Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (30 page)

 
          
“Yu
oughta know that
him an’ me
ain’t likely to be workin’
together,” the boy said. “I’ve come to turn yu loose.”

 
          
California
peered at him suspiciously. “Sounds good, but what’s yore price? The Black
Burdettes do nothin’ for nothin’.”

 
          
Luce
shrugged his shoulders. “Yo’re a grateful cuss, ain’t yu?” he said, as he
severed the old man’s bonds. “I’m givin’ yu yore freedom, an’ there’s no
strings tied to it.”

 
          
The
prospector stretched his stiffened limbs and swore at the pain the movement
provoked. Then he staggered weakly to the door and peeped out.

 
          
“Let’s
beat it—that devil may come back for somethin’,” he urged. Brave enough when
his position appeared hopeless, his keyed-up nerves gave way when escape became
possible, and he was in a twitter to be gone. “Ain’t got a chaw o’ tobacker, I
s’pose? It stays the stummick; I done forgit when I eat last.”

 
          
“Which
I’m shorely dumb—brought this a-purpose,” Luce replied.

 
          
The
old man yelped when he saw the thick bacon sandwich, and bit into it like a
famished dog, and the flask of whisky which followed it made his eyes glisten.
“Boy, yo’re savin’ my life a second time,” he mumbled, “but let’s git; I can
tackle this on the way.”

 
          
They
went out and Luce drove the staple back into its place. “They’ll wonder how yu
got clear; there ain’t but one key to that lock an’ it’s in King’s pocket right
now,” he chuckled. “The next point is, where d’yu
want
to go? Yu’ll have to lie mighty low or they’ll nab yu again.”

 
          
The
food and drink had put new energy into Cal’s old but tough carcasse. He was
stepping along spryly enough now, and his cunning brain was busy. When they
reached the spot where Luce had left Silver, his plans were made.

 
          
“Git
me to my shack, where I can rustle some grub an’—such-like,” he requested. “I
knows
a place to hide out; I aim to be missin’ a spell yet.”

 
          
Luce
having no better plan, they set out, Silver making light of a double burden.
The sun had dropped over the rim of the world, dusk had deepened into dark, and
stars were peeping out of a velvety sky when they reached the hut on Old
Stormy. The burro raised its voice in welcome from the corral but otherwise the
place was deserted. The prospector lit the stump of a candle, saw the ravaged
cache, and danced with rage.

 
          
“Hell
blister their lousy hides, they’ve took it, an’ the dust as well,” he raved.

 
          
Luce
stemmed the stream of profanity which followed by asking what he had lost. The
old man looked at him with sudden suspicion.

 
          
“Oh,
it ain’t nothin’ much,” he replied offhandedly, “but a fella don’t like his
things took.”

 
          
He
essayed a grin. “No good to nobody but me. Anyways, I’m all right now, boy, an’
I ain’t forgettin’ what yu done. Never thought to thank a Burdette for
anythin’, but I’m doin’ it. S’long.”

 
          
Riding
slowly along the winding trail down the mountain-side, the roar of the river
rang in the boy’s ears. He had heard it often enough, but to-night it seemed to
convey an intangible menace, a threat of impending danger. To his mind, attuned
to the solitude, gloom, and his own troubles, it sounded like the rolling drums
of a funeral march, voicing the inevitability of death.

 
          
For
tens of thousands of years it had gone on, and for as much or more, after he,
poor atom, had ceased to be, it would continue. The boy shook himself and
laughed.

 
          
“Old
age must be creepin’ up on me, Silver, or else
I’m
goin’ loco,” he told his horse.

 
          
“Mebbe
we ain’t here long, but we gotta do the best we can. Anyways, that’s one bad
mark I’ve saved the Burdette family.”

 
          
Early
morning found King and Sim Burdette dismounting outside the hut in the pine
forest. There was nothing in the appearance of the place to warn them of the
surprise in store.

 
          
The
elder brother unlocked the door, flung it open, and strode in.

 
          
“Come
to yore senses yet, Cal?” he asked harshly, and then paused in bewilderment.

 
          
“Hell’s
flames, he’s gone!” The strips of rawhide which had bound the prisoner caught
his eye and he picked them up. “Clean cut,” he decided. “Who the devil can have
knowed he was here?”

 
          
Sim’s
expression was ironical; had it not also been a blow for him he would not have
been sorry to see his cocksure brother bested for once—that was the Burdette
nature.

 
          
“Someone
musta trailed yu yestiddy,” he suggested, and his tone implied carelessness.

 
          
“Brainy,
ain’t yu?” sneered the other. “P’r’aps yu can tell who it was?”

 
          
Sim
nodded. “Our dear brother, for an even bet,” he replied, and pointed to the
patch of sand in front of the door. “That footprint looks mighty familiar to
me; Luce walks toed-in, like an Injun.”

 
          
Instead
of the explosion he expected there was a silence, and then King said slowly,
“So it was Luce, huh? I shall have to deal with him.” Quietly as the words were
spoken, there was a deadly purpose in them. “Meanwhile, we gotta find that
cursed old fool again. Yu send that note off?”

 
          
“Yeah,”
Sim told him. “But I don’t like it, King; I guess yo’re goin’ the wrong way to
work. If we can get the gold, why fuss about the C P?”

