Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 04 - Sudden Outlawed(1934) (2 page)

 
          
“Peterson and Webe.”

 
          
He
murmured the names, his face a grim threat; his hands flashed to his hips, the
black-handled guns leapt out, a staccato stream of crashes shattered the
stillness, and a tall weed, twenty paces distant on the edge of the trail,
dissolved into fragments before a hail of lead. From inside the ranchhouse came
a scurry of clumsy footsteps and Limpy appeared in the doorway carrying a
rifle.

 
          
“What
th’ blazes, Jim?” he began. His darting eyes took in the lounging figure on the
bench, the smoking guns, and the stricken target.
“Thought it
was Injuns, or some o’ them Mex raiders.”

 
          
“Just
me, lettin’ off steam,” the other explained. “Wanted to see if I’d got rusty,
but I reckon if that’d been a man …” He nodded at the weed.

 
          
“He’d
shore be hittin’ the high spots for hell,” the cook said, and then, curiously,
“Did yu have a particular fella in mind, Jim?”

 
          
The
answer took the form of a question. “Any
idea where that chap
Webb went?”

 
          
The
lame man’s eyes narrowed. “Wish I had, the buzzard,” he growled. “But for him,
Bill wouldn’t have …” He paused as the significance of the query dawned upon
him. “
yu
ain’t stayin’ then?”

 
          
“I
hit the trail in the mornin’,” was the reply.

 
          
“Good
huntin’,” was all Limpy said, and went in to prepare the evening meal.

 
          
Jim
reloaded his empty weapons and thrust them back into the holsters. His spate of
anger was past, leaving only a cold determination. He had to find two men, only
one of whom he had seen, and such is the optimism of youth, the magnitude of
the task did not daunt him. Even had he known of the years which were to elapse
ere he would fulfil his promise to the dead man, it would have made no
difference; his early life had endowed him with much of the redskin’s patience
and relentlessness. This strange quest, which set him drifting in a wild,
lawless land, flung him headlong into many perilous adventures, with one of
which this story deals.

 
          
The
rider was talking to his horse.

 
          
“We
gotta have a label, Nig—Evesham won’t do nohow.”

 
          
He
looked meditatively at the broad rolling prairie which stretched away on each
side of the rough trail he was following, a monstrous expanse of sun-baked,
brown grass.

 
          
“Green
is a good name, kind o’ refreshin’, nothin’
fancy
nor
outstandin’. Jim Green o’

 
          
Texas
shore listens well, huh?”

 
          
The
big black, pacing demurely along, tossed its head as though in agreement and
his master patted the sleek neck.

 
          
“Good,”
he said. “Settles me, but yu ain’t got no brand a-tall, an’ that’ll mean
trouble with a large T.”

 
          
He
got down, trailed the reins, and stroked the satiny muzzle thrust inquiringly
towards a pocket. He produced a biscuit, which the horse daintily accepted.

 
          
“Now
be a good fella,” the rider admonished. “This ain’t goin’ to hurt like an
iron.”

 
          
With
a knife-blade held against his thumb he plucked the hair from the skin on the
animal’s rump, and, in time, produced a creditable J G brand. Surveying his
work, he decided that it would serve, though an expert would not be deceived.
He resumed his journey.

 
          
“Looks
like we might he gettin’ some place,” he remarked presently.

 
          
The
trail was broadening out, and as they topped a billow in the surface of the
plain a huddle of black blotches, from a few of which spirals of smoke twisted
into the clear sky, came into view.

 
          
“Must
be what that joker we met called the ‘pop’lar an’ progressive township o’
Fourways,’ ” the traveller soliloquized. “She
don’t
appear to have progressed very far.”

 
          
The
criticism was justified. Two irregular rows of habitations formed some sort of
a street, the surface of which was a hoof-scored, wheel-rutted desert of dust.
The better of the buildings, the stores and saloons, were constructed of timber
or ‘dobe; the dwelling-places, for the most part, were mere shacks with
earth-covered roofs. Save for a few citizens lolling beneath the board awning
of the largest saloon, the place appeared to be deserted. The newcomer
deciphered the weather-scarred sign, and surveyed the lounging group with a
fleeting smile.

 
          
“The
Early Bird,” he murmured.
“An’ some o’ the worms waitin’ to
be catched.”

 
          
Dropping
from his saddle he stepped into the saloon. After the fierce glare without, it
was comparatively cool and dark inside. As he advanced, a short figure rose
from behind the bar, stretched lazily, and rubbed half-open eyes.

 
          
“‘Lo, Jud.
Back again?” Then, as the stranger neared him, he
added, “Sorry.
Took yu for another fella.”

 
          
“I
shorely hope he’s good-lookin’,” the customer grinned, and spun a coin on the
counter.

 
          
“Well,
that’s as maybe, but no woman ain’t grabbed him yet,” the saloon-keeper
laughed.

 
          
He
pushed forward a bottle and glass, accepted an invitation to help
himself
, and deftly tossed a three-finger dose of spirit
down his capacious throat.

 
          
“Town
seems quiet,” the visitor offered.

