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

by Oliver Strange

  “She’s been carried off,” he announced. “Five fellas, I’d say, with a spare hoss. They was pointin’ for the sunrise when I lost the trail, but that means nothin’ a-tall.”

  “Someone must ‘a’ had a key to the door—it warn’t damaged till Chips forced it,” Nippert opined.

  The blacksmith swore. “I got that lock for Jake, an’ it had two keys,” he said. “He might ‘a’ forgot to hand ‘em both over.”

  “An’ he was stuck on Mrs. Gray too,” Cleaver contributed. The marshal’s prediction had come to pass—the Widow was now his best customer, and her absence a matter of concern.

  “So was Jesse Sark,” the banker said.

  “He wouldn’t have the key, nor the pluck to make a play like that,” was Gowdy’s view.

  “Well, boys, this ain’t gettin’ us no place,” Sudden told them. “My guess is Mullins, an’

  I’m goin’ to try an’ locate him. I’ve a notion Dave thought the same, an’ his not showin’ up looks bad. No, I’m playin’ a lone hand; if I discover anythin’, yore turn’ll come.” Despite the protestations, he insisted on this, and having made his preparations, departed.

  The deputy-marshal’s first reaction to the Widow’s spiriting away was a feeling of numb despair as he suddenly realized what she had come to mean in his life. Hoping against hope, he hurried to the restaurant, found the tell-tale traces, and knew that she had been compelled to leave.

  “Who the hell?” he muttered.

  The remainder of the query died as he saw again a pale, frightened face, bent back in a desperate effort to evade the lustful lips seeking her own. Sark! His young face hard as granite, he hastened back to the corral and saddled his pony. Sloppy spoke but got no answer. Astounded citizens saw him drive madly up the street. Nippert shouted a question and got a reply he did not act upon. Instead, he went into the marshal’s quarters.

  “Where’s Dave gone?”

  “In the head, I reckon,” Sloppy told him. “I asked, but he acted as if I warn’t here. What can we do?”

  “Nothin’ but comb the country. I’ve sent for the Bar O boys. Damnation, I wish Jim was around.” Meanwhile, Masters was rocketing towards the Dumbbell as fast as his horse could throw one leg in front of another.

  Nevertheless, he did not allow anger to deprive him entirely of caution. He was about to beard, in his own den, an unscrupulous scoundrel who had at least a dozen riders in his pay. To be shot down would not help Mary Gray, and therefore he must tread warily. So, when nearing his objective, he turned from the beaten track and plunged into a stretch of timber which would enable him to approach unseen. With but a few hundred yards to go, he halted at a spot where he had a clear view of the ranch buildings, and waited.

  Presently, whoops and yells, mingled with the shrill calls of horses, apprised him that the men were getting ready for the day’s work. Soon they appeared, in twos and threes, to ride away in various directions. Dave counted a dozen, but decided to play safe. When twenty more minutes had passed, impatience overcame discretion.

  “Reckon that’s the lot. Anyways, a shade of odds don’t scare me none.” Leaving his pony within easy reach of the ranch-house, he stole up, took a quick look through the glass door leading to the living-room, and choked down a cry of contentment; the man he sought was there, alone, sitting with his back towards him, the remains of a meal on the table. Softly he turned the handle of the door, and finding it unfastened, slipped inside.

  “Mornin’, Sark.” The rancher jerked round, to gaze with startled eyes into the muzzle of a revolver less than two yards from his breast, and behind it, a face conveying menace in every line.

  “Stand up,” came the order. “An’ lemme warn yu that one sound will be yore last in this world o’ sin.” Sark obeyed; this fellow only wanted an excuse to slay him; he had no intention of supplying it. Stepping closer, Dave removed the other’s gun from the holster, tossed it in a far corner of the room, and made sure it was the only one.

  “Now we can talk,” he said. “Where’s Mrs. Gray?” Light dawned upon the cattleman.

  Jake had succeeded, and this young fool had jumped to the conclusion that he was the culprit.

