Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) (30 page)

 
          
He
stood up, shakily.

 
          
“I’m
all right,” he protested, “but I feel as if I’d been drug at the end of a rope
for about a million mile.” The smiling eyes sobered. “I’m worried ‘bout Jim.
Figure yu can walk a bit—if I help yu?”

 
          
“You’ve
done enough of that already,” she returned. “I can manage quite well.”

 
          
Notwithstanding,
when he slipped an arm around her, she seemed content to let it remain.

 
          
The
marshal, also, was having a testing time. His experiment of taking a short cut
over the hump of the hill was sound enough, but not easy of accomplishment.
Nevertheless, he hurried, for soon after he had left Dave, two reports, one
faint and the second a little louder, had reached him, and he was troubled.

 
          
He
stumbled on down the incline and presently saw that his deduction had been
correct—the ledge lay before him. Concealed behind a bushy shrub, he waited.
The moments slid by, and he was beginning to fear that he was too late after
all when, out of the silence, came the crunch of hasty feet. Sudden stood up,
his rifle directed at the unsuspecting traveller.

 
          
“Reach
for it, Mullins,” he ordered.

 
          
The
fugitive stopped as though struck by a bullet, gazed in amazed consternation,
and slowly raised his hands. How in the Devil’s name the marshal had contrived
to be there he could not guess, but with the hate in his heart was now a
sickening dread.

 
          
“Where’s
Mrs. Gray?” Sudden asked sharply.

 
          
“Left
her back on the trail—she was hamperin’ me,” Jake said sullenly. “I was on’y
takin’ her from Sark.”

 
          
“Yeah,
dawg robbin’ dawg,” was the caustic retort. “We’ll go find her. If I hadn’t
promised to hang yu, I’d use a ca’tridge right now. March, an’ don’t do nothin’
to make me change my mind.” Mullins marched, his captor close at his heels. His
situation was critical, as well he knew.

 
          
He
tried to arrange his jumbled thoughts and hit upon a loop-hole, only to return
to the one appalling fact—he was walking to his death.

 
          
As
they drew nearer to the spot where he had so inhumanly sacrificed the Widow,
his haggard face hardened into a despairing resolve to risk all on one last
throw—a gamble to save the life already forfeit.
But the man
behind must not suspect.

 
          
Head
down, shoulders drooping despondently, he slouched wearily along until they
came to where the path doubled in width for a few yards, giving him space to
carry out his design, and, with a grunt of pain, clasped his hands to his
middle, and nearly fell. Then, as his guard stepped closer to investigate, he
straightened, knocked aside the muzzle of the rifle with one hand, snatched his
knife from behind his belt with the other, and aimed a lightning stab at Sudden’s
breast. Unexpectedly as was the attack, it did not take the marshal entirely
unawares. Flinging up the rifle, he parried the knife-stroke with such force
that both weapons left their owners’ grasp, and before he could draw one of his
guns, Jake’s long arms were pinioning his own.

 
          
Locked
in a close embrace, the men struggled for mastery. Powerfully-built, tough as
hickory, each knew that he was fighting for his life. Mullins, infuriated by
the fact that he had again failed to outwit the man who so often baulked him,
seemed to be imbued with the strength of a madman.

 
          
Slipping,
slithering, sometimes almost on the dizzy brink of the chasm, they wrought on,
now one, now the other, gaining some slight advantage. There was no sound save
of hard-drawn breath and rasp of boots trying to keep a hold on the ground. In
vain Sudden strove to free an arm, but the bandit clung like a limpet, forcing
him to the edge of the trail. The man’s physical power was phenomenal, and the
marshal realized that unless he could break that hold the pair of them would
perish. His heel turned on a loose stone, a braced knee gave, and he saw the
unholy gleam of triumph in the ferocious, bloodshot eyes.

 
          
“You
lose, Sudden,” Jake gasped. “Go feed the buzzards, you bastard.” His exultation
was premature. The marshal glimpsed the void just behind him and knew he was
within seconds of death. With a supreme effort he thrust the other back,
swinging round on to solid ground again. With a savage roar of disappointment,
Jake—who now seemed careless of his own life—made another violent attempt to
hurl both to destruction. He was within an ace of succeeding when the marshal
spoke:

 
          
“Don’t
shoot, Dave.” Jake’s head turned, and involuntarily the tension of his grip
relaxed.

 
          
In
a flash, Sudden wrenched his right arm free and struck for the angle of the
chin. Though travelling but a few inches, it was a crippling blow, driven home
with every ounce of strength left in the striker’s body. The bandit’s eyes
dulled, his arms dropped limply as he reeled drunkenly away to sprawl, face
down, in the dust. The impact sent Sudden tottering to the cliff-side, where he
leant, panting, and, for the moment, powerless.

 
          
“I’m
beat—I give in,” the prostrate man grunted hoarsely.

 
          
Laboriously
he got to his knees, and then, with amazing speed, sprang up and turned, the
marshal’s rifle—on which he had chanced to fall—in his grasp. He pulled the
trigger, but Sudden dropped swiftly, one hand sweeping to his hip; the gun
barked once, Jake spun round, a foot swung over nothing, and—silence.

 
          
Sudden
lurched to the welcome shade of a bush and sat down, greedily gulping air into
his depleted lungs.

 
          
“Never
knowed breathin’ was such a pleasure,” he told the world. “I feel like I’d been
in the path of a stampede.” There Dave and the girl found him when they
arrived, having witnessed the final scene of the tragedy.

 
          
“Saw
yu scrappin’ an’ we certainly hurried,” the young man explained, and with an
apologetic look at the lady, “Guess I swore some.”

