Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (2 page)

 
          
A
chorus of acclamation greeted his proposal, and the landlord received many
compliments on his business acumen. In the midst of the celebration he drew the
puncher aside.

 
          
“Stranger,”
he said. “
yu’ve
done me one hell of a good turn. Is
there any way I can square the ‘count?”

 
          
“Yu don’t owe me nothin’,”
was the reply. “That jasper was
after my hair. Reminds me, I got a li’l business to attend to. See yu
later—mebbe.”

 
          
“If
yo’re goin’ to look for Pug, yo’re wastin’ time,” the other told him. “
yu
busted that fella wide open, an’ his bronc’ll be throwin’
gravel plenty industrious just now.”

 
          
“I
gotta show myself,” the puncher replied.

 
          
He
stepped swiftly through the swing-doors, his gaze darting right and left, for,
despite the landlord’s confidence, there was always the chance that the beaten
man might make a desperate attempt to avenge himself and regain his lost
reputation. But there was no sign, and after waiting a moment, the puncher
stepped along the street. Then he became aware that someone had followed him
out of the saloon.

 
          
“Young
man, I would like a word with you.”

 
          
The
puncher paused instantly, his manner alert. But there was nothing formidable in
the speaker’s appearance: a short, bulky man of around forty-five, dressed in
black “store” clothes, with a white collar and neatly-tied cravat. He had, the
cowboy now remembered, been sitting alone at a table in one corner of the
Palace.

 
          
“I’ve
some whisky and cigars at the hotel I’d like your opinion of—I think they are
better than our friend back there provides,” the little man went on.

 
          
“You
see”—a twinkle sprang into his grey eyes—“I don’t have to buy mirrors.”

 
          
The
cowboy liked that twinkle, but he did not reply at once. As he had already
proved, he could, on occasion, decide and act with amazing speed, but save
under the spur of necessity, he was a deliberate animal. He was wondering what
this man was. His educated speech, and his attire, with an indefinite air of
authority, suggested a lawyer, schoolmaster, or parson; he wore no weapons in
sight, but that meant little—card-sharps and crooks frequently posed as
inoffensive citizens. The liquor he was invited to sample might be hocussed. He
suddenly decided that he was able to take care of himself and his “roll.”

 
          
“I
don’t seem to have
no
other engagement, seh,” he
drawled.

 
          
“Good,”
was the
reply.

 
          
Heads
turned curiously as they passed along the street, for the story of the fracas
at the Palace had soon spread and the puncher was already famous. Men smiled as
they saw the stout little stranger almost trotting to keep up with the long,
easy stride of the tall cowboy.

 
          
“If
he’s aimin’ to lift that fella’s wad he deserves to git it for his pluck,”
remarked one.

 
          
“Me,
I’d sooner wrastle a wild cat.”

 
          
At
the hotel the little man led the way to a private parlour, reached a bottle of
whisky and a box of cigars from a cupboard, and invited his guest to sit down
and help himself. His next remark was a curious one.

 
          
“You
don’t seem to care for dancing,” he said, and the twinkle was again evident.

 
          
The
guest grinned broadly. “Shore
do
, but I’m a mite fussy
‘bout the music,” he replied.

 
          
A
short silence ensued; the puncher was waiting for the next move. The liquor and
the smoke were both of good quality—he had expected they would be—but that only
made him more suspicious. His host evidently divined his attitude.

 
          
“Time
we got acquainted,” he said. “My name is Bleke, and I hail from Tucson; you may
have heard of me.”

 
          
Though
the cowboy’s lounging form remained motionless, his narrowed eyes widened. It
was difficult to believe that this harmless-appearing little man could be
Governor Bleke of Arizona, whose reputation for cold courage and implacability
of purpose as a ruler extended far beyond his own turbulent territory, but—and
he afterwards wondered why—it never occurred to him to doubt the statement.
Custom required that he should now declare his own name, but he hesitated. His
host smiled shrewdly.

 
          
“You
are James Green of Texas, and sometimes men call yoù Sudden,” he said easily.

 
          
“I
came here to find you.”

 
          
The
puncher stiffened, his cigar clamped between his lips, leaving both hands free;
his eyes were frosty. The man from Tucson held up a hand, palm outwards, the
Indian sign of peace.

 
          
“You’re
forgetting that this salubrious settlement of Juniper is in New Mexico,” he
pointed out. “If I ordered the sheriff to arrest you he’d tell me where I could
go.” The cowpuncher looked a shade abashed, and Bleke went on, “You’re
drifting, young fellow, and drifting the wrong way. Already you are named as an
outlaw, and two sheriffs are searching for you.”

 
          
“An’
they want me for crimes I never committed,” Sudden said bitterly.
“Things done when I was scores o’ miles away.
I never stole
a dollar in my life, an’ yet I’m hunted like I was a mad dawg.”

 
          
“All
that I know,” replied the elder man. “If you are quick with a gun it’s easy to
get a bad reputation in the West; you get trouble forced on you, as it was back
there in the saloon; the way you handled that skunk told me a lot—you had every
right to kill him. But where’s it going to end, Green? Sooner or later you’ll
be caught and punished for something you didn’t do, and then—you’ll run wild.
As it is, you’ve got to keep moving.”

 
          
“There’s
another reason for that,” the puncher said darkly.

 
          
“Well,
that’s as maybe; I’m not asking,” Bleke replied. “I want a man who can use his
weapons”

 
          
“I’m
no hired killer,” the other harshly interrupted.

