Sudden--At Bay (A Sudden Western #2) (18 page)

‘I’ll sort ’em out later,’ he
muttered. ‘Damn that medico for a quack, labelin’ his junk
thataway…’ He swept aside the gleaming instruments, grinding their
delicate forms to a twisted mass of metal beneath his angry heel.
Wheeling around, he kicked over the leather–covered table, reducing
it to kindling against the remains of the cupboard.

He was looking wildly about for something else to
break when without warning a blasting of shots from somewhere to
the back of the house brought his head up like that of a hunted
animal.

‘What the h—’ he snarled as he
whirled about, moving in haste into the larger area of the living
room. He found Nick and Whitey peering anxiously through the back
windows, their bodies flattened against the wall of the
house.

‘What in the name o’ Satan’s goin’
on?’ he barked. ‘I told yu—’

‘It warn’t us, Art,’ interposed
Nick. ‘Sounded like it come from the arroyo.’

‘Mebbe they tried to make a break
for it, an’ the boys made ’em think again hazarded Whitey. ‘It’s
shore stopped now.’

They listened in silence for
another few moments, then Art Cotton
nodded.

‘Yo’re probably right at that he
conceded. ‘Anyways, I got what I come for. It’s time to get out o’
here.’

He moved over to the door, and was about to turn the
handle when a stifled exclamation escaped the lips of Whitey, who
was still peering out of the window.

‘Hold it, Art!’ snapped the man.
‘Somethin’s up!’

Cotton leaped over to the window, his eyes slitted,
his figure tense.

‘What was it?’ he rapped
out.

‘I seen that Green feller harin’
across towards the stable from the arroyo —
hell?’

Art Cotton followed Whitey’s
pointing finger, and a thin whistle escaped through his teeth.
Slowly, a grin of unholy glee appeared on his face. He laughed like
a jackal.

‘It’s the medico!’ he gasped
unbelievingly. ‘Green musta made
some kind
o’ diversion to give him time to break out.’ He pulled back from
the window, gesturing the two riders to do likewise.

‘The medico,’ he breathed, and the
cold flat light was back in his eyes for the first time since he
had confronted Green in the street of Cottontown. ‘An’ he’s walkin’
right into our hands!’

‘Howdy, Doc!’

Art Cotton’s voice was wicked and
level and low and Hight recoiled, his hand moving back from the
door handle as if it had suddenly turned into a rattlesnake. He
half turned as though to break and run for it, his mouth opening to
yell a warning.

‘Don’t yu.’

Art Cotton’s voice had hardly
changed, but Hight sensed the evil desire in it now, the
just-suppressed urge to kill, as distinct as the rock-steady
revolver in the Cottonwood man’s hairy paw. Its bore yawned at
Hight; and he could see the whiteness of Cotton’s trigger-finger
knuckle. One fraction of an ounce of pressure and he was a dead
man. His mind raced. How had they known? How had they foreseen what
Sudden would do? How had they got here? Did they know how short of
ammunition the beleaguered men were? He let his muscles go slack,
allowing a puzzled frown to settle on his face.

‘What are you doing here?’ was all
he said.

‘Oh, we just dropped in,’ grinned
Cotton evilly. ‘Seemed like a nice day for visitin’.’ He motioned
with the gun. ‘Get in here afore yore pards start wonderin’ why
yore loiterin’ on yore own doorstep.’

Hight came into the house, his hands carefully held
level with his shoulders. Art Cotton turned to Whitey.

‘Any movement out
there?’

The man at the window shook his head.

‘Nary a sign, Art.’

Cotton turned to face Hight, planting his feet apart
and thrusting his face forward until it was within inches of that
of the medical man.

‘Well, now, Doc,’ he leered. ‘We
seen yore sidekick Green goin’ back into the stable, which means he
was creatin’ some
kind o’ diversion. Now
why would he want yu to sneak out, stead
hisself?’

Hight made no reply.

‘I’m guessin’ Green managed to
surprise my men,’ whispered Cotton, his voice held deadly low.
‘Which adds to the score he’s goin’ to pay. But it don’t explain
why yu come out alone, Doc. Yu want to tell me?’

Hight managed to inject some surprise into his
voice, praying that Art Cotton would not detect any quaver in
it.

‘They said they were coming out
behind me, as soon as I was clear…’ he bluffed.

Art Cotton shook his head, his expression coldly
mocking.

‘No, that won’t do, Doc. Yu can do
better than that. I’ll give
yu one more
chance. Why did they send yu out, an’ why did they
send yu here?’

Hight desperately tried another tack.

‘The boy,’ he gasped. ‘He’s
wounded. I needed … things … to dress his wound.’

‘The kid was at the window
throwin’ lead not half an hour ago,’ interposed Whitey’s flat
voice. ‘I seen him.’

‘So
.’ Art
Cotton whispered. ‘Lyin’ to me again, Doc?’

‘No … I…’

‘Liar!’

Cotton’s screamed accusation was
accompanied by a wicked backhanded blow to Hight’s face. It sent
the doctor reeling
backwards, stemming
against the wall, blood welling from a gash on his cheekbone caused
by the heavy signet ring on Art Cotton’s
finger.

‘No…’ Hight managed, holding up a
shaking hand. ‘I’m telling you the truth!’

Art Cotton stepped forward after him, his hands at
his sides, a snarl disfiguring his face.

‘No — yu — ain’t!’

Each word was punctuated by another
slashing blow. The third
dropped Hight to
his knees, fighting for consciousness. He fought against the panic
in his mind: this man was insane, he would beat
him to death. Art Cotton towered over him, his long fingers
working, an empty light in his catlike eyes.

‘They … they told me
…
to make a run for it,’
Hight mumbled.

‘Liar again!’ Cotton’s voice
crackled like a whip. ‘Yu wasn’t
tryin’ to
get away — yu headed for yore own house!’ The fist drew
back again. ‘Why, damn yu?’

Hight cringed backwards. ‘No — I’m
tellin’ yu the truth…’ Cotton reached down angrily, grabbing
Hight’s blood-spattered shirt in his meaty fists, hoisting the
doctor to his feet. He thrust his face forward until the cold empty
eyes were no more than a few inches away from Hight’s
own.

‘Yu better tell me Doc,’ he hissed
or yu won’t get off with just a broken leg next time.’

Hight shook his head, dazed.

‘You ... you?’ he managed. ‘I
always thought…’

‘It was Dave Rodgers? Shore, he
was there, Doc. But
he
never broke yore leg.’ A sneering smile was on the Cottonwood
man’s lips.

A reckless, seething, quite foreign
rage seized Hight. This, then, was the man who had crippled him!
The anger ousted all the physical fear from his mind, leaving only
a cold and empty anger. Without thinking, he spat in Art Cotton’s
face. It was probably the bravest thing he had ever done, and he
regretted its futility.

Art Cotton’s face contorted with
rage and his fist smashed forward. Hight felt a blow between his
eyes, the searing snapping pain as his nose was broken, and the
warm gush of bright blood. The room went black and spun away and
when he could see again he was lying face down on the floor, not
thinking, his brain disconnected by shock. Waves of pain blurred
his vision, but he could vaguely see, far above him, the blurred
form of Art Cotton. The man’s leg moved, and Hight saw light nicker
on the shining leather of a boot. The boot thudded into his
ribcage, and an agonizing pain spread throughout his chest and
back. He felt as if something was broken inside of him, and he let
the blackness come down again, welcoming it, escaping into it. It
seemed to last a long time. He felt himself being hauled upright
and tried to open his eyes but something seemed to be stopping him
from doing so. He did not know that both his eyes were rapidly
closing, his broken brows horribly swollen, or that a huge
contusion of oozing blood marked the point where Art Cotton’s
massively punishing blow had broken his nose. His hands moved
feebly, and somewhere in the back of his mind he felt a terrible
fear that Cotton had blinded him, but then his vision cleared
slightly. He was pinned against the wall by Cotton’s grasp on his
coat lapels. He tried to put his weight on his legs, but they were
rubbery and weak. Cotton’s voice came to him across years of time.
It said something. A question. He shook his battered
head.

‘
Go … to … Hell.’

He heard a smashing sound inside his own head and
then the blackness came. He slid into it gratefully.

Cotton turned away from the slumped body of the
doctor, his face an insane mask of hatred.

‘Nick!’ he managed hoarsely. ‘Get
some water!’

