Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942) (7 page)

 
          
“‘Lo, Hunch,” the young man greeted.

 
          
The
man stared at him for a moment, and then, with apparent effort, stammered, “What’s—come—o’—Dave?”

 
          
In
a few sentences, and speaking very slowly, Dover told the tale. The other
listened with seeming indifference, swung round without a word, and lurched
away to the wood-pile. They saw the axe flash into the air and heard the thud
of the blade as the keen edge bit deep into a baulk of timber; the blow was
followed by others, each driven home with savage intensity; it almost seemed as
though he were wreaking a vengeance on the tree-trunk.

 
          
“Another
o’ pore Dad’s pensioners,” Dan explained.
“Drifted in ‘bout
two years back, sick an’ starvin’.
He lives in the hut, an’ keeps us in
fuel. 0’ course, he’s kinda lackin’lost his memory.

 
          
For
months we figured he was dumb, couldn’t get a word from him; even now, it takes
somethin’ extra, but he ‘pears to savvy what folks say.”

 
          
“There
don’t seem to be much wrong with his muscles.”

 
          
“He’s
as strong as a bullock—packs or hauls in loads you’d take a team for. He can’t
remember any name, but the boys called him `Hunch’ on account of his stoop.
Just worships that axe. I figure that he’s been a lumberjack; every now and
again, he’ll be missin’ for a spell, wanderin’ in the woods.”

 
          
“Ever
have any trouble with him?”

 
          
“On’y once.
We had a new hand—fella named `
Rattray,’
an’ the first half o’ that described him. He was
the kind what would tease a kid, an’ he regarded a daft old man as the answer
to a bully’s prayer. It didn’t come out just that way. Rattray got the axe an’
started breakin’ stones to blunt the edge. Hunch threw him clear across the
bunkhouse, snappin’ a leg, an arm, an’ some ribs. Doc Malachi put him together
again, an’ when he was able to ride, Dad told him to. Rattray rode, but on’y as
far as the Wagon-wheel, so there’s another who had reason to …”

 
          
Sudden
switched the subject. “Odd number, that pill-merchant,” he remarked. “What’s he
doin’ here?”

 
          
“Committin’
slow suicide,” Dan replied. “It’s a pity for he’s a clever chap an’ knows his
job. Don’t you pick holes in him; I’ve a notion he’s a friend, an’ we ain’t
overburdened with ‘em.”

 
          
“Well,
there’s one good thing about an enemy—yu know what to expect; friends ain’t
allus so dependable,” was the puncher’s cynical comment.

 
          
At
the door of the ranch-house, Yorky was lounging. He scowled at the rancher.

 
          
“So
now he’s gone, yer t’rowin’ me out,” he said resentfully.

 
          
“Where
did you get that idea?” Dan asked curiously.

 
          
“Flint
said yer wouldn’t be tannin’ a home for hoboes no more.”

 
          
“I
don’t consult Flint about my actions; you can stay as long as you want,” Dan
replied shortly, and went in. Sudden hung back. “Why don’t yu fork a hoss an’
get out in the open, ‘stead o’ stayin’ cooped up in the house, smokin’ them
everlastin’ coffin-nails?” he asked quietly.

 
          
The
boy’s rebellious expression softened. “The Ol’ Man ureter talk that way, but it
ain’t no good,” he muttered. “I told yer, I’m a weed an’—I can’t ride, Mister.”

 
          
“Weeds
can grow big an’ strong,” Sudden smiled. “I’ll teach yu to stay in a saddle.
Think it over, an’—I’m Jim—to my friends.”

 
          
He
went, and Yorky slumped down on the long bench by the door. “Hell! I b’lieve he
meant it, but what’s
th
’ good?”

 
          
He
reached out a screw of tobacco and papers, only to thrust them back again.

 
          
“Awright—Jim—it’s
a bet.”

 
          
So,
on the following morning, when Sudden came to get his horse, he was accompanied
by an unhappy-looking youth who stood and gazed doubtfully at the pony Burke
had selected for him.

 
          
“Too
old an’ lazy to buck,” the foreman said.
“Been here damn near
as long as I have.
His name’s `Shuteye.’ Story is that one o’ the
boys—years ago—after a long an’ tirin’ day, dozed off in the saddle, figurin’
his hoss would fetch him home. When he woke, hours later, they were in the same
place an’ the hoss was asleep too.”

 
          
The
average cow-horse, sensing that saddling is the prelude to hard work, resents
the operation, but Shuteye gave Tiny and Flint no trouble at all. But Sudden
was not taking chances; even a mild fit of bucking might result in a fall which
would send his pupil back to the ranch-house cured of any desire to ride. He
meant to try the animal first.

 
          
“Shorely
seems unenterprisin’ but mebbe he’s savin’ hisself. If that’s so, he’s due for
a surprise.”

 
          
It
was Sudden who got the surprise, for no sooner was he in the saddle than the
pony, with a squeal of rage and pain, dropped its head and leapt into the air,
coming down with feet bunched and legs like steel rods. So unprepared was the
puncher for this display of temper that he lost his seat and only saved himself
from being ignominiously “piled” by a swift grab at the saddle-horn, an act
which brought a guffaw and satirical gibe from behind

 
          
“Pullin’ leather.
Yorky’ll have a good teacher.”