  With well-simulated astonishment, he protested:

  “How would I know? I ain’t seen her since ” Dave cut in: “Lyin’ won’t serve yu. I’m wantin’ the truth. Talk turkey, or …” It was no mere threat, and Sark knew he was in deadly peril. One glance at the ice-cold eyes and rigid jaw told as much. He must make him believe.

  “It’s the truth,” he said sullenly. “What’s happened to her?” Dave explained, watching closely, but the other had schooled his features to a wooden indifference; he was more than aware of that keen scrutiny.

  “I ain’t heard a word of it,” was his comment. “She’s not here—you can search the place.”

  “Kind o’ yu,” Dave retorted ironically. “We’re doin’ that together, an’ if there’s any interruption, the Dumbbell will be shy an owner. Sabe?”

  “My boys are all out on the range, which is lucky for you,” Sark scowled.

  Obeying the deputy’s gesture he led the way, the consciousness that swift oblivion stalked at his heels producing an uneasy sensation between his shoulder-blades. Room by room they went over the house.

  “Waste o’ time,” Sark sneered, but made no other demur. He was beginning to recover his poise. No trace of the missing girl having come to light, it would be his turn to talk.

  The examination of the bunkhouse, barn, and smithy proved abortive; they returned to the ranch-house.

  “Well, I hope yo’re satisfied I had no part in this affair,” the rancher began aggressively.

  “Don’t get brash, fella,” Dave warned. “Yo’re still at the end o’ the gun, an’ I ain’t noways convinced.”

  “Plenty brave, ain’t you?” Sark jeered. “Shove that six-shooter aside an’ we’ll see if you got any guts.” Masters laughed. “I was hopin’ yu’d look at it thataway,” he replied. “Ever since I first seen yu tryin’ to hang Jim, I’ve been achin’ to get my han’s on yu.” He placed his weapon on a chair near the window, put his hat over it, and stepped lightly back. “C’mon, mongrel.” The invitation was superfluous; even as it was uttered, Sark sprang in, his evil face betraying his satisfaction. He was the taller, bigger of the pair and had no doubt of the result. He judged the other to be an impetuous, boastful boy, and promised himself that he would soon take the conceit out of him. But here again, he mistook his man; having obtained the opportunity for which he had thirsted, Dave did not mean to throw it away by over-eagerness. A shrewd blow met the first rush and Sark went down, to lie amidst the fragments of a chair he had encountered in his fall.

  Sark got up, kicked aside the broken furniture, and advanced. Dave met him half-way, slogging with right and left, and his opponent replied in kind.

  For the first ten minutes Sark fought furiously, and it seemed possible that he might overwhelm his younger and lighter antagonist; but lack of condition began to tell. The cowboy’s muscles were hard, yet flexible, he moved quickly and easily, balanced on the balls of his feet, and there was not an ounce of fat on his wiry frame, whereas Sark was paunchy, heavy drinking had sapped his power of endurance, and already the unwonted violent exercise was forcing him to breathe through his mouth.

  Sark felt that he was losing, and the realization infuriated and spurred him to fiercer effort. Back and fore they swayed, slipping, stumbling, but always striking, and the scrape of boots on the floor was punctuated by the thud of fist upon flesh.

  The end came with dramatic swiftness. The cattleman, breathing stertorously, one eye completely closed, and ribs pounded to an aching rawness, knew that only a mighty stroke could turn the tide of the battle in his favour. Suddenly retreating several paces, , he lowered his head, and charged madly. It was a desperate device, and if the other man did not know …

  But Dave had once seen a fighter, butted bull-like in the belly, carried away unconscious and badly injur
ed. In a flash he flung himself forward, caught Sark round the knees, and rising, hurled him over his shoulder. Aided by his own impetus, the rancher soared through the air as though shot from a catapult, slid the length of the table, sweeping it clean, and crashed to the floor.

  Dave stood over the bloodstained, senseless mass sprawled amid the broken crockery.

  “If yo’re dead I don’t care, but if you ain’t, an’ I find yu were lyin’ to me, this ain’t a circumstance to what I’ll do to yu,” he rasped. “An’ if I can’t, Jim’ll see to it.” Taking his gun and hat, he went into the sunshine.

