Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942) (22 page)

 
          
“Holy
Moses, he’s right, Bill,” the rancher cried. “We’re a couple o’ sheep-heads.
Trenton may have this place picketed, an’ be waitin’ for us to move.”

 
          
“We’ll
try to keep him waitin’,” Burke grinned. “How long
d’you
expect to be away?”

 
          
“Can’t
say,” Dan told him. “If we have any luck—but there’s no sense in guessin’.”

 
          
“Yorky’ll
be tickled to death over this trip,” Sudden remarked. “How’d he get on with his
new mount this mornin’?” They had not had their usual jaunt.

 
          
“Well,
he got on, an’ off in quicker time,” the foreman twinkled. “Shore, it’s a good
little hoss, no vice in him, just a mite fresh. The boy warn’t hurt, ‘cept in
his feelin’s mebbe, an’ he comes up smilin’. `That’s first t’row to you,
partner,’ he sez. `Let’s roll ‘em agin.’ He climbs on, an’ gits piled, which
makes him scratch his head some. But he’s game. `Third time lucky,’ he grins,
an’ by cripes, it was; we seen daylight between him an’ the saddle pretty
offen, but he hung on, an’ it was the hoss got tired first. When the fun was
over, Slow asked which o’ the names Yorky’d called the animile he was goin’ to
choose. ‘I’m namin’ him “Dancer”—he’s so damn lively on his toes,’ the kid
sez.”

 
          
Sudden
laughed. “Yorky’s all right; he’s goin’ to bring good luck to the Circle Dot,
mark my words. Yu do well to take him with us, Dan.”

 
          
In
the morning Dover journeyed again to Rainbow, and to the youngster’s extreme
satisfaction, took Yorky with him. Arrived there, they
separated,
the rancher to deal with various business matters, and Yorky to do as he
pleased. His first visit was to the post office, where he mailed a letter, with
many furtive glances around to make sure he was not observed. Then he went to
finish his “shoppin’.” This actually meant displaying himself in all his glory
to young Evans, who was now assisting his father in the store. Yorky hung about
outside the place until he saw that the boy was alone, and then, hat pulled
over his eyes, and regretful that he had not brought his rifle, he swaggered
in.

 
          
“Got
any feed for a Winchester forty-four?” he enquired, making his voice as gruff
as he could.

 
          
“Yessir,”
the youth behind the counter replied, diving into a drawer.

 
          
Yorky
choked down a chuckle; he was not recognized. Casually he examined the packet
of cartridges, tossed down a bill, and received his change. The young salesman
noticed that the customer did not appear to be wearing a pistol, and, anxious
to do business, ventured to ask solicitously:

 
          
“C’d
I int’rest you in a second-hand six-shooter, sir?” yorky squirmed with
delight—this was better than his dreams. “Dunno as I care fer other folks’
leavin’s,” he replied carelessly. “I’ll take a peep at her.”

 
          
The
gun was reached from a shelf and the customer revolved the cylinder, cocked and
pressed the trigger, tried the grin, and hefted the weapon as he had seen
cowboys do when examining a new one.

 
          
“What
yer askin’?”

 
          
“Twenty
dollars—the price is on the ticket.”– Yorky was aware of the fact. “I’d say
fifteen’s a-plenty,” he said disparagingly.

 
          
“I’ll
see if Dad will take that,” the salesman replied, and disappeared into the rear
of the shop.

 
          
Yorky
looked disconcerted; he had been showing off, and much as he would have liked
to possess the weapon, had no intention of buying it. He was seeking a means of
backing out without loss of dignity when Dover came in, and brought an
inspiration.

 
          
“Say,
Boss, c’n you let me have an advance?” he asked anxiously. “I’ve offered
fifteen bucks fer that gun an’ I’m shy
th
’ coin.”

 
          
Dan
picked up the six-shooter. “She’s good an’ cheap at the figure,” he said.
“Here’s the necessary.”

 
          
“Thanks
a lot, Boss,” Yorky replied with great relief. “I didn’t want ter eat dirt afore
this kid. He
don’t
know me; ain’t it a scream?”

 
          
The
“kid” returned and, after a very respectful greeting to the owner of the Circle
Dot, addressed his other customer: “I can accept yore offer, sir. Will you
be needin’
any cartridges?”

 
          
“Them
I got will do—she’s a forty-four, same as my rifle,” Yorky said, and paid over
the price. “Yer needn’t to wrap her up, an’ yer can’t int’rest me no more,
neither.”

 
          
He
thrust the gun under his belt, pushed his hat back, and stood rocking on his
heels.

 
          
Goggle-eyed,
the beefy boy on the other side of the counter gawped at him, remembered and
suffered. The ragged, sick little tramp he had fought and beaten—as he
maintained—had now beaten him, by becoming what he would have given his ears to
be—a cowboy. He could strut into the store, and he—Evans—would have to serve
and be polite to him; only a lad could plumb the bitterness of this. His job,
of which he had been so proud, became as dust and ashes in his mouth.

 
          
And
then, unable to bear those triumphant eyes any longer, he bolted.

 
          
“I
guess that levels up some with him,” Yorky said. “I’ll be outside.”

 
          
“
The durn
li’l monkey,” Dover muttered. “Fancy him thinkin’
up a game like that.”

 
          
The
storekeeper came in, and his orders given, the rancher rejoined the boy. A
little way along the street they met Foxwell, who
stopped,
his beady eyes alight with malice.