The rider, who had watched aghast
as his employer had battered the doctor, nodded hastily and edged
past Hight’s unconscious form, returning in a moment from the
kitchen with a milk can full of water. This he handed to Art
Cotton, who deliberately dashed it into Hight’s swollen
face.

The doctor groaned weakly, pawing at his face; he
tried to sit up but could not. Once more Art Cotton pulled him
upright, holding Hight on his feet by sheer brute strength.

‘Still feelin’ cocky, Doc?’ Cotton
grated, ‘or are yu ready to talk?’

He shook Hight the way a terrier
shakes a rat, cruelly, viciously, furiously. Hight’s head lolled.
‘Talk, damn yu!’ screeched the Cottonwood man. ‘Talk! Talk!
Talk!’

Hight’s head lifted slowly. He
peered at his tormentor through the slit of one eye.

‘You’d better kill me, Art,’ he
mumbled through his torn lips. ‘You’d better kill me, or as sure as
God is my judge, I’ll kill you. I don’t know when, but I’ll do it,
I’ll—’

With a scream of uncontrolled,
inarticulate rage. Art Cotton smashed the doctor backwards against
the wall with a blow which carried every ounce of his weight. Hight
was unconscious before his careening body
bounced off the wall and slid to the floor. A thin pool of
blood began
to stain the carpet where he
lay.

‘My Gawd, Art!’ breathed Whitey,
‘yu’ve killed him shore.’

‘Damn him for a pulin’ crawlin’
swine, an’ damn yu, too!’ hissed Art Cotton, his chest heaving.
‘Mind yore own damn’ business! If he’s dead—’ he controlled himself
with an effort as he said the words, ‘it’s good
riddance.’

He stood swaying, rage gradually
dying from his features, looking down at the prostrate form at his
feet. As the disfiguring anger left his face, it was replaced by
another expression, one of dawning realization, then triumph,
quickly replaced by cunning. He laughed, almost
hysterically.

‘I got it, by God!’ he croaked.
‘Why in hell didn’t I think of it afore?’

Nick and Whitey exchanged glances. Had Art gone
mad?

‘What … what is it, Art?’ Whitey
ventured.

Cotton regarded his men as if they were idiots.

‘Yu can’t see it?’

The two men shook their heads,
frowning. Art’s gloating, crooning voice, the spittle formed about
his mouth, the mingled expression of triumph and cunning, all
supported their fear that
Cotton had gone
insane, but when he spoke again it was in a normal
tone, and the madness had left the cat
eyes.

‘So Sim thinks I’m all washed up,
does he?’ he muttered. ‘Show him about that.’ He began to pace
across the room, back, forward, back, his step that of a caged
tiger. ‘He’s goin’ to be sorry he wrote me off,’ he mumbled.
‘Sorry. Very sorry. Yu’ll see. It’ll all be mine. I’ll get them,
an’ it’ll all be mine.’ He looked up quickly ‘Yu boys with
me?’

Whitey nodded hurriedly. ‘Shore,
Art, shore.’ His tone was mollifying.

‘Good,’ Art nodded, pacing again.
‘That’s good. I’ll need yu boys.’ His mind was racing wildly, for
in truth the violence of the past fifteen minutes had partially
unhinged a mind which had never fully been sane. He issued a
command. Whitey looked at him in amazement.

‘What do yu mean, take his clothes
off?’ he managed.

‘Yu stupid clod, do what I tell yu
an’ don’t argue!’ screeched Art. ‘Strip his clothes off him.’ He
whirled on Nick, who cringed away. ‘Yu, Nick!’ He made an impatient
gesture. ‘Get yore clothes off.’ Nick hesitated momentarily, and
Art Cotton slapped his thigh impatiently, keening in rage. ‘Do it,
damn yu!’ Nick shrugged, and began to unbutton his shirt as Whitey
stripped off Hight’s coat, boots, pants and shirt. Art Cotton
watched the procedure, nodding throughout, muttering, ‘Good, good.’
The two riders, their tasks complete, looked at him for further
instruction. He ground out an oath.

‘Yu still can’t see it, can yu?’
he swore. ‘O’ course, I’m mebbe expectin’ too much. All right, I’ll
spell it out. Nick — put on Hight’s clothes. Yo’re goin’ to play
decoy.’