Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 10 - Sudden Plays a Hand(1950) (29 page)

 
          
“I’m
terribly sorry. The rustler is the bane o’ the cattle business; there’s on’y
one cure—the rope. I’d hang every one caught with the goods.’

 
          
He
spoke with vehemence, and the girl, smarting under her sense of loss, was
disposed to agree. “I hate violence, but crime must be checked, and certainly
these wretches deserve no mercy,’ she said.

 
          
“Come
for a ride,’ he suggested, and when she was about to refuse, added, “I’ve
somethin’ to show you.’

 
          
He
took her in a westerly direction, away from his own range. After nearly an
hour, they reached a line of high bushes, pierced here and there with
grotesquely-shaped spires and pinnacles of stone which appeared oddly familiar.

 
          
“We
have a few yards to walk now,’ Cullin told her.

 
          
He
went ahead, making a path for her, paused, and pointed to a sapling. Put an arm
round that and look down,’ he said, drawing aside a branch.

 
          
“Why,
this is Shadow Valley!’ she cried.

 
          
“True’.
What do you see down there?’

 
          
“Only cattle grazing.’

 
          
He
passed her a pair of binoculars. “Try these.’

 
          
She
did so, and the powerful lenses seemed to fling the nearest cow in her face. On
its rump were the letters S P—her own brand. Wonderingly she directed the
glasses to others of the herd; all bore the same mark. She turned to her
companion.

 
          
“What
does it mean?’

 
          
“I
can’t say. By chance I learned that over a hundred head, wearing yore iron, had
been driven into the Valley yesterday evenin’, an’ when you told me you hadn’t
sold any, I guessed you oughta know about it.’

 
          
“Thank
you,’ she said, her face like pale marble, and returned the binoculars.

 
          
“Look
again, an’ make sure,’ he urged. “Mebbe there’s just a few strays.’

 
          
“I
saw several dozen of my three-year-olds, picked animals,’ she replied harshly. “I
wouldn’t have believed a man could stoop so low.’

 
          
“It
looks bad, but seems incredible,’
Cullin
mused. “I
wish I could help you.’

 
          
The
ride to the S P was made in silence, and Cullin was content it should be so. He
had sown the seed;
solitude,
and the outraged pride of
a woman would bring fruition. When they reached the ranch, she did not invite
him to remain. He played the hypocrite once more.

 
          
“Don’t
think too hardly of Nick,’ he begged. “This is a lawless land, an’ he is
hot-blooded, impulsive—’

 
          
“It
was a mean, cruel act,’ she interrupted icily, and then her voice broke a
little. “He could have had them for the asking.’

 
          
With
these words ringing in his ears, he went away. Somehow, he did not quite like
the sound of them, but he had done a good morning’s work, and things were going
well.

 
          
The
girl he had left was far from sharing his satisfaction. Puzzled, angry, and
utterly miserable, she sought her bedroom, to be alone her one desire. Her
husband had behaved
vilely,
Green and Yorky had helped
him. In
all the
world she had no one to whom she could
turn for aid or counsel. Cullin had been kind—even to the point of pleading for
the offender; he seemed to be her only friend. To confide in Lindy would be
useless; the black woman would not hear a word against “Massa Nick.’

 
          
Why
had he done it?
she
asked, over and over again, and
always it was the same answer: because of a ruthless, masterful nature which
took what it wanted, regardless of who might suffer.

 
          
Another
explanation suggested itself. Drait resented her taking charge of the S P, and
this was his revenge—the planning of a humiliating failure which
would drag her pride in the dust, and bring
her to him, disillusioned,
begging for aid. Instinctively she looked at the portrait on the wall, and in
the hard eyes and grim lips read a message: “Fight.’ As though she had actually
heard the word, she replied: “Yes, you had troubles too, and fought them. I am
of your blood. If Drait has done this despicable deed, he shall answer for it.’

 
          
**

 
          
On
leaving the S P Cullin had ridden at a sharp pace to the 8 B, the owner of
which welcomed him with a grin.

 
          
“Lo,
Greg, I shore hope you’ve fetched yore roll along; I got a li’l bill for you.’

 
          
“You
don’t have to worry,’ the visitor returned. “What’s the tally so far, an’ where
are they?’

 
          
“Six
score,
an’ they’re in the Devil’s Pocket.’

 
          
“I’ll
stake the amount I owe you they ain’t.’

 
          
Bull’s
glance was one of suspicion. “If you’ve fetched ‘em away—’ he began.

 
          
“Don’t
talk foolish,’ Cullin said. “In the first place I didn’t want ‘em—yet; in the
second, I’d no notion where yore cache was; in the third, I shouldn’t ‘a’ taken
‘em to Shadow Valley.’

 
          
Bardoe’s
eyes bulged.
“Shadow Valley?
What’n
hell they doin’ there?’

 
          
“Grazin’,
I shouldn’t wonder,’ Cullin replied. He liked to irritate, and the other’s
volley of oaths merely amused him. “Drait an’ his men drove ‘em in yesterday.’

 
          
“How’d
they know where to look?’

 
          
“Green
an’ his young friend trailed you, is my guess.’