 
          
“‘Lo,
Dover, gittin’ ready to quit the Circle Dot,” was his greeting.

 
          
Dan
suppressed a start. “Any reason why I should?” he asked.

 
          
“Well,
everybody knows yore of man was up to his neck in debt, an’ it’s said now that
the bank won’t give you
no
more rope,” came the
insolent answer.

 
          
“Lies,”
Dan replied airily.
“Big, fat lies which no respectable
representative o’ the Law should be passin’ on.
Lemme see, Sheriff, how
long have you managed to hold office?”

 
          
The
officer’s not too acute intellect missed the innuendo. “Goin’ on four year,” he
said, even rather pridefully.

 
          
“Yeah,
I remember; it was you who found the murdered man on the Cloudy trail—the man
who had neither money nor papers on him, not even a letter addressed to someone
else, huh?”

 
          
The
sheriff’s gaze shifted uneasily. “That’s so; the fella what downed him took
everythin’.”

 
          
“I
don’t doubt it.” Again the implication passed unobserved. “A month or two later
you were elected by a small margin, one provided—so some folks said—by the
Wagon-wheel outfit because you had done Trenton a considerable service.”

 
          
“What
are you drivin’ at?” Foxwell
cried,
his face crimson.

 
          
“Lies,
Sheriff, big, fat lies like I was tellin’ you about,” Dan retorted, and then,
“God Almighty!”

 
          
They
were standing a few yards from the Parlour Saloon. On the opposite sidewalk,
Miss Trenton had apparently made up her mind to brave the terrors of the rutted
and hoof-torn strip which was Rainbow’s only thoroughfare; just past this
point, the street took one of its uncertain turns. She was halfway across when,
with a stertorous bellow, six wild steers, enveloped in a cloud of dust,
charged down upon her. The girl saw the cruel branching horns, fierce eyes, and
lolling tongues, and made a despairing effort to hurry. But this only led to
disaster; her feet slipped in the powdery sand and she fell to her knees right
in the path of the infuriated animals, behind
whom
now
appeared a perspiring horseman, shouting and gesticulating.

 
          
Leaving
the pop-eyed sheriff, Dover sprinted along the sidewalk, dragged out his
revolver, and fired at the leader, a little in front of the herd. The brute
hesitated, stumbled and went down, only a yard from where the girl lay. The
fall of the foremost halted the others, but Dan knew it would be only
momentary. Jumping into the road, he floundered to the spot, and raised the now
senseless form. A man on foot has no terrors for range cattle, and the sight of
him put them in motion again. By a superhuman effort, he regained the sidewalk
with his burden; a grazed arm and a ripped shirtsleeve from a slashing,
needle-pointed horn was the only damage.

 
          
“Close
work, boy,” Bowdyr said. He had come out to see what the noise was about.

 
          
“Bring
her into my place.”

 
          
“Ain’t
hurt, is she?” the sheriff enquired anxiously.

 
          
“I
guess not.” Dan replied. “If you wanta do Zeb another service, go an’ ask that
butcher’s lout what he means by bringin’ cows through the town an’ drivin’ ‘em
into a frenzy with his fool yellin’; must be mad or drunk.” He caught the
saloonkeeper’s enigmatic expression, and added,

 
          
“Might
‘a’
killed
the pair of us.” The sheriff went; he did
not enjoy the company of Mister Dover in this mood.

 
          
When
Miss Trenton returned to the world again, she was sitting in a strange room,
with a rugged but kindly-faced man bending over her, glass in hand.

 
          
“Drink
this, ma’am,” he said. “It’s good stuff, an’ will put new life into you.

 
          
She
obeyed, and the strong spirit—though it made her cough—sent the blood racing
through her veins. She looked curiously at her surroundings.

 
          
“What
place is this?” she asked.

 
          
“The
Parlour Saloon an’
I’m
Ben Bowdyr, the proprietor,” he
explained. “Dan’s gone for Doc Malachi, an’ to git hisself another shirt.”

 
          
“Is
Mister Dover hurt?”

 
          
“Shore,
no, just a spoilt garment,” Ben assured her. “Ah, here’s the Doc.”

 
          
Malachi
hurried in, the concern on his face giving way to relief when he saw the
patient.

 
          
“You
are not harmed, Miss Trenton?”

 
          
“I
foolishly fainted,” she replied. “Mister Bowdyr kindly gave me some—medicine,
and I am quite well again.”

 
          
“Medicine?”
Malachi echoed. He picked up the glass she had
used, sniffed, glanced at the saloonkeeper, who had retired to his bar, and
smiled whimsically. “Then Ben has done all that is necessary and robbed me of a
case. And from the way Dover carried on, I really thought it was a serious
one.”

 
          
“It
would have been but for his courage and prompt action,” she said soberly. “He
also escaped injury I am told.”

 
          
“Yes,
these cattlemen are tough animals—very discouraging to a doctor,” he mourned.

 
          
“Fortunately
they are quarrelsome. But you have made a conquest, Miss Trenton.” He saw the
colour creep into her cheeks. “That brandy—I should say, medicine—was laid down
by Ben’s grandfather, ‘way back in Virginia, in the days when people of
position had cellars, and he wouldn’t take fifty dollars a bottle for it.”

 
          
Her
gaze went to the saloonkeeper. “He was most kind,” she murmured.