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

by Oliver Strange

  “That’s somethin’ yu couldn’t be, ma’am,” was the gallant reply.

  The meal duty despatched, they lit up. Reddy’s gaze roved round the room.

  “Amazin’ what a difference a woman can make,” he remarked. “She owes a lot to yu, Jim.”

  “She owes me just—nothin’; Sloppy’s been her good fairy.”

  “An’ yu’ve bin his, which proves my point,” Reddy retorted triumphantly.

  Sudden shook his head and got up. Back in his own quarters, he put a question:

  “What’s yore trouble, cowboy?”

  “Yu’ve certainly got the seem’ eye, Jim; I didn’t guess it showed that plain. Just—want o’ sleep.” It seemed an absurd statement from one who was the picture of health, but the marshal understood. “Nightridin’, huh?”

  “yu said it, an’ day as well; the boys is all wore out. Yu see, we’re losin’ cattle, an’ it’s gettin’ serious.”

  “Been goin’ on long?”

  “Couple o’ weeks, so far as we know. A steady leak, six or seven a day, picked beasts, an’ there ain’t a sign to show who’s takin’ ‘em or where. It’s got me dizzy.”

  “Well, there’s nothin’ doin’ here– ”

  “Yo’re forgettin’ that hold-up we promised to look into,” Dave interrupted.

  The marshal grinned. “Don’t pay any attention to him,” he went on. “We ain’t a thing to do—the town’s peaceful as a prayer-meetin’. We’ll go for a li’l ride tomorrow; mebbe we can light on somethin’.” When the foreman had departed, Dave looked at his chief. “Jake went about two weeks ago,” he said.

  “Yo’re readin’ my thoughts,” Sudden accused. “If it’s Jake, he must have a hide-out. We gotta find it.”

  “We might be away all day. What ‘bout gettin’ Mrs. Gray to put us up a bite to take along?”

  “Just now my mind ain’t on food.”

  “Then it must be drink. C’mon.” When they got outside, Masters naturally turned in the direction of the Red Light, but his companion shook his head. “We’ll pay a visit to Dirty Dick,” he said.

  “Enemy country,” Dave laughed, and loosened his gun in the holster.

  “Shucks ! At this’ time o’ the day there won’t be a soul in the place—mebbe.” He was almost right, for as they pushed back the door of the dive, they saw that it was empty save for the owner and a man who, at the instant of their entry, slid round the bar and disappeared into the rear part of the premises.

  “Whisky—yore best,” the marshal said. “Wasn’t that Dutch who went out?” For a moment Dirty Dick hesitated, his furtive eyes scanning the questioner’s face. Then he nodded.

  “What’s he back for—to stay?”

  “Nope, just a visit, to pay some coin he owed me.”

  “Why didn’t he do that before he left?”

  “He forgot,” came the reply, after a pause.

  “Yo’re lucky to get it.”

  “Oh, Dutch is square,” the man said easily.

  “Possibly, but he keeps bad company,” the marshal replied. “What’s he doin’, anyway?”

  “I dunno, but he ain’t got a woman workin’ for him,” was the insolent answer.

  A subdued chuckle came from somewhere; the deputy stiffened, put his glass on the bar, and said truculently, “The company he keeps ain’t near as bad as the liquor yu sell; if this is yore best, the worst must be rank pizen.”

  “You ain’t forced to drink it.” Sudden interposed. “Easy, boy,” he soothed, and to the dive-owner, “Watch that lyin’ tongue o’ yores, an’ run this place decent or I’ll run yu—outa town.”

  Dirty Dick gazed into the hard, slitted eyes of the speaker and decided that silence was the safe card to play, but his expression, as they went out, was not pretty.

  As they stalked down the street, Sudden regarded his fuming companion quizzically.

  “Marshals are appointed to keep the peace,” he remarked casually. “An’ the same applies to…`Didn’t yu hear what he said, an’ the laugh?” Dave broke in.

  “Shore, but why lose yore wool because a cur yaps? Besides, he was tellin’ us things. We know now that Dutch was broke when he left an’ has made money since; also that Jake ain’t far away, an’ is keepin’ touch with friends here, which needs rememberin’. Good value for the price of a couple o’ drinks.” The sun was no more than faintly gilding the eastern sky when they set out the next morning. The Bar O trail lay towards it, but the marshal headed his horse in the opposite direction.