  From behind the glass door of the living-room, a battered, demoniac face saw him depart, and spat out vitriolic curses from cut and swollen lips. Far from killing him, Sark’s fall had not even deprived him of his wits, but the terrific impact had left him in no shape to continue the combat, and lacking the courage to risk further punishment.

  “You’ve won, but what has it got you?” he scoffed. “I hold the trump card—the woman, an’ for every hurt you’ve given me, she shall pay—in full. Jim’ll see to me, huh? What if we’ve seen to him first, Mister?”

  Chapter XVII

  DAVE MASTERS rode away from the Dumbbell sore in body but elated in spirit—he had punished one whom he despised and hated from the moment of their meeting. His satisfaction, however, was heavily discounted by the fact that he had learned nothing of the missing girl.

  “It ain’t got us no place, Splinter,” he reflected aloud. “Where do we look now?” He reined in and surveyed the piled-up, verdure-clad terraces leading to the grey spires of the Mystery range. Somewhere in those dark recesses, Mullins and his rustlers were supposed to be hiding. The name stirred his memory.

  “Jakes!” he muttered. “He wanted her, too, or, mebbe Sark’s usin’ him. We gotta find out.” He slapped his mount on the neck_ An hour’s journey brought them to the foothills and here the difficulty began. Dave decided to ride along the edge in the hope of finding tracks but presently abandoned the plan in despair, and choosing a spot where there seemed to be some sort of an opening, plunged into the shadowed depths. For a space, progress was possible, though the dense growth and gloom made it slow, but Dave was doubtful since they did not appear to be rising. His fears proved to be well-founded when a vertical wall of rock barred further advance; what had promised to be a passage up was no more than a blind rift in the mountain-side.

  “Damn the luck,” he muttered. “Jake’s got more savvy than I gave him credit for.” There was nothing for it but to go back and try again. But getting out was no easier than getting in, and consumed a great deal of time and much of the rider’s patience.

  They emerged into the glare of the sun to recommence the task of finding ingress to the labyrinth. It was a wearisome business. Time after time, disappointment only rewarded them, and success seemed as far off as ever when they halted on the lip of a shallow, gravel-bottomed pool, fed by one of the several creeks from the high ground. Getting down to slake his thirst he saw the prints of shod shoes. Struck by an idea, he walked all round the water, but found no more hoof-marks.

  “They didn’t go on,” he argued. “Shore, they might ‘a’ gone back, but why come here when there’s other drinkin’ places? Wadin’ up the stream would blind a trail completely. Worth a trial, hoss.” They splashed steadily along the creek and the young man became more sanguine when he noticed a branch which would have been in their way hanging broken and dead. Then came the inevitable barrier in the shape of a waterfall, leaping over a rock ten feet high. But to the left of it was a level ledge of short turf, and on it, hoofprints.

  “Mebbe we got somethin’,” Dave told his mount.

  The way was narrow, zig-zagged a great deal, but ascended steadily; here and there, the stump of an obstructing tree showed it to be man-made. At the end of an hour’s climb, through a break in the trees, the rider saw a spiral of smoke against the dark background of pines higher up.

  Though it did not seem to be far away, another hour passed before he got a second view of it, this time close at hand. From the shelter of a leafy bush he studied his surroundings.

  The trail he had been following ended on a gently-sloping shelf, and at the back of this was a solidly-fashioned, two-storied timber building. The situation was well-chosen; at the sides and front, the ground had been cleared save for the stumps of the trees which had been used in the construction, while the rear was defended by the steep face of the mountain itself.

  Completely concealed by the enveloping curtain of pines, it was an ideal haven for broken men.

  There was no sign of life until a rider appeared from the far side of the clearing, got down, and went in. The light was still sufficient for Dave to recognize him; it was Javert.

  “That seems to fix it,” he muttered. “I’ve located Mister Mullins.” Night came at length, bringing a patch of light from the cabin, and Dave could delay no longer. Leaving his pony, but taking his rope, he stole to the back of the house, and, flattened against the wall, stood listening.

