Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942) (39 page)

 
          
“Jim,
I’m powerful glad to see you,” was what the rancher said, but the clasp of his
hand told a great deal more. And so with the others, but they all wanted to
know what had befallen him.

 
          
“Well,
we got away—” Sudden began.

 
          
“We?”
Dan cried. “Then Beth—Miss Trenton—is alive?”

 
          
“Shorely,”
the narrator smiled. “Tryin’ to find a way back here, we ran into Garstone—”

 
          
It
was the doctor who cut him short this time. “See here, Jim, we like you a lot,
but you’ll be as unpopular as a drunk at a temperance meeting if you don’t tell
a complete story.”

 
          
“Shucks,
I’m doin’ just that,” the puncher protested. “I caught the girl in time—there
was a bit of a crack in the floor o’ the tunnel. Flint an’ Rattray started
shootin’ an’ I had to get her outa there.”

 
          
“How
did you cross that bit of a crack?” Malachi demanded. “I was looking at it a
while ago; it nearly froze my blood.”

 
          
“Jumped
it, o’ course; think
we
growed wings on the spot?”
Sudden replied, and divining the coming question, added, “Well, she warn’t so
heavy.”

 
          
“My
sainted aunt,” Malachi breathed. “How many lives have you, Jim?”

 
          
“I
started level with a cat, but mebbe I’ve used up a few,” the puncher grinned.

 
          
“All
right,” the doctor smiled. “Get on with your—bragging.”

 
          
“Like
I said, we got clear an’ bumped into the other crowd. Garstone told Miss
Trenton that he had her uncle safe an’ she decided to stay with ‘em. He tried
to persuade me, but I warn’t willin’. Then Flint objected to my goin’ an’ I had
to argue with him; his arm was hurt.”

 
          
“Bruised,
no doubt,” Malachi commented ironically. “Mebbe,” the puncher agreed. “He
jumped aside when I charged, an’ Bundy shot him in the head.”

 
          
“Why’n
hell—” Dover began.

 
          
“He’d
claim to be aimin’ at me, though I was six feet from Flint; it was either
mighty good, or mighty bad, shootin’. Now I’m comin’ to the important part; I
wanted to tell you right off, but Doc would have his dime novel.” He grinned at
Malachi. “I’m headin’ for here, as near as I can guess, when I stumble on
tracks. I back-trail an’ they lead me to the Wagon-wheel camp. There, inside a
tent, is Zeb Trenton.”

 
          
“Alive?”
This from the doctor.

 
          
“On’y
just, I’d say.”

 
          
“They
left him alone. Why, it’s plain murder.”

 
          
“Yu
said it—
‘specially
the way things was fixed,” Sudden
agreed, and told of the deer-meat.

 
          
Dover’s
face grew dark. “We can trump that trick, anyway, by fetchin’ him here,” he
said.

 
          
“You
were goin’ to suggest that, Jim?”

 
          
“Yeah,
the more so as they seem to ‘a’ got our stores an’ weapons there. I didn’t see
no
hosses.”

 
          
“They
never got ‘em,” Dan said, and explained.

 
          
“Well,
yu can’t have everythin’ in this world o’ sin an’ sorrow; we’ll have to hoof
it.” He looked at the big cowboy, who, squatting near, was energetically cursing
his crippled limb. “If I leave yu my rifle, Tiny, can yu deal with any
visitors?”

 
          
“Betcha
life,
an’ I hope it’s that dawg’s-dinner of a
Wagon-wheel foreman.”

 
          
“Don’t
let yore prejudice blind yu to the merits o’ Garstone an’ Lake,” was Sudden’s
sardonic advice. “What is it, Yorky?”

 
          
“Is my gun among them at th’ camp, Jim?”

 
          
The
puncher shook his head, but th’ boy’s crestfallen expression was too much for
him, and he pointed to the weapon, lying with his own, where he had laid them
when he came in

 
          
“Guessed
yu’d be losin’ sleep over it,” he smiled.

 
          
Yorky
secured the gun, examined it anxiously, and then appealed to the others.
“Ain’t he th’ ring-tailed wonder o’ th’ world?”

 
          
“Yu
wanta hang a weight on that tongue—it moves too easy,” Sudden said, and closed
him up like a clam.

 
          
On
their way across the basin, the rancher—by what he regarded as artful
questions—dragged a few more details from his companion.

 
          
“So
she
ain’t believin’
Zeb was got by one o’ his own
gang?”

 
          
“Well,
she didn’t exactly call me a liar, but it amounted to that,” the puncher
admitted.

 
          
“A
Trenton never listens to reason,” Dan said, but the accent of bitterness was
less marked. “It musta been a tough experience for one with her
raisin’
.”

 
          
“She’s
got plenty pluck—an’ didn’t complain, not once, but she don’t like rattlers.”

 
          
“You
shore do surprise me,” Dan grinned.

 
          
They
dropped into a silence. Behind them they could hear Yorky chattering excitedly,
and the doctor’s amused and sometimes caustic replies.

 
          
“That
boy’s havin’ the best time of his life,” the rancher remarked presently. “I’m
havin’ my worst. I’m right sorry I dragged you into this, Jim.”