  “Where are we turnin’ off?” Dave asked presently. “Yu, ain’t expectin’ to find them stolen steers at the Dumbbell, are yu?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me—much, but we gotta know more before we snoop aroun’ there; welcomes can be too warm.” Another half-mile and they swung south, leaving the rutted wagon-track and picking a way through brush big enough to hide them. Two hours passed before they reached a wooded slope which afforded a view of the country, an undulating, scrub-dotted expanse which they knew must be part of the Bar O range, though no cattle were visible.

  Westward, were ridges and gullies, and as these offered excellent cover, they decided to make for them. Skirting the plain, they were proceeding along the far slope of a brush-clad rib of rock when a rifle cracked and a bullet zipped through the crown of Dave’s Stetson. Out of their saddles instantly, they trailed the reins, and crawled to the top of the rib. Thinning smoke from a clump of brush some three hundred yards distant told them whence the shot had come, but there was no sign of the man who fired it.

  “Lie low,” Sudden advised. “He may think he got yu an’ show hisself. Might be one o’ the Bar O—I’ll bet their system just now is shoot first an’ investigate after.” Hats discarded, prone on their bellies, cheeks cuddling rifle-stocks, they waited. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes ticked slowly by and nothing happened. Dave got restive.

  “This blame’ sun is just naturally scorchin’ my scalp,” he grumbled. “I reckon he’s went.”

  He reached for the hat lying behind him and immediately two reports came from the clump, the leaden messengers humming past their ears. They returned the fire, aiming at the smoke-jets.

  “A pair of ‘em,” the marshal commented. “Guess they ain’t Owen’s men.” Another period of quiet ensued, and the marshal used it to take a furtive scrutiny of their surroundings. This gave him an idea.

  “Stay an’ keep ‘em interested. I’m goin’ to try an’ get another angle on ‘em. If yu fire, make it two quick shots so’s they’ll figure we’re both here.”

  “Right, but don’t take chances; these hombres ain’t usin’ guns for the first time,” Dave warned.

  Sudden slid backwards down the slope and, leading his horse, followed the bend of it. He had not gone far when four shots rang out, the last two in rapid succession. Dave was right.

  Presently he paused, crept up the incline on hands and knees, and took a peep between two large stones. As he had suspected, the brush rampart behind which the unknown marksmen were concealed was much thinner on this side, and he could see the gleam of a levelled gun-barrel. He fired, aiming where he judged the holder should be, and a dark form showed itself and vanished before he could press the trigger again. A moment later, two horsemen burst into the open, and, flattened over the necks of their mounts, raced for the nearest gully. Sudden’s rifle spoke again and one of the animals went down, throwing its rider heavily. The other man, without even a backward glance, gained cover. By the time Sudden reached the fellow who had fallen, Dave joined him.

  “So yu nailed one,” he said.

  “He’s on’y stunned—the hoss got the lead. Take charge of him. I’m goin’ after his mate.”

  He had marked down the spot where the fugitive had disappeared, and for a little while, hoofprints—the deep ones of urgent haste—helped him, and then, as he came on harder ground, a dangling, freshly-broken branch pointed the way. But no more of these tell-tale signs presented themselves, until, circling round, he found the
prints again, only to lose them on the bank of a creek, thickly fringed with willow and cottonwood.

  Arguing that the man would go westwards, he followed the stream in that direction, and was presently confronted by an insurmountable barrier, a wall of rock nearly thirty feet in height, over which the water cascaded in a broad sheet which the sun turned to molten silver. Trees hemmed in the fall, and for some distance from the wall, the ground was weathered stone, a surface upon which to search for tracks could only be a waste of time. In ordinary circumstances, the marshal would have admired the natural beauty of the spot, but now he surveyed it with disgust.

  “Hang the luck,” he muttered. “A cat couldn’t climb up there, an’ it’s a hell of long way round, seemin’ly. Mebbe we can persuade the other jasper to talk.” Convinced that he could do no more, he returned to Dave. The prisoner, who had regained consciousness, was squatting on the ground, weaponless, his elbows neatly trussed with his own rope.

  “Most unsocial beggar I ever met up with,” the deputy remarked. “Won’t give no name, so I’ve christened him Pockmark.’ His hoss is unbranded, an’ there’s nothin’ suspicious ‘bout him ‘cept his looks an’—this.”