 
          
“Too
blamed hot,” the other explained. “Come back in a coupla hours, if yo’re aimin’
to stay, an’ yu’ll see some action.”

 
          
The
remark was as much of a question as politeness permitted; the stranger answered
it in part only.

 
          
“I’m
huntin’ a meal an’ a bed,” he said.

 
          
“Yu’ll
find both at the ho-tel a piece along,” he was told.

 
          
The
customer nodded his thanks. “Reckon I’ll go chase that chuck right now,” he smiled.

 
          
“My
belly an’ my backbone is shore gettin’ acquainted. See yu later—I expect.”

 
          
The
saloon-keeper’s gaze followed him speculatively, noting the long, easy stride
and the swing of the wide shoulders.

 
          
“Two
guns an’ wears ‘em low,” he commented. “I’d say
they ain’t
just ornaments neither
.”

 
          
Jim
found the “ho-tel”—a shrivelled log and shake edifice which had the distinction
of possessing the only second storey in the town. Having put his mount in the
corral, he carried his saddle into the building. A slatternly woman showed him
to one of the bedrooms and went to prepare food.

 
          
Two
hours later, having fed and “slicked himself up,” he was again in the Early
Bird. As its proprietor had predicted, the scene was very different. The harsh
light of large kerosene lamps shone down upon about a score of men, some lined
up at the bar, others gambling at the tables which occupied part of the space
in front of it.
Every few moments the door swung back to
admit additions to the company.
The rattle of poker chips and dice,
strange oaths, and occasional raucous laughter punctuated the incessant hum of
voices.

 
          
Squinting
through the blue haze of tobacco smoke the man from Crawling Creek studied the
company. Apart from casual glances, no one took any notice of him—strangers
were hardly a novelty in Fourways, and curiosity a dangerous commodity, liable
to be resented. One man only looked him over keenly and turned away, apparently
satisfied. This was a dumpy, bulbous-faced fellow with a big paunch and a strut
suggestive of an overfed turkey. From the somewhat ironic deference accorded
him and the fact that he paid for no liquor, Jim deduced that he held a post of
importance, and this was soon confirmed.

 
          
“Where’s
Jud?” the fat man asked.

 
          
“Ain’t
a notion, sheriff,” the saloon-keeper replied. “Should ‘a’ bin back hours
ago.
He warn’t”

 
          
He
stopped,
mouth and eyes opening as the swing-door
jerked wide and a man staggered in, flung his arms out, and pitched forward on
the sanded floor. Mallick, the sheriff, hurried to the prone figure.

 
          
“By
God, it’s Jud hisself!” he cried. “What the hell …?”

 
          
Others
sprang to help and the senseless man was lifted to a chair. One of them looked
at his hand in surprise; it was smeared with blood. He snatched aside the open
vest, disclosing an ominous patch of red on the coarse woollen shirt front.

 
          
“He’s
bin drilled!” he cried.

 
          
Astonishment,
expressed in lurid language, greeted the statement, and the excited onlookers,
eager to get a sight of the wounded man, crowded in and threatened to engulf
him.

 
          
The
sheriff, feeling for a fluttering pulse, looked up and cursed them savagely.

 
          
“Satan
burn yu,” he snapped. “Stand back an’ give him a chance, he ain’t cashed yet.
Gimme some liquor.”

 
          
The
circle widened and the saloon-keeper brought a glass of whisky. Mallick tilted
back the hurt man’s head and administered a stiff dose. The fiery spirit took
effect. Jim, who had helped with the lifting, saw the pale lips move and caught
the whispered words:

 
          
“Bushwhacked
me—one man—waitin’ in
th
’ chaparral.” He paused, and
then, “On’y ‘nother—mile—bronc. Guess—we can -make it.”

 
          
His
mind was wandering, living over again those terrible hours during which, hurt
to death, he had clung to the back of his horse and paced the long, long miles
which lay between him and help. Then out of the pain-drawn face, sickly grey
under the tan, a gleam of recognition flashed from the heavy-lidded eyes as
they met those of Jim.

 
          
“I
saw—that fella—on the trail. He …” The voice faded out and the speaker’s head
fell forward.

 
          
“He’s
gone,” someone said.

 
          
“He
ain’t. Carry him to the hotel an’ fetch the doc,” Mallick replied. “I got
suthin’ to see to.”

 
          
Four
men picked up the chair and its
burden,
while another
held open the door. When they had gone the sheriff turned abruptly to Jim, an
ugly look in his eyes. For a moment there was silence, and then:

 
          
“Yu
heard him,” the officer rasped, jerking a thumb in the direction of the door.
“What yu gotta say?”

 
          
“I
met that hombre this afternoon, ‘bout twelve miles out on my way here,” Jim
explained. “I asked him if I was on the ight road for Fourways, an’ mentioned
that I aimed to spend
he
night there. He took a shine
to my hoss an’ wanted to rade, but I told him there was nothin’ doin’. He said
he was comin’ back hisself in a coupla hours an’ he’d talk to me again this
evenin’. That’s all I know.”

 
          
The
sheriff’s sneer deepened. “He didn’t say he was goin’ o collect two thousand
bucks for cattle he’d sold, huh?”