“So that’s the way of it?” he muttered. “It shore looks like I got you where the hair’s short, Mister Methodis’. Sudden, huh? Well, the fastest gunman can’t beat a rope.” An encounter which caused the marshal a great deal more perturbation than that with Squint occurred the next morning when, for the first time, he met Mary Gray. Small, slim, with wide-spaced eyes and short, curly hair to which the sun imparted coppery gleams, she seemed still a girl. He was covertly admiring her as she passed; to his surprise and dismay, she stopped.
“You are the new marshal,” she began. “I am Mrs. Gray, and I want to thank you.”
Sudden snatched off his hat. “I am shore glad to meet yu, ma’am, but yu got me guessin’,” he stammered.
“The Bar O boys are apt to be noisy when they come to town,” she reminded.
“Shucks!” he said confusedly. “Does the marshal get blamed for everythin’ in this burg?”
She smiled delightedly. “If he deserves it,” she replied. “Sloppy—I hate calling him that, but he won’t come to any other name—tells me.”
“His tongue is hung on a hair-trigger,” he interposed.
“He is a different being since you came,” she said gravely. “The women have been very kind, but they have their own work, and I don’t know how I would have managed if he hadn’t done my chores, but it troubles me that he won’t accept any payment.”
“He’s dead right, ma’am,” Sudden said soberly… .
Sloppy was pottering about the marshal’s domicile. His grin of greeting faded when he saw the owner’s expression.
“Didn’t I say for yu to keep yore trap shut to Mrs. Gray?”
“I done it; Nippert telled her.”
“She’s complainin” ‘bout yu,” Sudden went on sternly, and chuckled inwardly at the resultant look of dismay. “Says yu been workin’ for her and refused to take any pay.” Sloppy detected the twinkle behind the spectacles. “I told her I’d ‘tend to it. From now on I’m doublin’ what I give yu for doin’ nothin’, an’ if yore sinful pride suggests refusin’ it …”
“Ain’t got no pride—can’t afford it,” the little man sniggered. “I’m thankin’ you, marshal; that’ll whoop up my savin’s.”
“Savin’s? To qualify for the calaboose again?”
“I’ve quit liquor—for a while, anyways.” Sloppy jerked a thumb in the direction of the widow’s abode. “That li’l shaver’ll be needin’ playthin’s presently.”
“Well, I’ll be darned,” Sudden breathed, and then, “Too bad she should have to work like that.”
“You bet it is, when she oughta be ownin’ the Dumbbell range.” The marshal, lounging in a tilted chair, straightened with a jerk. “Are yu loco?” he asked
“Not any,” Sloppy replied. “It’s a queer yarn.”
“I love ‘em—the queerer the better.”
“Where will I start?”
“The beginnin’ is considered a good place,” Sudden told him solemnly.
“Well, Amos Sark owned the Dumbbell range. He was a bachelor, an’ all the relations he had was a sister an’ younger brother, both of ‘em havin’ lost their pardners. When the sister passes out, Amos has her daughter, Mary, to live with him, but some years later, when Ray—the brother—vanishes complete leaving a growed-up son, he ain’t interested, havin’ disowned him a considerable while. Time tags along, an’ nothin’ is heard o’ Ray or his boy. Mary sprouts up into a mighty pretty gal an’ the of man thinks the world of her. Even when she falls for one of his riders, a good-looker named Gray, he makes the best of it, though he knows the fella is a waster.
Then Amos is murdered.”
“The devil yu say ! ” The narrator nodded. “He starts out early one mornin’ to pay a visit to Drywash. Two-three hours later, his pony sifts back to the ranch, showin’ there’s somethin’ wrong. A search is made and they find him all spraddled out on the trail with a couple o’ slugs in his back, dead as Moses. Thiswas ‘bout a year gone, just before I come here. Ain’t nothin’ to show who done it, but Gray gits some hard looks, it bein’ figured his wife’ll have the ranch. But it don’t work out that way. Right soon after the killin’, a lawyer chap from Drywash, Seth Lyman—‘Slimy’ they call him, an’ it fits him like his skin—turns up with a will drawed out by him an’ signed by the deceased. It gives a thousand cash to Mary an’ everythin’ else to Jesse Sark, son o’ the younger brother.