  “A straight-iron, huh?” the marshal said. “Well, that’s enough to hang him. Yu’d best find yore tongue, fella.”

  “What right you got to down my bronc an’ tie me up?” the stranger demanded.

  Sudden flipped open his vest, disclosing the badge. “Plenty,” he replied. ” ‘Specially as yu opened the ball by tryin’ to bump us off. What’s yore business around here?” Receiving no reply, he added, “P’r’aps the Bar O can loosen your lips.” Fear flickered in the sullen eyes, but the said lips were only clamped the tighter.

  “Why bother Owen when there’s a mort o’ good trees right here?” Dave asked, with studied callousness. “S’pose we feed an’ think it over?” Sitting a little apart, so that their conversation could not be heard, they began the meal the Widow had provided. The prisoner watched enviously.

  “Don’t I eat?” he asked querulously.

  “Yu gotta find another use for yore mouth first,” the marshal replied.

  “An’ remember that dyin’ on an empty stomach is a mighty dangerous thing to do,” Dave supplemented.

  His solicitude earned him only a scowl. They finished eating, smoked a cigarette, and made a start, the prisoner walking between the riders. The sun’s rays had now become shafts of fire, and since their way led across the open range, there was no respite for man or beast. Mile after mile through the blinding heat the man on foot stumbled doggedly until they had covered two-thirds of the journey, and then he dropped like a stone.

  “I’m all in,” he gasped, through parched, cracked lips. “Have a swig at this,” Dave said, passing his water-bottle.

  The sufferer drank eagerly, and after sitting for a while, stood up. Rustler or no, he was possessed of a stubborn determination, and Sudden—who had forced this ordeal upon him in the hope of breaking down his obstinacy—began to doubt its success. Fists and teeth clenched, eyes half-shut, and body limp with fatigue, the tortured man dragged one blistered foot after the other until at length the Bar O building came in sight. A hail brought the owner, Reddy, and some of the outfit.

  “‘Lo, marshal, what you got there?” Owen asked.

  Sudden explained, and the rancher’s face grew dark. “Good,” he said, and turned to the prisoner. “What you gotta say?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Right. You’ve till sunrise; if you ain’t opened up hy then, you swing. Lock him up, Reddy.”

  “Yu think he’ll squeal?” Sudden asked. “That tramp would ‘a’ busted the nerve o’ most; he’s tough.”

  “A hemp rope is tougher,” the rancher replied. “Pity the other got away.”

  “He certainly chose the right place,” the marshal admitted, and described it.

  “Ah, the Silver Mane fall, plenty o’ hidin’ there.”

  “He would ‘a’ tried to pot me.”

  “That’s so. Well, I dunno how he got clear; that barrier —which we call The Step—runs for a mile or more each side o’ the stream, an’ she’s straight up, ‘cept at the south end.”

  “What’s back of it?”

  “Sort of plateau, with some biggish cracks. The Step is my western boundary; past it is Dumh-bell range, but they don’t use it, the feed bein’ poor.” When they got up to go, the cattleman pressed them to stay the night, but Sudden shook his head.

  “Gotta make a show o’ earnin’ our pay,” he smiled.

  On the way back, the marshal was unusually silent. In truth, his mind was far away on the Mexican Border. There, too, what appeared to be a simple case of cattle-rustling, had uncovered a deep-laid plot to steal a range, and he was wondering …

  Chapter IX

  THE marshal and his assistant were enjoying an after-breakfast smoke when a pony scuttered to a stop outside and the Bar O foreman strode in. He had not shaved, and his customary cheerful expression was missing. Dropping into a seat, he began to construct a cigarette.

  “He’s gone,” he announced, and added a fervent wish as to the delinquent’s ultimate destination. “Helped hisself to a hoss—one o’ my string, blister his hide.”

  “But ” both the hearers began.

  “Listen,” he interrupted. “I left him tied as he was, locked in a cabin with a window less’n a foot square. When I goes to fetch him this mornin’ the door is still fastened, but the place is empty.”

  “Who kept the key?”

  “There ain’t but one an’ the Ol’ Man had it,” Reddy replied. “An’ is he wild?”

  “Can’t see there’s anythin’ to be done, but we’ll come along with yu,” the marshal decided.

