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

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  Sudden Makes War ~ Oliver Strange

  (Book 09 in the Sudden Westerns series)

  Chapter I

  “I’m lookin’ for a man.”

  The words—of sinister import in the West—arrested the attention of everyone within hearing, and had the desired effect of collecting a crowd of the curious. Yet the speaker had not the appearance of one engaged upon an errand of vengeance. A youthful cowboy—he was no more than twenty —in town for a spree, seemed to explain him. So thought at least one of the onlookers.

  “Young Dan Dover o’ the Circle Dot ranch over to Rainbow,” he told an enquirer. “Now what in ‘ell is he after? They ain’t got no money to throw about.”

  “‘Pears like they have,” was the reply.

  For the object of their interest, standing on the raised platform before the Paradise Saloon, his Stetson pushed jauntily back to disclose curly hair of a particularly aggressive shade of red, had produced two gold pieces—double eagles—and a Mexican silver dollar. With these he began to perform the elementary conjuring trick of passing the coins from hand to hand, keeping one in the air. It was not much of a show, and in an Eastern town would have attracted little notice, but in this far-flung outpost of civilization, it held his audience and brought others.

  “The man I’m in search of has gotta have nerve,” the young man announced, his narrowed gaze sweeping over the spectators, “an’ be able to use his hardware. The fella who can stand the test, pockets these two twenties an’ gets the offer of a worthwhile job. Don’t all speak at once—I on’y got one pair o’ ears.”

  “Good long ‘uns, though,” one of the crowd chuckled.

  “An, that’s terrible true, brother,” the youth replied, with whimsical gravity. “I have to keep ‘em pared down to get my hat on.”

  The onlookers laughed and continued to enjoy the entertainment, unaware that while the performer’s eyes appeared to be occupied solely with his trick, they were, in fact, closely scanning the faces about him. Tradesmen, teamsters, half-breeds, drummers, and loafers—he could place them all, and shook his head slightly.

  “I’m outa luck—there ain’t an outfit in town.” he muttered.

  For Sandy Bend boasted a railway station, from which a single branch line travelled East, and was therefore a shipping point for cattle. Only among the reckless sons of the saddle could he hope to find what he sought. He let the coins drop into his right hand, closed, and opened it again. One was missing.

  “Now where has that pesky Mex dollar got to?” he mused. With an exaggerated frown of perplexity he displayed the palms of both hands; they were empty. “Blame it, the twenties have gone too; must be floatin’ around.” His right fist clawed at the air, and when the fingers unclosed again, there were the three coins. “Dead easy,” he commented. “The on’y difficult part is gettin’ the gold to start with.”

  Applause greeted the feat, and some of the audience began to drift. The conjurer grinned knowingly.

  “Don’t go away, folks; this is a free show an’ I ain’t comin’ round with a hat,” he assured.

  “Shorely there must be one o’ you who could use forty bucks.”

  He was talking at one man, whose presence the movement of others had uncovered. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a lithe, athletic frame, black hair, cold grey-blue eyes, and a lean, hard-jawed face, he was lounging against a hitching-post on the outskirts of the crowd, watching the scene with satirical amusement. No dandy cowboy this; the plain leather chaps, woollen shirt, and high-crowned hat all bore signs of wear; even the silk kerchief knotted loosely round his neck was of sombre hue, and the two guns, hanging low on his thighs with the holsters tied down, were not fancy-butted. Red-head chinked the coins in his hand, eyes on the stranger.

  “Who’ll take a chance?” he asked.

  The look made the words a direct challenge, and the man by the hitching-post seemed to accept it as such. He stepped forward, moving with an indolent ease which suggested the latent powers of a great cat.

  “I’ll try anythin’—once,” he drawled. “What’s yore proposition?”

  The young man suppressed a smile of triumph. “It’s right simple,” he replied. Slipping his first finger and thumb round the silver coin, he held it at arm’s length. “All you gotta do is let me shoot that out’n yore grasp at twelve paces.”

  The black-haired cowboy’s face was expressionless. “Yu ain’t lackin’ in nerve yore own self,” he said slowly.