  Presently a faint glow shone from one of the two upper windows, and he heard a gruff voice say:

  “I’m lettin’ you have the candle while you feed.” A door slammed, followed by the heavy tread of boots on a board stair. Evidently there was a prisoner, but was it the one of whom he was in search? When he deemed the coast was clear, he began to whistle, very softly, “The Cowboy’s Lament,” about his fondness for which Mary Gray had more than once chaffed him. A moment, and from above his head, a whisper floated down:

  “Is is you—Dave?”

  “Shore thing,” he replied, and executed a miniature wardance, for not only was it the Widow’s voice, but she had used his first name. “Are you tied up?”

  “No, but I can’t leave without my baby.” When the significance of this had seeped in, he swore under his breath. “They ain’t got him,” he told her.

  A deeply-breathed “Thank God!” reached him.

  “Can yu grab my rope, make it fast to somethin’, an’ slide down?” he asked, and when she eagerly promised, added an afterthought, “Fetch that food along—we’ll need it.” He heard the window open and sent the loop of his rope spinning up to her; she caught and went to secure it.

  A few moments and she was back, but he would not let her descend until he had tested the lasso by throwing his own weight upon it. Anxiously he watched her scramble on to the sill.

  “Grip tight an’ come down slow—it ain’t far,” he warned.

  Nevertheless, she arrived with a rush, and would have fallen had he not been there to steady her.

  “My hands—they’re on fire,” she murmured. “Oh, I never was so glad to see anyone, but I knew—I hoped—you would find me. I think I can stand now.” Slinking along in the shadow of the building, they made a dash across the open space, and reached the spot where the horse had been left; there was no sign of it.

  “You haven’t mistaken the place?” the Widow asked. “No, there’s the branch I tied him to—though that warn’t really necessary,” Dave replied. “It ain’t broke.” They searched the surrounding brush without success, and then Dave said, “Well, we’d never get out o’ this wilderness on foot; I’ll have to take a chance o’ swipin’ a pony, I guess.”

  “Better guess again, Masters,” a sarcastic voice advised. “A deppity-marshal ain’t supposed to steal horses, an’ besides, it can’t be did.” Dave whirled round, right hand on his gun, but could see no one. The voice continued:

  “Six rifles are coverin’ you this moment, an’ we’re all hopin’ you’ll be obstinate. Show him, fellas.” On all sides the moonlight glinted on gun-barrels thrust through the foliage. Dave shrugged—resistance would be just suicide.

  “The pot is yores,” he said.

  They closed in on him and one took charge of his weapon. All were masked, a circumstance which brought a sneer of contempt to the deputy’s lips.

  “Yu can take that rag off, Mullins,” he said to the leader. “Though I admit it
improves yore looks.”

  “Clever, ain’t you?” the ruffian replied. “If I hadn’t somethin’ else for you, somethin’ more interestin’, I’d blow you four ways this minit,” he threatened. “But—wait.”

  “Whatever the cost, it’ll be worth it,” Dave said defiantly.

  “you’ve reached the limit a’ready,” was Jake’s reply. “Tie him up an’ shove him in the wood-shed.” The young man had another inspiration. “See here, I’ve had nothin’ to eat since mornin’; I won’t last no time at the torture-stake if I’m starvin’.”

  “Give him grub; he’ll need to be good an’ strong tomorrow. I’ll ‘tend to the woman.”

  Dejected Mary Gray preceded him back to her prison. By the fitful light of the candle—which was still burning—he surveyed her with evil exultation.

  “Now what do you think?”

  “That you are as great a liar as scoundrel,” she retorted, and for a moment her sombre eyes regarded him. “And that you have not long to live, Jake Mullins.” The sinister prophecy, uttered in a low passionless tone, startled the bandit for the instant, but he threw off the eerie sensation with a coarse laugh.

  “Then I’d best make the most o’ my time,” he gibed, and moved towards her.

  Appalled at his expression, she shrank back, whereat he laughed again, delighting in the mental anguish he was inflicting. Cowering against the wall, faint with horror, she knew that her fate hung in the balance. Then greed of gold triumphed over a still baser appetite. Dave’s rope was still hanging from the window. He drew it in and proceeded to secure her wrists and ankles.