“Gray goes on the prod, but it ain’t no use, so he starts hellin’ round, an’ Mary’s legacy musta bin mighty near dissipated—an’ that’s the correct word—when, months later, he’s picked up at the bottom of a gully with a broken neck. It’s s’posed his hoss threw him, but he was a good rider, even when in liquor.” The marshal had listened in frowning silence to the tragic tale. Now he said, “Mebbe the of man was set on the idea of a Sark followin’ him at the ranch?” Sloppy snorted. “Amos was tough as tanned hide, an’ there warn’t a dime’s worth o’ sentiment in his body.”
“Yu knew him?”
“No, but that was his reputation.” Sudden was considering another angle. “So they’re cousins, an’ he won’t help her?”
“You’ve seen him,” Sloppy returned. “There’s on’y one person in this world Jesse’d help, that’s hisself, an’ he’s good at it.”
Chapter IV
THE marshal was contemplating a modest announcement above the Widow’s front window informing the inhabitants of Welcome that meals could be obtained there. Having decided to give the new enterprise a trial, he was about to step in when an angry-looking, red-faced fellow whom he knew to be a friend of Mullins swung out, viciously slamming the door behind him.
“Say, don’t eat there ‘less you wanta be pizened,” he warned. “Can’t cook no more’n a dead Injun, that ”
“Lady,” Sudden suggested. “Mebbe yu ain’t a judge o’ cookin’, Toler. I am; I’ll take a chance an’ let yu have my opinion. Till then, don’t chatter.” The blue eyes were frosty and there was a threat in the even voice. The disgruntled citizen had an answer all ready, but decided that silence might be safer. So he scowled and departed.
The marshal went in to find the proprietress near to tears. An overturned chair and a half-eaten plate of meat betokened the abruptness of a customer’s exit. He replaced the furniture and surveyed the spotless tablecloth and shining cutlery approvingly.
“Pearls afore swine,” was his comment. ” ‘Pears to have stampeded one o’ yore patrons, ma’am.”
“The only one, and he—went without paying,” she confessed. The marshal made a mental note. “He said I couldn’t cook, and it’s the one thing I can do.” Sudden shook his head. “No, there’s another,” he corrected. “You can—smile.” She made a brave attempt, and retreated to the kitchen, returning presently with a sizzling steak and fried potatoes. It looked perfect, and the marshal attacked it with the vigour of a hungry man. The Widow, fearful of witnessing another disappointment, vanished, and thereby earned the diner’s gratitude. For the first touch of the knife had told him that the meat was incredibly tough, even to one accustomed to camp-fare on the range.
“This would shorely tear the teeth out’n a circular saw,” he murmured, as he hacked and slashed.
But he was determined to eat it, and by the application of sheer muscular power, and at the risk of breaking both knife and plate, he contrived to sever fragments which he swallowed almost unchewed, to the future discomfort of his internal economy; the unshed tears in those brown eyes should not fall if he could help it. He had almost completed the sacrifice when the Widow—unable to bear the suspense any longer—came in.
“Is it—all right?” she asked tremulously.
The martyr bolted the last lump whole and told the truth. “I never ate a steak like it, ma’am.” The smile which lit up her face reminded him of the sun suddenly emerging from rain-laden clouds. “I’m so glad,” she said. “I hope my pastry will be as good.” It had been in the customer’s mind to decline anything more than the plea th
at he had already eaten enough but, with inward misgiving, he tackled the wedge of dried-apple pie she placed before him. It proved to be delicious, and she watched delightedly while he devoured every morsel.
“Pie like mother made,” he complimented, and this time no subtlety was needed. “Ma’am, yu certainly can handle flour.” He paid the modest score and left her happy. Strolling casually along the street, he paused at the emporium of Welcome’s only butcher, one Cleaver, universally referred to as “Clever,” a sarcastic contortion which reflected upon his intelligence.
“I’ve been feedin’ at the Widow Gray’s,” the marshal opened. “Whyfor do yu sell yore beef with the hide on?” The man stared at him. “I don’t,” he replied. “Sell the skins separate.”
Then, as the implication dawned upon him, “If you get hard meat it’s ‘cause she can’t cook.”
“Now I wonder who told yu that?” the marshal mused. “Did I see Toler here a while back?” The butcher’s face contradicted the too hasty denial. “Well, I must get some better glasses. I’d ‘a’ sworn ”
“Now I think again, he did stop as he was passin’,” Cleaver corrected, but the other appeared to have lost interest in Mister Toler’s movements.
“Mrs. Gray is a good cook, but the finest in the world couldn’t make boot-leather appetizin’,” he remarked. “Yu supply Mullins, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but I don’t play favourites.”
“Shore, but it would help him if got the prime cuts an’ she on’y had the leavin’s,” the marshal reflected aloud. He saw that he had hit the mark, and added meaningly, “I’m aimin’ to feed reg’lar at the Widow’s, an’ my teeth ain’t made o’ steel. Understan’?”
“I can fix that by sendin’ her a special for you,” the tradesman said eagerly.
“Fix nothin’—yu don’t play favourites—an’ I ain’t askin’ yu to. Yu’ll make ‘em all specials.”
“But Jake’s my biggest buyer.”
“Mrs. Gray’ll be that soon, an’ if she don’t get good meat in future, I’ll have to go into the butcherin’ husiness my own self.” On the following morning, soon after noon, Sudden contrived to meet Toler on his way to the eating-house. With a surly look, the man would have brushed past, but the officer stopped him.
“Jake’ll have to do without yore custom to-day,” he said. “Yo’re feedin’ at the Widow’s.”
“Like hell I am,” was the retort. “I’ve had some.”
“An’ left without payin’, which is dishonest.”
“I didn’t eat nothin’.”
“Yu bent that steak considerable—just naturally ruined it, in fact,” the marshal said gravely.
“Bent it, yeah, an’ that was hard to do,” Toler replied. “A dawg couldn’t ‘a’ got teeth into it.”
“Which accounts for yore failure. Anyways, yu ordered a meal an’ she supplied one; what yu do with it is yore affair. Yu likewise caused a ruckus an’ come near bustin’ a chair, thus committin’ a breach o’ the peace. Now, either yu apologize, pay for that meal an’ eat another, or, well, the calaboose is empty an’ I’m afraid yu’ll find it lonesome.”
“I’ll see you”
“Resistin’ the law—that entitles me to blow yore light out,” the marshal said. “March.”
The badgered man’s eyes bulged; in some mysterious manner one of the speaker’s guns had leapt from its holster and was pointed at the pit of his stomach. If the thumb holding back the hammer was relaxed—the marshal had no use for triggers. . Toler did not pursue the thought. The lady’s eyes widened when they entered, but her welcoming smile was for both.
“Mister Toler figures he was a mite hasty in his judgment; I’ve persuaded him to give yu another trial,” Sudden explained.
Nothing more was said until the business of feeding was finished, and then the unwilling customer sat back with a sigh of satisfaction.
“That’s the best feed I’ve had in years, an’ I’m right sorry I was rude to you, ma’am,” he said. “I expect I did oughta blamed yore butcher.” The little woman’s face flushed with pleasure.
“Please don’t say another word,” she begged. “Perhaps it was conceit, but I did think I could prepare a meal.”
“I’ll wallop the linin’ out’n any fella who sez different,” he told her.
In the street, the convert pushed out a paw and said gruffly, “Marshal, I’m thankin’ you. Fur as I’m concerned, Jake must do his own dirty work.”
“That’s good hearin’,” Sudden replied. “Persecutin’ a woman is somethin’ Welcome won’t stand for.” Later in the afternoon Sloppy came into the office wearing a broad grin. “What you done to Toler?” he asked. “Yestiddy he was tellin’ the world Mrs. Gray couldn’t cook an’ now he sez she’s the best ever.”
“Why put it on to me? Can’t a fella change his mind without my help?” Sudden fenced.
“Some folks is fussy ‘bout food, ‘specially if their livers ain’t actin’ right.”
“Meanin’ no offence, yo’re a pore liar,” Sloppy replied. “You oughta see Jake’s face.”
“Sooner see his back, any time,” the marshal said.
