Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (6 page)

 
          
“It
is no use, Luce,” she said sadly. “That would only mean more trouble. We belong
in different camps, and this must be the end of our—friendship. We both have to
be loyal to our own kin.”

 
          
The
finality with which she spoke silenced him. Miserably he watched as she wheeled
her pony and rode away, the proud little head bent, and—though he did not know
this—the blue eyes well-nigh blind with unshed tears. When the trees had hidden
her, a bitter laugh broke from his lips.

 
          
“Loyal
to our own kin,” he repeated harshly. “If the Burdettes shoot men in the back
they’re no kin o’ mine, an’ that’s somethin’ they’ve gotta learn mighty soon.”

 
          
With
a grim look on his young face he stepped into his saddle and loped off in the direction
of the Circle B ranch.

 
          
No
sooner was he out of sight than a man rose from behind a clump of undergrowth
on the outskirts of the glade. He was tall, nearing the middle thirties in age,
with broad shoulders and a powerful frame. His black hair, eyes, and moustache,
added to perfectly-formed features, produced a face at which most women would
look more than once. Even his own sex had to admit that Kingley Burdette was ‘a
handsome devil,’ and this Mephistophelian attractiveness was accompanied by a haughty,
insolent bearing which made his first name singularly appropriate. Just now his
thin lips were set in a saturnine sneer.

 
          
“So
that’s the way of it, huh?” he almost hissed. “Ready to round on his own folk
for the sake of a skirt, but mebbe he won’t get the chance.” His dark eyes
narrowed. “Damn him! He’s got ahead o’ me. Who’d ‘a’ thought ‘o him shinin’ up
to that Purdie gal?—not that she ain’t worth it.” He pondered for a moment, and
then an ugly smile lit his lowering face. “I reckon that’ll fix yu, my friend,
fix yu good an’ plenty,” he muttered.

 
          
He
too mounted and trotted leisurely away, his mind full of a young, slim girl
with curly, honey-coloured hair and wide blue eyes, who now would one
day
own the C P ranch.

 
          
Sudden
spent the evening in “The Lucky Chance.” It was a fair-sized place, with a
sanded, boarded floor on which tables and chairs were dotted about, and a long
bar which faced the swing-doors. Light was afforded by three big kerosene lamps
slung from the roof, and a few gaudy chromos formed the only decoration save
for a large tarnished mirror immediately facing the entrance. Behind the har
stood the proprietor, Mick Magee, whose squat, turned-up nose and twinkling
blue eyes proclaimed his nationality before he opened his mouth. A genial man
until roused, and then he was a tornado. Tough as the frequenters of “The Lucky
Chance” were, few of them had any desire to tangle with the sturdy Irishman
when he “went on the prod.”

 
          
Just
now he was all smiles, for business was brisk; most of the tables were occupied
and the faro, monte, and other games were being well supported. The crowd
presented the usual medley to be found in any cow town at that time, save that
there were more miners, oldish men for the most part, with craggy, weather-scarred
features, bent backs, and fingers calloused by constant contact with pick and
shovel. Lured on by the will-o’-the-wisp of a “big strike,” they spent their
days grubbing in the earth for gold and their nights in dissipating what little
they found. There were those among them who remembered the hectic days of ‘49,
others who had sneaked into the Black Hills, dodging the troops sent by the
Government to keep them out, and risking a horrible death by torture at the
hands of the Indians; days of feverish toil, with a rifle always within reach,
and the knowledge that at any moment they might hear the dread war-whoop. They
had found fortunes in a day and lost them in a night—and still hoped.

 
          
There
was a constant hum of conversation, punctuated by bursts of laughter, and an
occasional oath as the goddess of chance favoured or flouted a gambler.

 
          
Lounging
carelessly at one end of the bar, Sudden’s eyes were busy, not that the scene
was any novelty, but he had come to live amongst these people for a time, and he
wanted to know something of them. Presently the proprietor noticed the solitary
stranger and spoke to him.

 
          
“Would
ye be after stayin’ wid us, Mister Green?” he asked.

 
          
“I’m
all undecided,” the puncher told him with a smile. “I like the look o’ the lay-out,
but, yu see, my appetite keeps regular hours, an’ I gotta work. I had a notion
to find me a gold-mine.”

 
          
The
saloon-keeper regarded him humorously. “Good for ye,” he replied. “But take it
from me, the best way to look for wan is from the back of a hoss somewan is
payin’
ye
to ride.”

 
          
The
hint was plain enough, and the man to whom it was given nodded a smiling
acquiescence. “I guess yo’re right,” he said. “As a matter o’ fact, I’m seein’
Purdie in the mornin’.”

 
          
The
remark, coming from a stranger, amounted to a question, and the Irishman took
it as such. “A good man, Purdie,” he said. “His, sort, they don’t make ‘em no
better.” He studied the other furtively for a few moments and decided that he
was capable of taking care of himself.

 
          
Nevertheless,
he uttered an indirect warning. “Chris is takin’ the loss of his only boy
hard,” he went on. “I misdoubt it’ll mean bad trouble between the C P an’ the
Circle B, which is the Burdette brand. Easy now, here’s a couple of them.”

 
          
Through
the swing-doors came two men in cowboy trappings, tall, big-boned, dark of hair
and brow, with bold, hard faces and insolent, dominant eyes. Though one was a
few years the
elder,
and a veritable giant in build,
they were sufficiently alike for their relationship to be obvious. Magee looked
uneasy.