  They found the Bar O in an unwonted state of inactivity; the men were grouped round the bunkhouse discussing the mystery, and the owner was impatiently striding to and fro, awaiting Reddy’s return. He welcomed the visitors with an explosive oath:

  “Shinin’ hell, here’s a fine kettle o’ fish. After all the trouble you an’ Dave went to, we go an’ lose the skunk, though how he got out beats me.”

  “Where’d yu put him?” Sudden asked.

  The foreman led the way to a stout little log structure, the door of which was secured by a padlock and staple. Sudden looked closely at the latter, slipped a finger through it, pulled, and the staple came away in his hand.

  “There’s the key that was used,” he said, pointing to a rusty iron bar lying a few yards away. “That means he had outside help. S’pose none o’ yu heard anythin’ in the night?” A negative came from all save one, a man nearing forty, whose dark hair and beard were patched with grey.

  “Now you mention it, mister, I did hear the whicker of a hoss, but I reckoned it come from the corral,” he said. “If I’d thought it was this sneakin’ houn’ escapin’ …”

  “Shorely,” Sudden agreed, and to the rancher, “No sense in keepin’ yore fellas here—the bird has flown.” Having despatched the men to their various duties, Reddy joined the other three indoors.

  “Well, you’ve showed us how he got loose, but we don’t know who made it possible,”

  Owen said. “Any ideas ‘bout that, Jim?”

  “There’s on’y two answers: either his buddy trailed us an’ waited for dark, or—it was one o’ yore outfit.”

  “You can wipe out that last; my boys are loyal—every damn’ one o’ them,” the rancher asserted.

  “I ain’t sayin’ otherwise—just statin’ facts. That hombre who heard the hoss now, has he been with yu long?”

  “Pinto?—they call him that ‘count of his piebald hair—why, no, a matter o’ three-four months, but he was the sickest of any over this getaway.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that,” Sudden asked.

  “What do you think, Reddy?” Owen asked.

  “I got nothin’ agin Pinto,” the foreman admitted. “He don’t quite mix in, but I put that down to his bein’ older’n most of us. He’s
no shirker on his job.”

  “Dessay I’m wrong,” the marshal said. “But a stranger couldn’t ‘a’ knowed he would have a staple to deal with an’ fetched along just the thing to beat it.” Meanwhile, a conversation was taking place not many miles distant. On the other side of The Step, south of the fall, the plateau—by some fantastic freak of Nature—was broken by a great fissure, narrow and steep-sided, the bottom hidden by a seemingly impenetrable jumble of boulders, trees, and dense brush. This was Dark Canyon, the overhanging walls fully justifying the name. It was never used, being difficult to enter, and without an exit. At the nearer end to The Step, Mullins, Javert, and five others were sitting round the embers of a fire. The man with the pitted face was finishing his story:

  “An’ if it hadn’t bin for Pinto, I’d likely be dancin’ on nothin’ right now.”

  “Bah ! O’ course you’d ‘a’ squealed.” This from Javert. Pocky glared at him. “Yo’re a dirty liar,” he rasped. “I never sold a pal yet.”

  “Have it yore way,” the gambler returned carelessly. “I’ll bet Owen was bluffin’, anyway.”

  “You’d lose—he ain’t that sort. If he promises to stretch a fella’s neck he’ll do it, regardless. It’s a good thing I planted a friend at the Bar O.” Javert sneered. “You foresaw this happenin’, huh?”

  “No, I put Pinto there to keep me posted on the movements o’ the cowboys an’ cattle,”

  Jake replied. “I’ve had this game in mind for months; it’s easy money.”

  “Yeah, an’ damn’ little of it. A few cows, which we gotta sell for half their value.”

  “If it ain’t worth yore while you got a simple remedy,” Jake reminded. “This is on’y a beginnin’—there’s other ranges in reach.”

  “A lot o’ hard work for two-three hundred bucks, an’ risk our necks at that. We couldn’t lose more if we made it thousands.”

  “What you drivin’ at?”

  “This cattle rustlin’ is chicken-feed, just keeps us in grub an’ smokin’. Why not try where there’s real money, scads of it. A bank, say?” He saw at once that he had regained the ground he had lost in the recent quarrel, for the eyes of his companions gleamed avariciously at his audacious proposal. Even their leader could put forward no objection.