

  “Sudden,” the other repeated reflectively. “Wasn’t it him cleaned up a place called Hell City?”

  “Yeah, damn his soul,” the informer spat out viciously. “What’s he doin’ around here?”

  “He was marshal o’ Pinetown, murdered his pal, an’ got away a flea’s jump ahead o’ the posse, so the tale goes.”

  “Shore it’s the same man?”

  “I got plenty reason to remember him,” was the disgusted answer. “Cost me some good friends an’ a pile o’ bucks. He used to ride a big black with a white blaze—a fine hoss.”

  “That fits. Why didn’t you down him? You had the chance.”

  “I guess you ain’t seen him in action,” Squint retorted. “He’s a wizard, an’ got as many lives as a cat.” The hidden man laughed shortly. “He’s goin’ to need ‘em, ‘an eyes in the back of his head as well,” he said. “On yore way, friend, an’ if yo’re aimin’ to stay in Drywash, I may have a use for you. For now . .” He flipped a gold piece in the air and the horseman deftly caught and tucked it in a vest pocket. “Thanks,” he said. “You’ll find me there, an’ if it’s a matter o’ squarin’ up with that Sudden gent, I’ll come in cheap. So-long.” He resumed his journey and was soon lost to sight. Only then did Mullins step out, an ugly grin of satisfaction on his face.