 
          
Sudden
did not look round—he was busy fighting the maddened beast beneath him—but he
noted the voice. Back in the saddle, he gripped with his knees, dragged on the
reins, and by sheer strength brought the pony’s head up. Instantly the animal
reared and would have fallen on him had not the rider flung himself forward and
driven home the
spurs.
A few more ineffectual efforts,
which were deftly foiled, and Shuteye appeared to realize it had met its
master; trembling in every limb, the beast stood still.

 
          
Sudden
got down, dropped the reins to the ground, and stroked the quivering nostrils.

 
          
Then
he loosened the cinches, raised the saddle, and swore as he saw the source of
the trouble: a small section of cactus—the dreaded choya—had been so placed
that any weight would drive the cruel, barbed, glistening spikes into the
flesh. Well he knew the blinding agony they could cause, and it was not
astonishing that the victim should forget its many years of training and
relapse into savagery under the torment. With the point of his knife he
wrenched the cactus free, and holding it on the palm of his hand, turned to the
onlookers. Amid dead silence, he stepped to Flint, upon whose
coarse
features a half-sneer lingered.

 
          
“Why
did yu put this under the saddle?” he asked sternly.

 
          
For
a moment the man hesitated, and then, with an air of bravado, replied, “Just a
joke; wanted to see if anythin’ would wake
the of
skinful o’ bones.”

 
          
“An’
it didn’t matter if the boy took a tumble, which—sick as he is—would possibly
kill him?”

 
          
“Oh,
I figured you’d sample the hoss first,”
came
the
jaunty lie.

 
          
“Well,
that makes it my affair. Any idea what the choya can do to man or beast?”

 
          
“No,
allus avoid ‘em m’self,” Flint grinned.

 
          
Sudden
dropped the torturing thing. “Yo’re goin’ to learn,” he said, and with a
lightning movement clutched the fellow by the throat, swung him off his feet,
and sat him down on the cactus. With a howl of anguish Flint scrambled up and
snatched out his gun, only to have it struck from his grasp and find himself
sprawling on the ground from a flat-handed blow on the cheek. Frantically he
tore at the cause of his suffering, and got more of the devilish spines in his
fingers. A stinging, burning pain in every part of his body possessed him.

 
          
“Damn
you all, git this cursed thing off,” he shrieked.

 
          
The
men looked at Sudden, who nodded. “Guess he knows what the choya can do now,”
he said, and turned away.

 
          
One
by one, the terrible little thorns had to be ripped out by main force, and by
the time the operation was completed, the patient appeared to be thoroughly
cowed. Limping, he picked up his gun, made to thrust it into his belt, but
instead, swung about and presented it full at the broad back of the man who had
punished him.

 
          
“Freeze—all
o’ you,” he rasped, and his face was a mask of murder.

 
          
“
Pull,
an’ we hang you,” Dan warned.

 
          
“This
is atween him an’ me,” Flint retorted.
“He gits his chance.
You can face an’ flash yore gun, Green.” He would fire the instant the other
was round, before he could draw. That was what he meant to do: what he actually
did was gape with wide eyes at the muzzle of a six-shooter, levelled almost
alongside his own, and pointed at his heart. The turn and draw had been one
movement, executed at lightning speed. Behind the weapon, eyes of arctic
coolness bored into his.

 
          
“Shoot,
an’ we’ll go to hell together,” said a mocking voice.

 
          
That
was the position, and Flint knew it. If the thumb holding back the
hammer—Sudden had no use for triggers—was released, even in the act of dying,
he too was doomed. It was the acid test. One crook of his own finger, and … Those
watching saw his hand sink slowly; the price of vengeance was too high.

 
          
“I
can wait,” he muttered thickly, and bent a malignant look upon his employer.

 
          
“I’m
quittin’,” he snarled.

 
          
“I
fired you fifteen minutes ago,” the rancher replied. Flint’s face took on a
savage sneer.

 
          
“Well,
that suits me fine. Who wants to b’long to a pussy-cat outfit anyway? He
slouched towards his horse and was about to mount when Dan spoke again,
brazen-voiced:

 
          
“That
bronc bears my brand. When my father picked you out o’ the dirt, you’d spent
the last dime o’ what yore saddle fetched.”

 
          
The
ruffian whirled on him. “
You sendin’
me off afoot?”

 
          
“You
leave as you came,” the young man retorted. “I don’t even lend horses to folk
who misuse ‘em.”

 
          
“I’ll
make you sweat blood for this, Dover,” was the fellow’s parting threat, as he
set out on the long tramp to town.

 
          
“I
reckon I’ve lost you a hand, Dan,” Sudden said.

 
          
“Take
it you’ve done me a service,” was the reply. “We can do without vermin around
here.”

 
          
Flint’s
departure was the signal for the outfit to get busy, and Yorky began to sidle
towards the house. But Sudden was watching.

 
          
“Ain’t
yu ridin’ with me?” he asked.

 
          
“Aw,
Jim, I don’t feel so good this mornin’,” the boy said. “Can’t we put off th’
outin’ fer a spell?”

 
          
The
puncher saw the apprehensive glance at the pony, now standing head down, limp
and dejected. He smiled as he replied: It’s now or never, son. This is yore
best chance. I doubt if even another dose o’ cactus medicine would rouse a kick
in that animile.
Up with yu.”