  The crowd agreed. The slightest deviation would result in a smashed hand for the holder of the target, and though there were many of them to whom forty dollars meant temporary affluence, not one was prepared to take such a risk. The maker of the offer knew what they were thinking, and confined himself to the man before him.

  “The twenties is just a circumstance,” he mentioned. “Point is, will you gamble?”

  The grey-blue eyes studied those of the questioner with grave intentness, and then, “I tote two guns; cripplin’ one paw won’t stop me usin’ the other.”

  “Which is where I gamble,” the conjurer grinned.

  “I’ll go yu,” was the quiet reply. “Yon’s a good place.”

  He pointed to the blank wall of a stout log building across the street. Deftly catching the coin the other flipped in his direction, he moved through the crowd, which split into two lines.

  Dover followed, placed him in position, and then returned, counting off the paces.

  “What’s his game?” one of the bystanders queried. “He don’t seem the showin’ off kind.”

  “You can search me, but he’d better make the shot,” replied a neighbour. “That other fella’s no kind to fool with. Look at him—just as unconcerned as a corpse.”

  It was true; resting comfortably against the building behind him, the man who was to be shot at appeared to be the least interested of those present. Only when he saw that the other had taken up his place and was waiting did he straighten up and extend his left arm. Framed in finger and thumb, the disc of silver twinkled in the sunlight; it presented a perilously small mark, but the audience sensed that something more than mere cowboy conceit was behind the exhibition.

  “Gosh! There ain’t no margin for a mistake, ‘less he misses the hand complete,” was one comment.

  “He won’t do that; these cowpunchers can all shoot.”

  Silence ensued as the marksman drew his six-shooter, flung the muzzle upwards, and chopped down on the target. For a long moment he held it poised, squinting through the sights, and then pulled the trigger. The report was followed by a cheer from the breathless watchers as they saw the coin driven from the holder’s fingers, hit a log, and drop in the sand. Amidst a hum of approbation, the stranger thrust his left hand into the pocket of his chaps, picked up the silver piece, and pitched it to Dover.

  “Now it’s yore turn,” he said.

  The grin of triumph on the young cowboy’s face faded a little.

  “What’s the idea?” he asked.

  “Yu mentioned a fella who can shoot,” the other reminded. “I’m aimin’ to ease yore mind thataway.”

  The grin had gone now, but a snigger from someone nearby brought it back. The boy was game.

  “Fair enough,” he admitted.

  The crowd, eager for more excitement, lined up again as the two men took their places.

  The stranger, left hand still in his pocket, waited until he saw that Dover was ready, and then….

  No one of the onlookers could have sworn to seeing the loosely-hanging right hand move, but the gun was out, hip-high, and th
e spirt of flame followed instantly. Again the coin was torn from its frame and hurled against the timber. The speed of the draw, apparent lack of aim, and amazing accuracy had an almost paralysing effect on those who saw it.

  “Gawda’mighty!” ejaculated one. “That’s shootin’, that is.”

  Dover himself was staggered, but he was also jubilant. He hurried to congratulate. “Never seen anythin’ like it,” he said. “Figured I could use a six-gun, but hell! I’m on’y a yearlin’. Say, my throat’s fair crackin’; let’s irrigate.”

  They adjourned to the saloon and selected a table in a quiet corner. Their drinks sampled, Dover fished out the Mexican dollar and examined it curiously; there was a dent in the middle, and another on the edge. He pointed to the former.

  “Guess that’s mine, seein’ the care I took,” he said.

  The other smiled, reached out his “makings” and began to fashion a cigarette. There was a smear of blood on his left hand; the Circle Dot man’s eyes widened.“I’m guessin’ again,” he said. “I’m right sorry.”

  “Shucks, it’s on’y a graze. Mebbe I moved a mite,” was the careless reply. The tell-tale stain was wiped away. “Well, s’pose we get acquainted. I’m James Green, of No place, Nowhere, an’ powerful fond o’ new scenery.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” the other replied. “I’m Dan Dover. My dad owns the Circle Dot range at Rainbow, ‘bout fifty mile on from here. Mebbe you know it?”

  Green shook his head. “This is my furthest west.” His steady gaze rested on his companion. “What’s yore trouble?”

  “Did I mention any?” came the counter.