 
          
“Forget
it. Did yu promise me a picnic?”

 
          
“No,
but I’m finished; this was my ace in the hole. The Circle Dot—”

 
          
“Ain’t changed han’s yet.
I don’t know what Garstone’s game
is, but he’s clearly reckonin’ Trenton out of it. If we can take him back
alive, it’ll put a kink in his plans that’ll need straightenin’.”

 
          
“By
the Lord, yo’re right,” Dan cried, and with a grim smile, “I never dreamed a
day’d come when I’d wanta keep Zeb outa hell, but it shore has. Hope we ain’t
too late.”

 
          
To
Sudden the camp appeared just as he had left it, except that he could not
remember having olosed the flap of the tent. He went across, raised it, and
looked inside, only to start back in astonishment. The rancher was still there,
rolled in his blankets, but a few feet away, lying with arms flung wide and
sightless eyes staring, was the bearded man, Lake. A revolver lay near
Trenton’s right hand, which was slung across his body.

 
          
“They
came back then,” Dover said.

 
          
This
explanation did not satisfy Sudden. The doctor, after one glance at the dead
man, turned his attention to the rancher.

 
          
“He’s
alive, and certainly no worse; in fact, his pulse is stronger,” he pronounced.
“He must have the constitution of a horse.”

 
          
Sudden’s
eyes were busy. “Lake wasn’t shot here; see the marks of his spurs as he was
dragged in and put in position to make it appear Trenton killed him? Raw work,
but whoever did it reckoned on some wild beast comin’ to muss things up. I’d
say Bundy an’ this hombre came back—mebbe the girl insisted—an’ she’s waitin’
with Garstone.”

 
          
With
a scowling brow Dover allowed this to be a possible solution of the mystery.
“If that bloody-minded foreman is around, the sooner we get Zeb to our camp the
better,” he said. “Do we have to bury this carrion?”

 
          
The
puncher lifted his shoulders. “I’m allowin’ it’s rough on the buzzards, but
there’s a spade handy.”

 
          
So
Lake got his grave. Stout saplings, with cross pieces, and a blanket provided a
litter for the sick man. Sudden and Dover acted as bearers, the other two
following with weapons and provisions, including a haunch of the deer-meat.
They left the tent standing, an object to spur the imagination of some future
visitors.

 
          
They
reached the cave without incident, and having announced their arrival
loudly—Tiny had an impulsive and suspicious nature—marched in. The crippled one
welcomed them with
an eagerness
not entirely free from
personal regard.

 
          
“Food!”
he yelped. “You Yorky, git busy with a skillet an’ some o’ that hunk o’ meat;
my belly’s that flat you could slide me under a door.”

 
          
“Doc
sez yo’re feverish an’ gotta go light on grub,” the boy chaffed. “Mus’ take
care, ol’-timer; breakin’
th
’ sad noos to yer widder—”

 
          
“I
ain’t married
none
.”

 
          
“Good
as—the school-marm would feel like one,” Yorky grinned, and, nimbly avoiding
the rock heaved at him, went to his culinary duties.

 
          
Trenton
having been made as comfortable as circumstances permitted, the party sat down
to a meal they all needed. Tiny, after pushing about half a pound of broiled
venison into his mouth, spluttered a compliment:

 
          
“You
cook pretty good, yorky. If you live to be a hundred, an’ practice reg’lar,
you’ll come mighty close to Paddy at slingin’ hash.” He choked and had to be
thumped on the back.

 
          
“Serves
you right for talking with your mouth full,” Malachi told him.

 
          
“Not
full, Doc, or there’d be none fer us,” Yorky chipped in.

 
          
The
conversation took a more serious turn when Dan raised the question of what they
were to do. “With hurt men an’ no hosses, we ‘pear to be hawg-tied,” he said.

 
          
“How
long would it take one of us to reach the Circle Dot?” the doctor asked.

 
          
“Best
part of a week, if he knowed the country,” Dan stated. “It’s fierce travellin’
afoot.”

 
          
They
discussed the project for a while, but the rancher did not favour it. “Where’s
the use?” he argued. “I guess we’ve lost the Circle Dot anyways. Best stay here
an’ give our invalids a chance.”

 
          
Soon
afterwards they turned in, leaving Yorky—who was to take the first
watch—sitting at the entrance to the cave, his rifle across his knees. With the
potential presence of an assassin in the neighbourhood, no risk could be run.

 
          
In
the morning, when the doctor visited his principal charge, he received a
pleasant surprise: Trenton was conscious, and could speak.

 
          
“You,
Malachi?” he greeted. “Where am I?”

 
          
“In our camp.
But you mustn’t talk.”

 
          
“I
must—I’ve a lot—to say,” the sick man replied, with a touch of his old fire.
“What happened—after Bundy—shot me?”

 
          
“You
knew that?” Malachi cried.

 
          
“I
saw his hand—grippin’ the pistol—behind me. That was my—last memory. I— His
voice trailed off weakly.

 
          
“Let
it wait, Trenton,” the doctor urged. “You’ll get well, but are pretty bad
still, and must rest.”