 
          
“I
thought it was a prayer,” Mary smiled.

 
          
“Mebbe
it was—kind of,” Masters agreed with relief.

 
          
“Shore
seemed yu’d take the big jump together, Jim.” The marshal’s eyes creased. “Yu
saved me, Dave.”

 
          
“But
I warn’t here.”

 
          
“He
thought yu were—I played trick for trick,” Sudden replied, and told of his
ruse. “It was him or me, but I’m sorry he went that way. What happened to yu?”
His face hardened as he heard. “Men can die too easy,” he said. “Well, that’s
one rogue we’re rid of, but there’s a bigger—who used him—to deal with.”

 
          
THE
sun was dipping westwards when they again neared the rustlers’ retreat. The
crackle of rifle-fire had ceased, but the acrid odour of burnt powder still
permeated the air. They waited for a while, listening.

 
          
“Reckon
the fight is finished, but we gotta make shore
who’s
on top afore we go surgin’ in—we might be too welcome,” the marshal decided. “I’ll
scout around.” It did not take him long to reach the edge of the clearing, and
he saw at once that the outlaws had been defeated; the men passing in and out
of the bullet-scarred building belonged to the attacking force.

 
          
“Hi,
Reddy,” he called.

 
          
The
Bar O foreman’s grimed, sweat-streaked features lit up when he saw who had
hailed him. “Jim, yo’re a sight for sore eyes,” he cried. “
yu
missed all the fun.” Sudden’s smile was satiric. “Yeah,” he replied. “Where’s
Jesse Sark?”

 
          
“We
found him upstairs. Someone had bent a six-gun over his cranium, but he’s come
alive agin, an’ is he mad? He claims Mullins did it, an’ carried off Mrs. Gray.
Ned sez it’s so, an’ that yu an’ Dave went after ‘em.”

 
          
“We
brought her back.”

 
          
“An’ Jake?”

 
          
“He
had a bed fall—three hundred feet, mebbe, on to rocks,” was how the marshal put
it.

 
          
“Well,
that saves soilin’ a rope,” the foreman said harshly.

 
          
They
passed through the battered doorway into the living-room to be greeted with a
rousing cheer, and a storm of questions which both men refused to answer.

 
          
Downstairs
the gathering had grown strangely quiet. Austere-faced men whispered to one
another, their attention centred on the marshal, Nippert, and John Owen, who
were conversing together. On a chair, his head clumsily bandaged, Sark sat,
sullenly watching the proceedings, and at the other end of the room was a group
of five men, their hands bound. Dave joined the three leaders, who asked about
Mrs. Gray.

 
          
“She’s
asleep,” he informed, and jerked a thumb at the prisoners. “What yu goin’ to do
with ‘em?”

 
          
“They
swing,” Owen said shortly.

 
          
“One
of ‘em don’t,” Dave said. “He saved my life.”

 
          
“He’s
a cattle-thief an’ was fightin’ agin us,” the rancher persisted.

 
          
“If
it hadn’t been for him, yu wouldn’t be here,” Dave retorted.

 
          
The
marshal settled the matter by loosing the rustler’s wrists. “This fella goes
free, John.

 
          
He
was done with Mullins before the fandango started, an’ on’y returned here to
oblige me.”

 
          
Before
Owen could raise any further objection a diversion occurred. Sark, rising
shakily to his feet, demanded to be told who was in charge.

 
          
“Speak
yore piece—we’re all listenin’,” Nippert replied. “I wanta know why some of my
men have been shot, an’ the rest driven off?”

 
          
“S’pose
yu tell us how yu an’ yore outfit come to be here a-tall,” Sudden suggested
drily.

 
          
Sark
reached out the note he had received from Mullins. “There’s the answer,” he
cried.

 
          
“When
I got that, I raised the coin an’ come hot-foot to release her from the
scoundrel. I fetched my men in case he tried any tricks.” Sudden read the
document and passed it to his companions.

 
          
“Where’s
the money?”

 
          
“I
paid it over, an’ if you mutton-heads hadn’t butted in, she’d ‘a’ bin at the
Dumbbell hours back, where I’m takin’ her soon as she’s fit to go.”

 
          
“An’
willin’,” the marshal added. “She’s safe now, an’ in the meantime, we’re goin’
to try yu, Sark. Better sit down, it may take time.”

 
          
“Try
me?” the cattleman repeated.
“On what charge?
I’ve
explained my presence here, an’ I didn’t fire a shot at you. There’s no law
..”

 
          
“We’re
makin’ one. Nippert, yu’ll act as judge; select yore jury. Better take his gun.”
Right and left the accused man looked and saw none but stern faces. Primitive
as the procedure was, it had a gravity which brought inward qualms. He
fortified himself with the reflection that they could know nothing. His mind
travelled to the Dumbbell, and the body in the empty room; he should have
hidden it. If that damned nigger went poking about … The voice of the judge
recalled him.

 
          
“Well,
marshal, we’re ready if you are.” Amid complete silence, Sudden stepped forward
and pointed to the accused. “This man calls hisself Jesse Sark,” he began. “His
real name is Ezra Kent. Sark died in the penitentiary at Bentley before his
uncle was killed. I have
a writing
from the Warden to
prove it.” The calm statement produced ejaculations of incredulity from the
hearers, and every eye was on the lolling, disdainful figure in the chair.
Though the blow was a severe one, Sark had, since he learned of the marshaI’s
visit to Bentley, been more or less expecting it, and he had his answer ready.
He forced a laugh.