  “No, but a fella doesn’t come such a caper as this for fun. At first I thought it was a bluff, but when I called it an’ yu went through, I knowed different.”

  “Well, yo’re right, there’s trouble to spare, an’ more ahead unless I’m wide o’ the trail. I want a man—a real one, to help me deal with it.”

  “My guns ain’t for sale,” the stranger said curtly.

  “I don’t want ‘em, but the fella who comes to us has gotta be able to protect hisself; we’ve had a hand killed an’ two more crippled pretty recent.”

  “How come?”

  “Shot from cover—every time,” Dover informed bitterly. “Sounds bad. Got any suspicions?”

  “Plenty, an’ nothin’ else. See, here’s the layout: the Circle Dot ain’t a big ranch—‘bout a thousand head just now—times is poor, but it owns good grazin’ an’ water—a stream from the Cloudy Hills runs right through our land.”

  “Plenty water is shore an asset.”

  “Yo’re shoutin’, but it can be a liability. The Wagon-wheel, located east of us ain’t so well fixed. They tried to buy us out—at their figure—but we wasn’t interested, an’ that started the feud.”

  “Feud, huh?”

  “Yeah. I warn’t but a little shaver in them days—mebbe it’s ten year ago, an’ Dad don’t talk much. Gran’dad owned the ranch then. He was a hard case; straight as a string, but mighty set in his ideas—it’s a family failin’, I guess. He was the first to go; they found him laid out in a gully one mornin’, with two slugs in his back. There was no evidence, an’ not much doubt either—the Wagon-wheel had been pretty free with their threats. Tom Trenton, father o’ the present owner, just grinned when my uncle Rufe—Dad’s elder brother—taxed him with the crime. Rufe was a red-head—all the Dovers are—an’ he pulled his gun, but bystanders grabbed his arms, an’ Tom went away with a gibe. Oh, he’d ‘a’ shot it out willin’ enough; there ain’t no cowards in the Trenton family.”

  “Yore gran’dad was downed from behind,” came the reminder.

  “Yeah, that’s one o’ the things I can’t understand; from all I’ve heard, finishin’ a fella thataway wouldn’t ‘a’ give Tom Trenton much satisfaction. Sounds odd, I guess, but I..”

  “He’d have wanted the other to know; I’ve met that sort.”

  “Well, however it may have been, he didn’t have long to crow, for a coupla months later he was picked up half a mile from the Wagon-wheel with a bullet between the eyes; his gun was lyin’ near, but it hadn’t been fired. There was a lot o’ talk, near everybody reckoned Rufe had done it, an’ as the Trentons owned the sheriff—an’ do now—he had to pull his freight. Allasame, that didn’t end or mend matters; the quarrel dragged on, an’ like a slow fire, flared up at intervals.

  Dad is carryin’ round some slugs, but he don’t weigh much anyways, an’ Zeb Trenton has a limp he warn’t born with. For some years now there’s on’y been bad feelin’ till a few months back when the trouble started again. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Meanin’ yu an’ yore father can’t handle it?” Green said.

  “Just that,” was the frank reply. “Dad ain’t the man he was afore we lost mother—it seemed to take the heart out’n him—an’ me, I s’pose I’m kind o’ young. Our boys is a good bunch, but they need a leader, someone with more savvy than a kid they’ve watched grow up.”

  Green was silent for a while, considering the curious tale to which he had listened. He was not enamoured of the proposal, but liked the maker of it. The boy was straight, modest, and possessed the pluck to take his own medicine, as the shooting incident proved. His mind went back to a little ranch in Texas; he had been just such another youth. But the world had used him roughly since then, moulding him into a man, experienced, dangerous, and when occasion demanded, ruthless. It had also given him another name. For this was “Sudden,” whose daring exploits and uncanny skill with weapons had earned an unenviable reputation in the southwest.’

  Presently he made his decision. “I’ll see yore Ol’ Man.”

  Dover’s relief was obvious. “I’m right glad,” he said, and then, awkwardly, “Anythin’ holdin’ you in this dump?”

  The other smiled. “I can start straight away if yo’re ready.”