He was very satisfied with the way things were going. If Toler, one of her rival’s intimates, spoke in her praise, the Widow would get support. It was working out better than he had hoped.
As the days went by, the fame of the new eating-place grew, and Mullins had the mortification of seeing his customers drop away until only a handful of friends remained. Well aware to whom he owed this state of affairs, he vainly sought a means of striking back. He had sent to verify what he had been told of the marshal, but his messenger had not yet returned. His attempt to bully the butcher failed dismally.
The climax came when Reddy and his bunkie, Shorty, rode in and were promptly convoyed by the marshal to the new establishment. While the meal was in preparation, they were permitted to tiptoe into the bedroom to see the baby. The pudgy, red-faced, blue-eyed morsel of humanity regarded them stolidly.
“What is it?” Shorty wanted to know.
“What indeed,” the mother repeated, with pretty indignation. “It’s a boy.” And then laughed at her own slip.
Reddy thrust out a thumb and the infant’s tiny fingers closed on it. “He’ll shore be a go-getter, ma’am,” the cowboy said. “What’s his name?”
“David, after my father.” The marshal’s face clouded. “I knowed a Dave—once,” he said.
“Them steaks must be mighty close to done.” An hour later, three fully-fed men stepped again into the street. The cowboys were loud in their approval.
Jake’s savage eyes watched them enter the Red Light. This was the final blow. Hitherto, the Bar O boys had always given their patronage, but now … A tempest of passion possessed and made him reckless. When the cowboys came out and were crossing the street, he met them; the marshal had stayed behind a moment, talking to Nippert.
“Ain’t you fellas fed yet?” Mullins began.
“Shore, over at the Widow’s,” Reddy replied.
“Her cookin’ is bad.”
“If that’s so, an’ it ain’t, yu never oughta touch a pan,” Shorty said bluntly.
Jake gave him an ugly look, but the man he burned to quarrel with was now joining them.
“So the marshal raked you in, huh?” he sneered. “He shore knows how to fill his pockets at the expense of his friends.”
“Meanin’?” Reddy asked.
“That he’s back o’ the Widow, o’ course. She does the work an’ he corrals the coin, sorta sleepin’ pardner, in more ways than one.” He chuckled at the vile aspersion. “An’ there’s others, even that bum, Sloppy ” He got no further. One long stride, a lightning blow, and the traducer was hurled headlong. The marshal’s eyes were blazing.
“Yo’re a foul-minded, dirty liar,” their owner said through his clenched teeth. Wallowing in the dust, Jake was groping for his gun. “Don’t do it, or I’ll kill yu an’ cheat the rope that’s waitin’ for yore rotten n
eck. Take his shootin’-iron, boys.” Despite his struggles and curses, he was soon deprived of his weapon, and allowed to stand up. By this time an eager crowd had collected, questioning and wondering. For days past it had been seen that a clash between the two was inevitable; Jake had made no secret of his enmity, but after the shooting match . .
Mullins, his hot eyes glaring at his opponent, his features twisted in a savage grimace, had something to say:
“Well, you got my gun, so you needn’t be afeard to pull yore own on me.” For a single pulsating second it seemed that the taunted man was about to do that very thing, and Jake’s heart missed a beat—he was not tired of life. Then he breathed again as first one and then the other weapon was handed to Reddy.
“Which is what yu’d have done,” Sudden said coldly, answering the jeer. “We’re even matched now. Yu have in suited a lady this town admires an’ respects. For that yo’re gettin’ a hidin’—one yu’ll remember as long as the world has to put up with yu.” Into the ruffian’s eyes came a gleam of satisfaction; this was something different. Though they were about the same height, he was fully a stone heavier, and had experience in the rough-and-tumble form of fighting, in which anything save the use of a weapon was permissible. The marshal’s friends were not pleased; they knew the other man’s reputation.
“See here, Jim, you don’t have to do this,” Nippert expostulated. “Clap him in the calaboose, an’ we’ll deal with him.”
“An’ tell all the town I’m scared?” Sudden smiled. “Shucks, you’re jokin’, Ned.”
“He’s one hell of a scrapper,” the saloon-keeper said dubiously. “If he licks you …”
Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) Page 3