 
          
His
brother whirled on him. “Where d’yu s’pose the mine is, yu chump?” he asked.
“I’ll tell yu: around Stormy—on C P land, an’ if it warn’t I’d still go after
Purdie, crush an’ tromp him in the dust, him an’ his. Now
d’yu
understand
?”

 
          
Familiar
as he was with King’s savage humours, the fierceness of this outburst surprised
the younger man. Hard-shelled and devoid of scruple himself, material gain
bulked greater in his eyes than mere revenge, but if both could be attained …
His thin, cruel lips shaped into an ugly grin.

 
          
“Suits
me,” he said. “I ain’t lost any Purdies. What yu want I should do?”

 
          
“We
gotta search out Cal. Take a look at his shack—there’s just a chance he’s been
dumb enough to go back. I’m for town, to see if I can get a line on him there.
Yu’Il
need
to watch out; if them C P hombres catch yu
snoopin’ round yu’ll likely stop lead.”

 
          
“Can’t
afford to do that—the fam’ly is gettin’ considerable thinned out,” Sim said
grimly.

 
          
“Yu
reckon one of ‘em got Mart?”

 
          
“I
dunno—yet,” King replied darkly. “Somethin’ queer about that.”

 
          
The
younger man nodded agreement, swung into his saddle, and began to pick his way
through the pines in the direction of Old Stormy. King slammed the door of the
hut, locked it, and set out for Windy. Though he had not betrayed the fact, his
mind was in a ferment of fury over the escape of the prisoner, and the
knowledge that Luce had brought it about added fuel to the fire of his wrath.

 
          
“Time
that snake was stamped on,” he muttered.

 
          
Sim’s
reference to Mart recalled another mysterious taking-off, that of his father.
Though he had, as part of his policy, openly blamed the C P for the killing, he
did not actually believe it.

 
          
Much
as he hated Purdie, he knew him to be a fair fighter who would face his man and
scorn to take a mean advantage.

 
          
Curious
glances greeted him as he rode along the street, his handsome features marred
by a heavy frown. Local gossip held that King Burdette was taking the passing
of his brother far too quietly, and was wondering when the fur would begin to
fly. The marshal, peeping through his window, saw him pass, and grimaced at his
broad back.

 
          
“King,
huh?” he gibed. “Knave would suit yu better, though mebbe yu won’t be
no
more’n a two-spot when it comes to a show-down.”

 
          
The
object of this malignant criticism dismounted at “The Lucky Chance” and went
in.

 
          
The
place was empty, save for the proprietor, dozing behind the bar.

 
          
“Howdy, Magee.
Hot, ain’t it?” Burdette began. “Joinin’ me?”

 
          
The
saloon-keeper shook his head. “I’ve quit—waste o’ good liquor; ye sweat it out
‘fore ye know ye’ve had it.”

 
          
The
customer accepted the excuse—he knew it was but that—with a gesture of
indifference. “Suit yoreseif,” he said. “Better not spread the notion about
though; it might be bad—for trade.” He waited to let the covert threat sink in,
and then, casually, “Any news o’ that miner who was missin’?”

 
          
“Divil
a whisper,” the Irishman said. “It sticks in me moind they’ve made away wid
him.”

 
          
“Mebbe
Riley was right,” Burdette suggested slyly, anxious to make the other talk.

 
          
“Mebbe
he was not,” the saloon-keeper retorted. “I’d name that fella for a direct
descindant o’ Mister Ananias. Yago saw Cal after Green had gone, an’ I’ve
knowed Bill a consid’able whiles.”

 
          
“Green’s
his friend,” King persisted.

 
          
“His
foreman, which ain’t jist
th
’ same thing,” Magee
corrected. “An’ the pair av thim is straight as a string.”

 
          
“Takin’
sides with the C P, huh?” Burdette fleered.

 
          
“I
am not, but
I ain’t takin’ orders neither,
” Magee
replied bluntly.

 
          
King’s
sallow face flushed at the open defiance, but he kept his temper. “No call to
go on the prod, ol’-timer,” he laughed. “
yo’re
takin’
one order anyways—I want another drink.”

 
          
The
saloon-keeper pushed forward the bottle, but he was not deceived by this
display of good nature; he knew quite well that the Circle B man would not
forget the incident. But he was not scared; running a Western saloon in the bad
old days was no job for a weakling. Burdette stayed a few moments longer,
chatting casually, and then made his way to “The Plaza.” Here again customers
were scarce, two miners wrangling over a game of seven-up representing the
total. Lu Lavigne stretched a hand across the bar, sympathy in her dark eyes.

 
          
“King,
I’m so sorry—about Mart,” she said.

 
          
“Shucks,
whatsa use? I ain’t grievin’,” he returned callously. “I’d like to meet the
coyote what did it, though.” His brooding brows came together. “Seen anythin’
o’ that fella Green lately?”

 
          
She
shook her head. “
you
are not suspecting him, are you?”

 
          
Her
apparent interest stung him.
“Why not?
He ain’t no
shinin’ white angel, I’d say,” he gibed.

 
          
“Don’t
be childish, King,” she chided. “I don’t think he’d shoot a man from behind.”

 
          
Her
defence of the puncher added to his anger, and he struck back. “S’pose yu know
why yu haven’t seen him?” he asked.