 
          
“If
you were I wouldn’t be talking to you,” was the sharp retort. “Listen to me;
there
are
plague spots in Arizona that I want cleared
up, and the man who does that must be able to protect himself. As a
deputy-sheriff he will have the authority of the law behind him, but that won’t
mean anything unless he can back it up with a gun, and it’s more than likely to
tell against him should it become known; he’ll have to use his own judgment,
and that’s why I’m looking for a man with a head as well as hands. This country
is young, and the law isn’t very well regarded, but the time is coming when it
will be, and this is a chance for you to get in on the right side.”

 
          
The
cowboy did not reply at once; his keen gaze rested speculatively on the maker
of this curious proposition. He was beginning to realize the quiet, forceful
personality of this apparently insignificant little man. Bleke too was silent,
waiting, and then the twinkle crept into his eyes again.

 
          
“Of
course, it’s a risky job I’m offering,” he said. “You’ll have to depend on
yourself too—I won’t be able to help you. If you lose out …”

 
          
“I’ll
go yu, seh,” the puncher said instantly.

 
          
The
elder man smiled and nodded. “I’m right glad,” he said, his heart warming to
the young fellow who had risen so promptly to his mild bait.

 
          
“Anyone dependent on you?”

 
          
The
visitor shook his head. “I’m shore a lone wolf,” he said.

 
          
“Good—from
my point of view, that is,” the Governor commented.
“Now for
details.”

 
          
When,
half an hour later, the newly-appointed deputy-sheriff departed, Bleke lighted
another cigar and smiled his satisfaction.

 
          
“I
reckon I’ve found my man and done the State a service at the same time,” he
soliloquized. “One more turn of the screw and there would have been another
good citizen gone wrong and merry hell to pay. That boy is of the outlaw breed,
sure enough, and worth saving.

 
          
Well,
if he’s looking for action, he’s liable to get it where I’ve sent him.”

 
          
Two
weeks later the man who had humiliated Pug Parsons in Juniper halted his horse
on the flat top of a mesa and surveyed the surrounding expanse. The railway, by
a devious route, had brought him part of the journey across Arizona, but for
the last four days he had been riding, and knew that he must now be nearing his
destination. The view was wild but imposing. Great ridges of rock, spired and
pinnacled, their bases buried in primeval forest, were on every side, and
between them were savannahs of rich grass in which the tiny lakes and streams
gleamed like silver in the sunlight. Through a gap in the hills the wayfarer
caught a glint of yellow, and knew it for a desert. There was no sign of human
habitation, and indeed he had seen nothing of the kind since he had left
Doverton in the early morning. The sky was a vault of palest blue, and with no
movement in the air, the vertical rays of the mid-day sun had almost the heat
of flames.

 
          
“Shore
is a fierce bit o’ country,” the cowboy mused. “If half I’ve heard is correct,
I’m due for a right interestin’ time.”

 
          
For though he had talked but little, the mere mention of his
objective had produced raised eyebrows and other symptoms of surprise, and this
had become more marked as he proceeded.
A citizen of one town he stayed
at even expressed his wonder verbally.

 
          
“I
ain’t presumin’, stranger, but why ever should yu wanta go to Windy?” he asked.
“On’y fella I ever knowed who visited there was bored to death.”

 
          
“Too
slow for him, huh?” the traveller suggested.

 
          
“No,
too fast—it was a .45 slug what bored him,”
chuckled
the speaker. “The drinks are shore on yu, stranger.”

 
          
The
cowpuncher laughed and paid; he had been fairly caught. But beneath the surface
he sensed a serious undercurrent, an unwillingness to talk about the town to
which he was travelling. The keeper of the hotel at Doverton had flatly refused
to answer his questions.

 
          
“Windy
is bad medicine,” he had said. “King Burdette has a long arm an’ a heavy fist
at the end of it.”

 
          
Sudden
smiled grimly as he recalled the remark; the fact that Doverton was no less
than forty miles from Windy suggested that Burdette was an opponent to be
approached warily.

 
          
Beyond
the bare statement that there was a mess to be cleared
up,
and that it would require a man with all his wits about him, some good luck,
and an outstanding ability to take care of himself, the Governor had told him
little. As a man will, who spends long, lonely hours with a horse, he confided
in the animal.

 
          
“Dunno
what sorta hornets’ nest we’re a-steppin’ into, Nig,” he said, “but there’s one
way to find out.
G’wan, yu cinder from hell.”
The big
black swung its head round, lips lifted to show the strong teeth, and the rider
grinned sardonically. “Playin’ yu’d like to bite me, huh? Yu old
fraud,”
and he stroked the sleek neck.

 
          
The
trail, which might have been no more than a runway for wild creatures, dropped
down in a zigzag from the mesa and plunged into a big patch of pines. Pacing
leisurely beneath the pillared arches of the forest, the puncher’s thoughts
reverted to the little man who had sought him out to send him on this errand of
danger. He knew that by doing so Bleke had saved him from a worse fate.
Saddled, unjustly, with the reputation of an outlaw, hunted in certain parts of
his own country, Texas, for offences of which he was not guilty, it would have
taken little more to turn him into a desperado. Bleke had known it. Sudden
himself knew it, and was conscious of a sense of satisfaction in being
definitely arrayed on the side of law and order; though, as a young man will,
he affected a quizzical disdain, even to himself.