Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942) (5 page)

 
          
When
they were alone, he looked at the boy into whose life he had so strangely
stepped.

 
          
“Yu
got a good man there,” he remarked. “Yu’ve done the square thing by him, an’ yu
won’t regret it.”

 
          
“No,
Bill Burke’s white, an’ he was fond o’ Dad,” Dover replied. “Jim, the situation
is more desperate than when I spoke to you at the Bend; it ain’t too late to
slide out—if you want.”

 
          
“Forget
it,” Sudden said. “When I start anythin’ I aim to go through. All I want now is
a bed, an’ it wouldn’t do yu
no
real harm to try one.
An’ remember—there’s allus light behind even the blackest cloud.”

 
          
Breakfast
was no more than over when Yorky came in to say that “a guy from town” was
asking for Dan. The young man went out, and Sudden followed. The visitor proved
to be Hicks.

 
          
“Mornin’,
gents,” he said, pleasantly enough. “The sheriff’s holdin’ an enquiry into
yestiddy’s bad business, an’ he’d like you both to be there. It’ll be at
Sody’s, an’ Foxy sez mebbe you could fetch along …” He broke off.

 
          
“You
can tell him—” Dan began fiercely.

 
          
“That
we’ll be on hand,” Sudden finished, and when the messenger had departed, added,

 
          
“No
sense in r’arin’ up an’ settin’ folks against us.”

 
          
“It’ll
be a mere farce,” was the bitter comment.

 
          
“Shore,
but we gotta play the game their way—for a spell,” Sudden replied, and then,
thoughtfully, “Some o’ yore outfit might care to be present at the
buryin’—Burke, say, an’ three-four others.”

 
          
“Yu
think they’ll try anythin’?”

 
          
“Oh,
I guess not, but as a mark o’ respect for the deceased, yu know.”

 
          
So
it came about that when the buckboard, driven by Burke, arrived in town, it was
accompanied by five armed horsemen, a fact that caused a stir of excitement.

 
          
“Who’s
the black-haired hombre?” asked Seller, who, as carpenter and coffin-maker, had
an interest in the proceedings.

 
          
‘Must
be the fella what found the body an’ held up Foxy,”

 
          
Evans
told him. Some of the sheriff’s party had talked. “If he’s throwin’ in with the
Circle Dot, gettin’ rid o’ Ol’ Dave ain’t goin’ to help much.”

 
          
“Ain’t
the Wagon-wheel dealin’ with you now?”
came
the
sarcastic query. “Or are you tired o’ livin’?”

 
          
“They
are, an’ I ain’t, but I don’t like ‘em none the more for that,” the storekeeper
retorted.

 
          
“If
this burg has to sit up an’ beg every time Trenton gives the word, it’s a
mighty pore prospect.”

 
          
“You
said it. Dave Dover had a rough tongue, but he was a square shooter. Well, I
got a box for him—it pays to keep one ready in this man’s town—but I’d lie fer
some other fella was to fill it.”

 
          
Rainbow
was a small place, and utterly unlovely—a huddle of primitive buildings flung
haphazard along one side of a sandy but unfailing stream. It boasted a bank,
stores,
an
hotel—so-called—eating-house, and a
sprinkling of private habitations. It owed its existence mainly to the
proximity of two ranches—the Circle Dot and the Wagon-wheel—and also to the
fact that its location and supply of water made it a convenient halt for
trail-herds from more distant ranges bound for the Bend.

 
          
Relaxation
was lavishly catered for; a facetious citizen once remarked, “Take away her
saloons, an’ Rainbow very nearly ain’t.” The most important of these were the Parlour,
and Sody’s. It was into the latter that the corpse of the murdered man, covered
with a blanket, was carried and laid at one side of the cleared space in front
of the bar. The sheriff was seated at a table, with half a dozen citizens
ranged behind him; his eyes grew meaner when the Circle Dot contingent entered.

 
          
“Any
need to fetch along them riders?” he snarled. “They’ve as much right to be here
as you have,” Dan told him.

 
          
“Well, let’s git on.
Gotta be reg’lar, but I reckon we’re
just losin’ time on this yer enquiry.”

 
          
“I
didn’t ask for it. Shore is a waste o’ time; even you can’t make it anythin’
but murder.”

 
          
“That’s
for the jury to decide,” Foxwell snapped. “I’ve selected ‘em a’ready.”

 
          
“So
I see—all men who didn’t think much o’ Dad.”

 
          
“It
wouldn’t ‘a’ bin easy to find six who did,” the sheriff sneered.

 
          
“An’
that’s a damned lie,” Dan flared.
“So now what?”

 
          
Before
any reply could be made, a man, who had been kneeling beside the body, stood
up. Dressed in a skirted coat which had once been black, a dirty boiled shirt,
coarse trousers tucked untidily into the tops of his boots, he presented a
picture of gentility in the last stages of decay. And his gaunt, clever, but
dissipated features, and long, untended hair, added to the illusion, though he
was little more than thirty years of age. His red-rimmed eyes regarded the
peace officer belligerently.

 
          
“Have
you brought me from my bottle to listen to your wrangling?” he demanded, in a
hoarse but cultured voice. “Of course, Foxwell, if—by a miracle—you are about
to fight and provide me with a patient, I am not objecting.”