  “I’ve got a call to make at a ranch ‘bout five mile north. Mebbe you wouldn’t mind goin’ ahead. You see, I didn’t like leavin’—Dad’s venturesome—just refuses to realize how real the danger is.”

  “Then he won’t be expectin’ me?”

  “No, but any traveller is welcome at the Circle Dot, an’ once yo’re there, I guess I can get him to see the light. I oughta told you this before, but—” He bogged down, and then added, “If he’d knowed why, he wouldn’t ‘a’ let me come.”

  Green nodded; he had a mental picture of the rancher, proud, independent, a man who had fended for himself all his life, and little likely to admit that misfortune and growing years had lessened his ability still to do so. He knew the type, rugged, sturdy fellows, who would fight to their last gasp of breath against any aggression. The boy before him would follow the same pattern, if Fate so willed it. He grinned back at the smiling but anxious eyes.

  “I’ll take a chance,” he said, and rose.

  “Dessay I’ll overtake you if I can persuade the owner o’ that black in the corral to sell.”

  “He won’t part.”

  “You seem mighty shore. Is he a friend o’ yores?”

  “That’s somethin’ I’ve never been able to decide,” the gunman said with a sardonic twinkle. “Yu see, the black is mine.”

  Dover’s expression was rueful. “Cuss the luck. Saw him this mornin’ when I turned my bronc in; I never come so near to bein’ a hoss-thief. Made up my mind to buy him if it busted me. He’s a peach.”

  “He’s a pal,” was the grave reply, and the young man—to whom also a horse was more than a beast of burden—understood.

  “Well, life’s full o’ disappointments, ain’t it?” he rejoined cheerfully. “I guess I won’t be overhaulin’ you; Thimble is a /Related in Sudden—Outlawed. George Newnes Ltd. good li’l cowpony, but in a race that black would make him look like he was standin’ still.

  See you at the Circle Dot, an’ o’ course, we’re strangers. If Dad thought I was puttin’ one over on him, he’d dig his heels in an’ a team o’ mules wouldn’t make him budge.
But don’t get a wrong impression; he’s the finest fella I ever knowed, but he’s got his own ideas.”

  Green laughed. “I’m a mite thataway my own self,” he confessed. “A saplin’ what sways with every wind ain’t the tree to trust yore weight to.”

  Chapter II

  “Shore is an up-an’-down country, an’ any fella what likes his scenery mixed couldn’t rightly complain.”

  It was late in the afternoon, and the black-haired man from Sandy Bend, in default of other companionship, was communing with his horse. The deeply-rutted trail he had been following, after a steady climb, brought him to a small plateau which afforded a view of what lay before. It was a daunting spectacle for the unaccustomed eye—a vast rampart of grey-spired, arid-topped mountains, their lower slopes shrouded by dense growths of yellow and nut-pine, stretched along the horizon beneath the slowly sinking sun. They did not seem remote, but the traveller knew they must be about forty miles distant. Between them and where he sat lay a jumble of lesser hills, interspersed by valleys, sandy stretches of sage, greasewood, and cactus, with innumerable tracts of timber.

  “Reckon we can’t be far from that Rainbow town,” Sudden continued. “I guess we won’t trouble it. If that young fella was correct, headin’ south a bit should fetch us to the Circle Dot, havin’ o’ course, lost our way. Might happen to anyone, Nigger, ‘specially a fool hoss, huh?” At the mention of the name, the black head swung round, the lips curled back from the white teeth.

  “That’s right, grin while yu can, yu of pie-buster, for I’ve a notion we’ll have little to be amused about as time ticks along.”

  He rode on for a mile or so and came to a spot where the wagon-road forked, one branch leading southwest. This was a smaller and less-used trail, formed—as the tracks showed—mainly by cattle and horses. Sudden swung into it.

  “Shore oughta be a ranch at the end of it,” he soliloquized. “Which one don’t matter much to a stranger.”

  The trail proved easy to travel, winding snake-like to avoid obstacles such as steep inclines, gullies, and thick plantations of trees, all of which would render the passage of a herd difficult. Some miles were covered at an easy pace, and then the muffled report of a rifle shattered the almost absolute stillness. The horse pricked up its ears, and the rider spoke soothingly: