Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (28 page)

 
          
“I
ain’t worryin’
none
whatever—that’s yore part,” Slype
retorted. “Mebbe yu’ll say
it’s
news to yu that Mart
Burdette was shot from behind—bushwhacked—‘bout a coupla miles outa Windy las’
night?”

 
          
Like
those of a rat, his beady little eyes watched the cowpuncher to note the effect
of this announcement, but Sudden’s surprise semed genuine enough.

 
          
“Mart
Burdette—shot?” he cried, and in a flash realized why his horse had been
missing.

 
          
“Yu accusin’ me?”

 
          
The
marshal nodded to his deputy. “I told yu this fella had brains,” he said.

 
          
“Pity
yo’re
shy of ‘em,” the foreman said. “If I wanted to
put Mart outa business why didn’t I do it in the saloon, where I had every
right to?”

 
          
“Grand-standin’?”
Slype sneered. “Lenin’ him go thataway
shore made a hit with the boys.”

 
          
“Which
is the way yu’d have played it yoreself, I s’pose,” Sudden said scornfully.
“Well, what yu aim to do about it?”

 
          
“I’m
takin’ yu in,” the marshal answered, with an evident effort to speak confidently.

 
          
“Is—that—so?”
the foreman said, and laughed unpleasantly. “Any idea ‘bout how yo’re goin’ to
do it?”

 
          
The
marshal had not, and his attitude betrayed the fact. He realized now that to
come to the C P on such an errand with one man only, expecting that the puncher
would tamely surrender, had been a futile proceeding. But he doubted if he
could have raised a posse—most of the citizens would take Green’s view of the
matter. His visit was largely a bluff, but he made another attempt to carry it
off.

 
          
“Resistance
to the law on’y proves guilt,” he remarked sententiously.

 
          
“My gracious!
Have I resisted yu?” the foreman queried.
“Why, yu ain’t done nothin’?

 
          
Don’t
happen to be tied to that saddle, do yu?”

 
          
Apparently
the marshal was, for he made no attempt to get down. A glance at his newly-made
assistant was met by an emphatic shake of the head; Mister Riley was willing
enough to use the law as a shield, but his enthusiasm went no further. The
cold-eyed, confident young man leaning carelessly against one of the supports
of the verandah, thumbs hooked in his belt, did not strike him as even a
reasonable risk. In desperation Slype appealed to the rancher:

 
          
“Purdie,
as a law-abidin’ citizen, I call on yu”

 
          
“I’ve
noticed it, an’ I’m telling yu plain that if yu do it again I’ll have yu rid
off the ranch on a rail,” the cattleman interrupted harshly. “Roll yore tail,
yu runt, an’ take that shifty-eyed son of awith yu.”

 
          
The
marshal’s pasty face turned livid. “I’ll remember this, Purdie,” he threatened.

 
          
“I’m
advisin’ yu to,” the old man retorted. “Scratch gravel, yu scum.”

 
          
Without
another word the visitors whirled their mounts and set off down the trail.
Sudden watched them for a moment and then turned to his employer.

 
          
“I’m
thankin’ yu, seh,” he said.

 
          
“Shucks,
it ain’t worth speakin’ of, Jim,” the rancher returned. “O’ course I know yu
didn’t wipe out Mart, an’ that marshal fella knows it too. It was me they were
aimin’ at, an’ King Burdette is behind it; he owns Slype.”

 
          
“I
guess
things is
liable to liven up any moment now,”
the foreman offered.

 
          
Purdie
looked at him in astonishment. “Yu ain’t complainin’ of a dull time, are yu?”
he asked.

 
          
The
puncher grinned widely. “I ain’t noticed it,” he admitted. “Allasame, King will
lay the loss of his brother to our account, an’ there’ll be doin’s.”

 
          
Something
of the same thought was in the mind of the marshal as he rode away from the C
P. Incensed as he was at the humiliation he had met
with,
there was a certain satisfaction which he took care not to impart to his
companion. Riley had no such feeling. He had surmised that Green must suspect
him of the attempted drowning and had accepted the offer of a deputyship in the
hope that it would protect him from the puncher’s vengeance, but the latter’s
attitude had shattered his belief in the majesty of the law. For reasons of his
own, he proceeded, after riding in silence for a while, to inflame his chief’s
anger.

 
          
“I
take it Purdie ain’t friendly to yu,” he remarked.

 
          
The
marshal looked at him suspiciously. “How ever did yu discover that?” he
sneered.

 
          
“Yu
must be awful cute at readin’ sign—good as an Injun.”

 
          
“I
was askin’ a question,” Riley replied. “I’ll take it he ain’t, an’ that yu
wouldn’t be terrible grieved if somethin’ happened to him.”

 
          
The
marshal exploded. “Yo’re damn right, I wouldn’t,” he said fiercely. “Yu can
burn his ranch an’ wipe out every rat in it an’ I won’t stir a finger, blast
his soul! Fly at it.”

 
          
“Didn’t
say I was aimin’ to do anythin’—just wanted to know how yu felt ‘bout it,” the
deputy explained. “Goin’ to see King now?”

 
          
The
marshal nodded sullenly, and for the rest of the ride had nothing to say. They
found the boss of the Circle B awaiting them in the big front room; the scowl
on his face deepened as he listened to Slype’s account of their visit to the C
P.

 
          
“So
yu went to all that trouble to make a damn fool o’ yoreself?” was his comment.
“Did yu reckon Green would follow when yu whistled?”

 
          
“He’s
put hisself on the wrong side o’ the law by resistin’, an’ so has Chris,” the
marshal protested.

 
          
King’s
gesture was one of impatience. “Who the hell cares about yu or yore law in
Windy?” He tapped his gun-butt. “This is the on’y law that goes in these parts.
If yu’d
took
a dozen men…”

 
          
“An’
where was I to find ‘em?” Slype asked angrily. “After las’ night’s play the
town’s mighty near solid for him.”

 
          
“Yu
could ‘a’ found ‘em here,” Burdette replied. “No matter; I’m takin’ hold from
now on.

 
          
All
yu gotta do is not interfere whatever happens.
Yu sabe?”

 
          
The
marshal hesitated. “Yo’re askin’ a lot, King,” he demurred.

 
          
“Damnation!
I ain’t askin’ a thing—I’m givin’ yu orders,” King roared, his voice vibrant
with menace. “Yu’ll obey ‘em too, or I’ll tear that star off an’ cram it down
yore throat.”

 
          
Either
from anger or fear Slype’s face paled at the threat. “That’s no way to talk to
yore friends, King,” he ventured. “O’ course, I know yu must be feelin’ sore
about Mart…”

 
          
“Mart
was a fool an’ paid for it—as fools usually do,” the other cut in brutally.
“Friends?
I ain’t got
none
. I’m
King Burdette—a lone wolf, but my teeth are sharp, Slype, damned sharp, an’ I’m
goin’ to bite.”

 
          
He
snarled out the last words as though he were indeed the animal he had named
himself, poured a liberal drink from the bottle on the table, swallowed it at a
gulp, and flung down into a chair. The marshal changed the subject.

 
          
“I
was figurin’ to hold the inquiry on Mart to-morrow mornin’; that suit yu?”

 
          
“Inquiry?
What in hell for? He was hit in the back o’ the head
with a .45 slug, an’
there ain’t nothin’ to show who fired it
.
Yu, like a half-wit, say it was Green, an’ it suits me to have it thought so.
Hold yore fool inquiry when yu please—I shan’t be there.”

 
          
He
took no notice when they went out, sitting there chewing savagely at an
unlighted cigar. Though his hard, self-centred soul was incapable of affection,
his brother’s end had roused a demon of rage within him; he regarded it as a
blow at himself; and besides, Mart would have been useful.

 
          
“Damn
them all! I’ll make this town smell hell,” he swore.

 
          
Outside
the ranchhouse, Slype looked at his deputy and jerked a meaning thumb at the
room they had just left.

 
          
“Fightin’
drunk,” he said. “Yu’d better stick around, Riley. See yu later.”

 
          
Slumped
in his saddle, the marshal rode slowly back to town. There was an expression of
malicious content on his ferrety face despite the tongue-lashing he had been
twice subjected to.

 
          
But
his muttered monologue showed that they still
rankled :

 
          
“Purdie’ll
ride me on a rail, an’ King’ll cram my star down my throat if I don’t come to
heel, huh?” He laughed disdainfully, a hoarse cackle which had no mirth in it.
“Go on thinkin’ that, yu clever fellas, till yu wake up an’ find yu’ve played
my game for me. Wipe each other out an’ leave the field clear—for me; I won’t
interfere, Mister King Burdette, not any.” He pondered for a moment over the
prospect his mind had pictured. “Gotta find Cal, though —he’s the trump card.
Wonder where King has him cached?”

 
          
For
Riley, in a burst of confidence, had told of the old prospector’s abduction,
though he did not know where he had been taken. King Burdette trusted no man
overmuch, and once the captive was clear of the town, he had himself conducted
him to the hiding-place, sending his men back to the ranch. Riley had searched,
but so far without avail. He was beginning to regret that he had confided in
the Circle B autocrat, and that was why he had told Slype. Possessed of a
certain low cunning, he had guessed that the marshal—given the opportunity and
a sufficient inducement—would not hesitate to double-cross
Burdette,
and he argued that Slype would be the easier of the two men to handle. In
which, had he but known it, he was entirely mistaken.

 
          
The
inquiry into the death of Mart Burdette provided no sensation. It took place in
“The Lucky Chance” and was conducted by Slype, who combined the duties of
coroner with those of marshal. He stated the facts baldly to a
hastily-empanelled jury, adding that it was a plain case of murder, but that
there.
was
no evidence pointing to any particular
person, at which the foreman of the C P, lounging in the doorway, smiled
satirically; Slippery was playing his cards close. The Burdettes were not
present, but at the burial—which took place an hour later—King and Sim rode
behind the body.

 
          
Their
set, scowling faces showed no sign of grief; the Black Burdettes were not given
to affection. They had followed their father to his last resting-place with the
same dark indifference, and if they had sworn vengeance upon the slayer it was
only to serve their own ends. When the ceremony was over they rode back to town
and entered the hotel. With a word to the landlord, King led the way to an
empty room and closed the door carefully behind them.

 
          
“Mart
bein’ in the discard it follows yu an’ me gotta talk things over an’ settle
what we’re goin’ to do,” was his opening remark. “Yu got any ideas?”

 
          
The
face of the younger man was gloomy and vindictive; he had less command over his
emotions and possibly some trace of feeling for his dead brother.