 
          
Bull
damned the pair at length—he could see his li’l bill becoming waste paper; Greg
Cullin was not the roan to pay for nothing. For once he was mistaken. The
rancher must have divined his thought, for producing a big wad of
currency,
he pushed a portion of it across the table.

 
          
“I’m
payin’ just the same,’ he said. “It so
happens
that
Drait has stepped right into the loop that’s goin’ to hang him.’ The rustler
pouched the money.
“How come?’

 
          
“You
wouldn’t care to be found with stolen stock in yore possession, I expect,’
Cullin replied ironically.

 
          
“By
God, yo’re right, an’ o’ course, he stole ‘em straight from the S P.’

 
          
“He
an’ his men’ll tell a different tale, but who’s goin’ to swallow it? Besides,
he could ‘a’ hidden ‘em in the Pocket; found there, he’d never oe suspected,
but you would.’

 
          
Bardoe
scowled. “That’s so. Allasame, I owe Green somethin’.’

 
          
“Better
let the debt run—Finger-shy was no slouch,’ Cullin reminded drily. ‘Listen: the
sheriff will pull Drait in tomorrow mornin’ an’ shove him in the calaboose to
await trial. Now, in case the girl turns soft, I want her out o’ the way till
the whole affair is over, an’ that’s where you come in. Get the idea?’

 
          
“I’m
to carry her off an’ keep her hid,’ Bardoe said.

 
          
“It’s
a pleasure to work with you,’ Cullin complimented. “Where can you take her?’

 
          
“My cabin on Black Ridge, the other side o’ the Big Quake.
She’ll be safe enough—ain’t many
know
of it.’

 
          
The
Big C man nodded. He had seen the place, an extensive and wide strip of morass
which had proved a death-trap to many hundreds of cattle. An expanse of
brilliant green, dotted with tussocks of coarse grass and reeds, it appeared
innocent enough. But the pressure of a foot brought the moisture squelching up,
and to stand still even on the brink for a few moments was to court disaster.

 
          
“It
must be done tonight,’
Cullin
went on. “In a little
while, when Drait has been dealt with, I shall discover where she is and rescue
her, payin’ you a ransom of three thousand dollars.’

 
          
Bardoe
was too cunning to jump at the proposition. “I shall have to split with my
fellas,’ he objected.

 
          
“You
won’t need many—Sturm an’ his crew will be out on the range watchin’ for rustlers,
so you’ll have a clear field. There must be no violence; if the girl is hurt in
any way, payment will be in—lead.’

 
          
“Ain’t
threatenin’ me, are you, Greg?’ Bull fleered. “Be easy, I’ll take care o’ yore
ladylove, an’ mebbe shake a leg at yore weddin’.’

 
          
But
when the Big C owner was receding in the distance, he shook a fist instead, and
growled, “Damned mongrel. Lead, huh? You’ll settle in gold, my friend, an’ I’ll
fix the figure; the S P, with the dame thrown in, is worth a lot more’n three
thousand.’

 
          
AT
the Big C, Cullin bolted a meal, saddled a fresh mount, and hastened to Midway.
Camort, lolling drowsily in his office, woke with a start when the great man
entered.

 
          
“Lo,
Greg, anythin’ new?’ he enquired.

 
          
“Yeah,
we’ve got him.’

 
          
“Meanin’?’

 
          
Cullin
swore impatiently.
“That infernal nester, o’ course.
Where are yore wits?’

 
          
The
sheriff smothered a sigh; he was rather weary of battling against the “infernal
nester.’ With a dubious expression, he remarked, “
That
jasper’s as hard to hold as a greased rattler, an’ as dangerous.’

 
          
“Don’t
talk like a weak-kneed quitter,’ Cullin snapped, and proceeded to explain the
situation. Camort brightened visibly. “It shore does seem we got him where the
hair’s short,’ he admitted. “But if the gal lets us down….’

 
          
“She
won’t appear a-tall—I’m arrangin’ that. Yo’re actin’ on a complaint about the
rustlin’ an’ request for the punishment o’ the culprits, received from her.’

 
          
“I
ain’t’ the sheriff commenced, but got no farther.

 
          
“Don’t
be dumb,’ Cullin said angrily. “Her protest was made to me, an’ I’m handin’ it
on; she won’t be there to deny it. In any case, you have yore duty to do.’

 
          
“Shore,’
the officer smirked. “What she wants
don’t
really
matter—the welfare o’ the public comes first.’

 
          
“Quite,
but keep that admirable sentiment for the court. You will arrest Drait in the
mornin’, lock him up, an’ see he stays that way. If he gets out, you’d better
climb a tree, tallest you can find.’

 
          
“S’pose
he resists?’

 
          
“Six
o’ my outfit’ll be in town; you can use ‘em. I don’t fancy he’ll fight, but if
he does, it’s yore duty to get him—dead or alive. Understand?’

 
          
“You
bet. I’d rather hang him, but I ain’t one to think o’ my own pleasure.’

 
          
Cullin’s
next call was on the Judge, and again the position was set forth. Towler’s fear
of the rancher exceeded his dislike, but he had no affection for the nester
either, so he readily promised to do his part.