Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (3 page)

 
          
“We’re
respectable folk now, Nig, workin’ for Uncle Sam, an’ we gotta be good,” he
drawled. “No more hellin’ round,
no fights—the
soft
answer that turneth away wrath for us every time; we gotta let ourselves be
tromped on, yu sabe?”

 
          
The
animal shook its head and whinneyed softly.

 
          
“Makes
yu laugh, huh?” the rider continued. “Well, I don’t blame yu at that, but
allasame, if I catch yu chewin’ up another gent’s hoss I’ll just naturally
larrup the linin’ outa yu.”

 
          
Emerging
from the pines, they came upon evidence of civilization. Facing a small valley
was a one-storeyed log-cabin, with a truck-patch and rude corral. Lounging in
the doorway was a man of middle age, whose sullen eyes surveyed the intruder
curiously. Chewing on the stem of a corncob pipe, his right hand was behind the
door-jamb, and Sudden guessed that the fellow had a weapon handy; he was
clearly suspicious of this capable-looking stranger who reined up and greeted
him with a grin.

 
          
“Howdy, friend!
Might this be the way to Windy?”

 
          
“It
might, for a man who ain’t in a hurry.”

 
          
“So
I’ve strayed some, huh?” the rider smiled. “Well, I got all the time there is.”
His gaze took in the slovenly building, noted the half-hearted attempt at cultivation
and the few cattle feeding in the valley. “Yu shore picked a nice location.”

 
          
The
sneer on the man’s face deepened. “Place is all right if a fella was let
alone,” he said;

 
          
“But
what’s the use o’ gettin’ ambitious when yo’re liable to be run off any time?
`Nesters’ ain’t popular in these parts, nor in any others fur as I can make
out,” he added bitterly.

 
          
“If
I’d filed on a bit o’ land like this it’d take a lot to stampede me,” the
puncher stated.

 
          
“Mebbe,
an’ then again, mebbe not,” the homesteader retorted, his querulous voice
rising.

 
          
“Buckin’
the Burdette boys ain’t paid
nobody
yet.”

 
          
Ere
Sudden could reply to this a horseman galloped round a bend in the trail just
beyond the cabin and pulled his pony to a slithering stop in front of them. He
was young—little more than twenty—with a freckled face and blue eyes which had
a frosty glint in them as they rested on the nester.

 
          
“What
yu belly-achin’ about the Burdettes for, Fosbee?” he asked, and when the man
did not reply, he asked, “
Who’s
yore friend?”

 
          
“Dunno,”
Fosbee said sulkily.
“Stopped to ask the way to Windy.”

 
          
The
young man turned an interested gaze upon the puncher, who, lolling easily in
his
saddle,
returned it with amused indifference. A
likeable enough youth, he decided, but somewhat over-imbued with his own
importance. He got out the makings, rolled and lighted a
cigarette,
waiting for the question he knew would come. The freckled one fidgeted with his
reins for a moment.

 
          
“Yo’re
a stranger here?” he said.

 
          
Sudden
smiled. “Someone musta told yu,” he replied with gentle sarcasm.

 
          
The
young man flushed. “What’s yore business in Windy?” he asked bluntly.

 
          
The
cowpuncher was still smiling. “Well, it ain’t advertisin’,” he replied
meaningly.

 
          
The
snub brought the hot blood again into the boy’s cheeks, and for a moment it
seemed that he would give vent to his anger. Then, with a little lift of the
shoulders, he swung his pony round and spurred away without another word.
Sudden watched him disappear with a speculative eye, and then turned to Fosbee,
whose countenance was more lugubrious than ever.

 
          
“Member
o’ the Royal Family, I take it,” he said, and seeing the man did not get his
meaning, he added, “One o’ the Burdettes, huh?”

 
          
“Yeah,
that was Luce—they called him Lucifer ‘count of his havin’ a red head like a
match,” Fosbee explained. “An’ he’s the best o’ the bunch, though that ain’t
sayin’ a lot.”

 
          
“He
certainly
don’t
actually despise hisself,” the puncher
grinned. “How many o’ the tribe is there?”

 
          
“King
Burdette an’ three brothers—use ter be five in the family, but the Ol’ Man got
bumped off three-four months back; shot from cover, he was, over on War Axe
Ridge. Nobody knows who done it, but the Burdettes blame the Purdies—there’s
allus been bad blood between ‘em. If I was young Kit Purdie I’d leave the
country.”

 
          
“Folks
would take it he was guilty,” the puncher pointed out.

 
          
“Mebbe,
but he’d be alive,” the other said dourly. “Yu mark my words, the Burdette boys
will get him.”

 
          
Sudden
changed the subject; he did not want to betray more than the natural curiosity
of a stranger in local affairs. “What chance for a cow-wrastler around her?” he
inquired.

 
          
“Middlin’
slim,” was the reply. “There’s the Circle B —that’s Burdette, the C P — Purdie’s
ranch, an’ the Box S —a small one owned by Slype, the marshal, who’s too mean
to spit. Purdie is yore best bet; he’s a white man.”

 
          
“Yu
don’t recommend Burdette, huh?” the puncher smiled.

 
          
“If
yo’re quick with a gun an’ ain’t pertic’ler, yes,” retorted the other. “I’m
takin’ it yo’re honest.”

 
          
“Thank
you,” the visitor said gravely. “Likely I’ll go gravel-grubbin’ for a spell;
I’m told there’s gold around here.”

 
          
“That’s
so—Windy started on a gold boom, but it soon petered out. Yu can get `colour’
a’most anywheres in the sand o’ Thunder River, but that’s all yu do get.
There’s fellas still pannin’ an’ pocket-minin’ the slopes o’ the valley, but
they don’t hardly make more’n a grub-stake.”

 
          
“If
they could strike the mother-lode —”

 
          
“Yu
ain’t the first to think o’ that,” Fosbee cut in. “I reckon every man in town
has searched one time or another. Some claims it’s up on Ol’ Stormy, an’ mebbe
that’s
why ”
He paused suddenly. “I’m jawin’ too
much,” he added. “See yu later, p’raps.”

 
          
He
turned abruptly into the house, leaving the traveller no choice but to ride on,
thoughtfully considering what he had learned. Actually it did not amount to
much. Fosbee did not impress him favourably—a sour, disgruntled fellow who
would vent his venom on any more successful than himself, but his fear of the
Burdettes was evident.

 
          
“An’
I’m bettin’ that boy ain’t bad,” the puncher mused. “O’ course, his manhood is
some recent”—he himself was but a few years older—“an’ I expect he ain’t had
much experience, but I liked the look of him.”

 
          
Less
than half an hour brought him to the rim of a widish gully, the sloping sides
of which were covered with vegetation—spruce, juniper, cactus, and tall
grasses. Along the bottom ran a tiny, twisted stream fringed with willows and
cottonwoods. The sight of the water made him thirsty, and he was casting about
for the best place to descend when the angry crash of a rifle awoke a
succession of echoes, giving the impression of a fusillade. There was but one
shot, however, and a ballooning puff of smoke, a little way up the opposing
incline, showed whence it came. In a flash the puncher was out of the saddle
and crouching behind an outcrop of rock. A moment later he realized that he was
not the target, for, from a dense mass of brush almost on the floor of the
gully, a rifle spoke in reply. Two simultaneous reports from the other side
followed, and leaving his horse, Sudden searched for a break in the foliage.

 
          
Meanwhile
the strange duel continued, but now only two were firing, one against the
other. Had the third man been wiped out? The puncher, whose sympathy had
instinctively been for the weaker party, found
himself
hoping that this was the case. Presently he happened upon a spit of
grass-covered rock which jutted out, and, by worming along it on his belly, was
able to overlook the spot where the lone marksman was ensconced. Kneeling
behind the prostrate trunk of a windfall, his rifle in readiness, a man dressed
in the garb of the range was peering intently across the gully. For a while
nothing happened, and then from the opposite slope came a single shot. Sudden
saw the man below raise his rifle, but ere he could press the trigger another
report rang out and he slumped down, the weapon dropping from nerveless
fingers. High up on the rising ground behind the stricken fighter, smoke curled
from the midst of a tree. The watcher cursed as he realized what had taken
place.

 
          
“Damnation,
they’ve outplayed him,” he muttered, and scrambling back to the rim of the
gully, grabbed his rifle from the saddle, and began to run in the direction
from which the fatal shot had come. Before he could reach it, however, the thud
of hoofs on the trail told him that he was too late. And so it proved. Hundreds
of yards distant he had a momentary glimpse of a grey horse, and fired at it.
He knew the shot was useless, but it relieved his feelings. He found the tree,
a big spruce, the abraded trunk of which showed how the killer had climbed up
to get a clear shot at his victim. Save for an empty shell, a Winchester .38,
and some faint footprints, there was no further evidence. The puncher hoisted
himself
into the branches, and, as he had expected, found
that nothing interrupted his view of the dead man.

 
          
“Pie
like mother made,” he said savagely. “One coyote keeps him busy while the other
sneaks round an’ plugs him from behind. I’d shore like to meet them hombres.”

 
          
With
grim, unblinking eyes he searched the valley, but beyond the frequent flash of
a bird’s wing no sign of life rewarded his scrutiny. Satisfied that the
assassins had decamped, he dropped from the tree, and, leading his horse, began
to work his way down to the scene of the tragedy. This took time, for he had
often to force a passage through the tangle of undergrowth, and detours to
avoid miniature precipices were necessary. So that it was nearly half an hour
before he stood, hat in hand, beside what, only a short time ago, had been a
human being in all the vigour of early manhood.

 
          
One
thing the puncher saw at a glance—it was not, as he had suspected, young
Burdette.

 
          
Though
about the same age, the dead man had dark hair, and the glazed eyes which
stared up at the blue sky when Sudden turned the body over were a deep brown.
Death had been instant, for the bullet, entering under the left shoulder-blade,
had penetrated the heart. A whinny took him to a neighbouring thicket, where he
found a tied pony bearing the brand C P. At the sight of this his frown
deepened.

 
          
“Looks
like them Burdettes has got even,” he muttered; and then, “That fella Luce was
ridin’ a grey. Well, s’pose I’ll have to take him in; can’t leave the body here
for the buzzards.”

 
          
He
draped the corpse, face downwards, across the saddle of its own pony, securing
it with the lariat hanging from the horn, and then, riding his own horse and
leading the other, headed into the valley, where he found a dim trail which
appeared likely to take him to the town. Pacing soberly along, his thoughts
naturally dwelt upon the grisly burden jolting spasmodically on the back of the
other animal. That it was a corpse concerned him little—violent death was no
new thing to him, but the manner in which it had been brought about put a
savage set to his lips and gave the grey-blue eyes a flinty expression.

 
          
“It
shore looks bad for Mister Luce,” he mused. “I wouldn’t ‘a’ said he was that
sort.”