 
          
The
sheriff had no intention of fighting, despite the gibe; he found the
interruption very timely.

 
          
“I’ll
take yore report first, Malachi,” he said.

 
          
“Doctor
Malachi, to you,”
came
the correction. “What do you
imagine I can tell you? The man is dead—been so for fifteen hours, or more;
shot from behind, doubtless from hiding, as seems to be the chivalrous custom
in these parts. Here’s the bullet, from which you will learn little; contact with
the spinal column has distorted it.” He tossed the bloodstained pellet on the
table, wiped his long, thin fingers on a rag of a handkerchief, and added, “My
fee is five dollars—cash.”

 
          
Foxwell
stared at him. “Hell, Doc, you ain’t told us nothin’ we didn’t know,” he
protested.

 
          
“Five
bucks for diggin’ out a slug?”

 
          
“That
is my charge for extractions—teeth or bullets,” Malachi returned serenely. “And
remember, Sheriff, if you should chance to become ill, it would be most
unfortunate if I were too occupied to attend you.”

 
          
The
officer glowered but gave in, not unmindful of the fact that most of those
present were enjoying the incident. The doctor, despite his loose habits and
acid tongue was, by reason of his profession and education, a privileged person;
he was, in truth, the only qualified medical man within a radius of fifty miles
or more. Malachi picked up the bill Foxwell produced, walked to the bar, and
appeared to take no further interest in the proceedings. The sheriff examined
the fatal fragment of lead.

 
          
“Like
Doc said, it
don’t
tell us a thing,” he said, and
Sudden could have sworn to the relief in his tone.

 
          
“My
statement was that you wouldn’t learn much,” a voice from the bar interjected.

 
          
“Weigh
it, you idiot.”

 
          
Foxwell
had to comply. Scales and an assortment of cart ridges were fetched; only in
one instance did the weights tally.

 
          
“She’s
a thirty-eight,” Hicks, who was making the tests announced. “That don’t git us
much further, unless—” His gaze went to Sudden. “What gun do you carry, Mister?”

 
          
“A
forty-four,” the cowboy replied.

 
          
“No
good foolin’ about over the slug, thirty-eights ain’t so scarce,” the sheriff
said irritably. “We wanta hear how that fella found the body.”

 
          
“I
met young Dover in Sandy Bend an’ mentioned I
was needin’
a job. He asked me to head for the Circle Dot, an’ promised to follow later. On
the way I heard a shot an’, soon after, came upon the dead man. I was lookin’
him over when the sheriff an’ his posse turned up.

 
          
Then—”

 
          
“Awright,
I know the rest,” Foxwell cut in hastily.

 
          
“A
murdered
man,
and another on the spot, that should
have been enough evidence for you, Foxy. Why didn’t you hang him?”

 
          
The
sarcastic question came from the bar, and the sheriff unthinkingly told a
half-truth. “I changed my mind.”

 
          
“I
don’t blame you,” was the instant rejoinder. “If I had a mind like yours I’d do
the same.” A ripple of laughter followed, and the voice went on, “Don’t you
think the jury might like to know the reason for this astounding departure from
your usual methods?”

 
          
“The
jury knows all it needs to,” the badgered man retorted.

 
          
“Including
the decision it is to come to, I expect. Then why hold the enquiry? God!
what
a fool you are, Foxy.”

 
          
Purple
in the face, the sheriff turned on his tormentor. “When I want yore help I’ll
ask for it. Yo’re—”

 
          
“Fee
for a consultation is ten dollars, in advance—from you,” the doctor finished.

 
          
“Obstructin’ the course o’ justice.”

 
          
“Justice!
Why, you couldn’t spell the damn word, much less
administer it,” Malachi laughed, and presenting his back, poured another drink.

 
          
The
sheriff breathed a sigh of relief; he stood no chance in a verbal contest with
that man.

 
          
In
an effort to regain his self-respect, he glared round the room.

 
          
‘You
got anythin’ to say, Dover?”

 
          
“Plenty,”
the young fellow replied, and told of the message his father had received. “It
did not come from me—it was a trap, an’ it’s an easy guess
who
set it.”

 
          
“Guessin’
won’t git us nowhere; the Law demands proof,” Foxwell said unctuously.

 
          
“The
Law here squats on its rump an’ does nothin’,” Dan sneered. “This ain’t the
first time a man has been done to death by a yellow-livered sneak afraid to
show hisself. Well, I ain’t askin’ yore help, Sheriff; the Circle Dot can
handle it.”

 
          
The
officer scowled, and then, “
What
is it, Bundy’?” as a
lumpy cowboy in his early thirties, whose craggy face seemed to be endowed with
a permanent sneer, stepped forward.

 
          
“All
I wanta say is that yestiddy afternoon the en-tire Wagon-wheel outfit was
workin’ ten mile from where the shootin’ took place.”

 
          
“Methinks
the witness doth protest too much,”
came
a comment
from the bar.

 
          
The
sheriff swore. But evidently the statement was what he had been waiting for.
“We ain’t gittin’ no forader,” he said testily, and turned to the men standing
behind him. Then, “The jury finds that deceased died from a gun-shot wound, but
there ain’t no evidence to show who done it.”