 
          
“Mart
an’ Sim Burdette,” he said in an undertone.
“Pretty well
primed too, begad.”
Then, as he turned to welcome the newcomers, the
puncher caught the added words, “An ugly pair to draw to.”

 
          
Through
narrowed eyes Sudden watched the brothers swagger up to the bar, and decided
that the landlord was right. He noted that each wore only one gun in sight, a
heavy Colt’s .45, slung below the right hip. Though they were laughing, their
eyes were as cold as those of a snake. They greeted the saloon-keeper
boisterously and inquired for the marshal. At that moment Slype came in.

 
          
“Hey,
Slippery, I hear yo’re tryin’ to pin this Purdie play on the Burdettes,”
Mart—the bigger man—said threateningly.

 
          
“Yu
heard a lie,” the marshal retorted. “One or two things sorta suggested Luce,
but he claims he had nothin’ to do with it.”

 
          
“Did
yu expect he’d own up?”
sneered
the other. “An’ if he
did down Purdie I’ll say he done a good job, though it don’t even the score.
What yu goin’ to do about it?”

 
          
He
glared round the room as though daring anyone present to dispute his callous
assertion. The marshal, who knew the challenge was directed chiefly at
himself
, shrugged his shoulders in a poor assumption of
indifference.

 
          
“Ain’t
no
call for me to concern m’self,” he replied. “Like I
told Luce, Ol’ Man Purdie reckons him an’ his outfit can deal with it.”

 
          
“Is
that so?” Mart growled. “Wants a fight, does he? Well, that suits us fine, eh,
Sim?”

 
          
The
younger brother laughed. “Yu betcha,” he agreed.

 
          
Slype made a gesture for appearance’ sake.
“Now, see here,
Mart, a range war ain’t goin’ to do this yer town no good,” he protested. “All
Chris wants, I reckon, is to find out who bumped off his boy.”

 
          
“Bah!
He’s plastered it on the Burdettes a’ready,” Sim said angrily. “Awright, we’ll
let it go as it
lays
; the Burdettes can take care o’
theirselves.”

 
          
“An’
whose side are yu on, anyways, Slippery?” snapped Mart.

 
          
“I
represent the law, an’ I’m agin both o’ yu,” the marshal evaded, a reply which
drew an ironic laugh from the brothers. “Where’s King? Left him at Lu
Lavigne’s, I reckon?”

 
          
“Yu
reckon pretty good,” Sim replied, adding slyly, “Why not send if yu want him?”

 
          
“I
don’t,” the officer said hastily. “I just asked. What about a little game?”

 
          
Sudden
stayed a while longer, hoping to see the eldest of the Burdettes, but was
disappointed. Weldon, the blacksmith, a bluff, bearded giant with whom he got
into conversation, explained the marshal’s reference to King’s whereabouts. He
would be at “The Plaza,” the only real rival establishment to ‘The Lucky
Chance.’ It was owned and run by a woman, who had bought out the former
proprietor less than a year before. Save that she was young, attractive, and
wise to her business, nothing was known of her.

 
          
“Calls
herself Mrs. Luisa Lavigne, but no husband ain’t showed up yet,” the blacksmith
said. “She’s certainly restful to the sight, but I’m layin’ she’s got Spanish
blood in her, an’ a temper to match. Soon after she hung out her shingle, a
cowboy tries to get fresh with her, an’ she slips a knife into him middlin’
prompt. No, he didn’t die, but it shorely puts a crimp in his affection. O’course,
it don’t stop others sufferin’ from the same complaint, but it makes ‘em
careful, an’ when King Burdette starts hangin’ round, most of ‘em loses
interest.”

 
          
Sudden
ventured to ask one direct question, and to his surprise, received an answer.

 
          
“If
it comes to a fight, I opine Purdie would have most of the town against him?”

 
          
“Stranger,
Purdie is liked, but the Burdettes is feared.”

 
          
Which was exactly what the puncher wanted to know.

 
          
THE
C P ranchhouse occupied a little plateau in the foothills around the base of
Old Stormy, facing the great valley in which, ten miles distant,
lay
the town of Windy. Solidly built of ‘dobe bricks and
shaped logs, with chimneys of stone, it had an imposing appearance despite the
fact that it consisted of one storey only. A broad, covered verandah, paved
with pieces of rock, stretched along the front of the building, and to the left
were the bunkhouse, barns, and corrals. A few cottonwoods, spared when the
ground had been first cleared, provided shade. At the back of the house a
grassy slope climbed gently to the black pines which belted the mountain.

 
          
Sudden
found the owner on the verandah.

 
          
“Mornin’,
friend,” Purdie greeted, and pulled forward a chair. “That’s a good hoss yu
got.”

 
          
“Shore
is,” replied the puncher, and waited.

 
          
“Made
them plans yet?” came the question, and when the visitor replied in the
negative, another silence ensued. Sudden was aware that the cattleman was
sizing him up, turning over some problem. Presently he straightened as though
he had come to a decision.

 
          
“Kit
was my foreman,” he said slowly. “Like his job?”

 
          
The
puncher stared at him in surprise; he had expected an offer to ride for the
ranch, but not to be put in charge. His reply was
noncommittal
:

 
          
“Yore
outfit won’t admire takin’ orders from a stranger.”

 
          
“Yu
needn’t worry about that; they’re good boys an’ they’ll back my judgment,”
Purdie said confidently. “Yu see, it ain’t just a question o’ runnin’ the
ranch—a’most any one o’ them could do that—but outguessin’ that Burdette crowd
is a hoss of a different brand. I’m gamblin’ yu can swing it—if yo’re willin’
to take the risk.”