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  Sudden ~ Oliver Strange

  (Book 02 in the Sudden Westerns series)

  Chapter I

  “Too many strangers, that’s the trouble in this here one-eyed burg.”

  The hoarse, sneering voice rang out like a challenge, which indeed it was, and the speaker’s bloodshot, savage glare roamed round the room as though daring those present to refute his statement. He was a big fellow, blue-shirted, with trousers stuffed into the tops of his high boots, and he wore two guns; a slouched hat partly shaded his bloated, unshaven face. A deepening scowl further detracted from his looks when the continued hum of conversation showed that his remark was being ignored, and the beady eyes glinted evilly. So that was it, huh?

  Well, he’d let them see that someone had to sit up and take notice when “Pug” Parsons spoke.

  Though it was yet afternoon, the bar of the Palace Saloon was fairly well patronized, and the crowd was typical of the Western frontier settlements of that day: tradesmen, teamsters, riders from the neighboring ranches, gamblers, a few Mexicans, and a leavening of hard-bitten citizens into whose means of livelihood it would not have been wise to probe. Most of these Parsons knew by sight at least, but there was one whom he had not seen before. Still in his early twenties, slim of hip and broad of shoulder, the stranger leant against the bar with the easy pose of the athlete. His cowboy rig, though worn, was neat, his shirt and the silk handkerchief slung round his neck were clean, and the grey “two-gallon” Stetson pushed back on his head was nearly new. He also sported two guns, the ends of the holsters tied with rawhide strings to his leathern chaps. His lean, shaven, deeply-bronzed face and black hair gave him almost the appearance of an Indian, but the high cheekbones were missing and there was a quirk of humor about the grim mouth which softened the out-thrust of jaw and level, grayish-blue eyes. Parsons absorbed these details and came to his own conclusion.

  “Dude puncher, tryin’ to put up a two-gun bluff,” he muttered. “Reckon I’ll call it.” He turned to the proprietor of the place. “Who’s the yearlin’?” he asked, with a nod towards the unconscious cowboy.

  The saloon-keeper, a short, stout man of middle age, with a pleasant but weak face, looked in the direction indicated. “New to me,” he said. “Rid into town ‘s’afternoon.” Then, divining what was in the other’s mind, “Aw, leave the boy be, Pug; he ain’t doin’ no harm. Looks as if he mightn’t be too easy rode neither, an’ I don’t want no trouble here now I got them new glasses.”

  He glanced pridefully at the three gaudy, gilt-framed mirrors decorating the back of the bar. His warning precipitated the calamity it was designed to prevent. The big man’s face bacame suffused with passion. Snatching out a gun, he fired point-blank at the centre mirror, defacing its shining surface with a great jagged star and bringing down a clatter of broken glass.

  “That for yu an’ yore damn mirrors,” he snarled. “Mebbe it’ll larn yu that we ain’t goin’ to drink cheap liquor so’s yu can admire yoreself. Another yap outa yu an’ I’ll serve the other two the same an’ close yore joint.”

  The saloon-keeper dared not reply—he knew the threat was no vain one. The gunman had only to let it be known that to drink at the Palace would be to incur his displeasure, and few in the town would run the risk; there were other saloons. Parsons swung about, his fierce gaze travelling over the company and finally resting on the indifferent figure by the bar.

  “Hey, stranger!” he called.

  The cowpuncher looked up. “Speakin’ to me?” he asked quietly.

  “Shore I am,” the other roared. “Ain’t yu the on’y stranger here?”

  “Can’t say,” the cowboy replied, adding with a ghost of a smile, “yu see, they’s all strangers to me.”

  Someone sniggered, and Parsons, suspecting he was being made fun of, growled out an oath.

  “Don’t git festive with me, fella,” he warned. “It ain’t considered wise. What yu smash that mirror for, huh?”

  This astounding accusation was followed by a silence broken only by little scufflings as men unobtrusively slid out of the possible line of fire; with Pug on the warpath, it behoved the bystander to take precautions; usually the brute got away with his bullying, but this time…

  “‘Pears to me Parsons may’ve picked the wrong man—that boy looks a plenty cold proposition,” a poker player whispered to a neighbour.

  “If he downs Pug this yer town won’t go inta mournin’,” was the reply. “‘Bout time that big bear had his claws cut.”

  The subject of the conversation still lounged carelessly against the bar, a smile on his mobile lips, but there was no humour in the cold, narrowed eyes.

  “So I busted her?” he said softly. “Well, what yu aimin’ to do about it?”

  The bully’s lips wreathed in a hateful sneer—it was going to be easy. Though not drunk, he had swallowed enough raw spirit to blunt his perceptive faculties, or he would not have come to this decision; his victim’s demeanour was not that of a scared man.

  “I’m aimin’ to make yu pay for it, but first yu’ll entertain the company with a li’l dance,”

  Parsons said. “Step lively, yu ” The word was not a pretty one, and the bullet which followed it tore a splinter from the floor close to the puncher’s right foot. “The next one takes a toe,” the gunman warned, and fired again.

  But even as he pressed the trigger the cowboy had moved, a swift jump forward to the right, and then his left foot swept up and kicked the loosely-held weapon from the marksman’s fingers. Recovering his balance, the stranger stepped in and drove a fist, with all the impetus of his advancing body, to the bully’s jaw. For an instant the stricken man rocked on his heels, and then crashed to the floor, where he lay mouthing curses and clawing for his other gun.

  “Don’t yu,” the puncher rasped. “I’m showin’ yu why.”

  He flipped a silver dollar away from him and by the time it tinkled on the boards both his guns were out and spouting flame. The first bullet struck the edge of the coin, spinning it in the air again, the second drove it down, and the third jumped it a yard further away. Ten shots in as many seconds were fired, and each time the winking target was fairly hit. Then the puncher thrust his weapons back into their holsters and looked contemptuously at the prostrate man.

  “Here endeth the first lesson,” he said. “yu can stand up on yore hind legs again. There’s two pills left in my guns, case yu got any ideas.”

  Parsons scrambled slowly to his feet; the blood seemed to have drained from his face, leaving it a yellowish white —a fish-belly white, unwholesome, repulsive. Out of it his malignant little eyes watched the smoke-wreathed wizard who had sardonically invited him to die. For he knew it meant just that, and for the first time in his life, he, Pug Parsons, who had watched men cringe before his levelled gun and had shot them down with a jeer, was conscious of abject physical fear. He had only one desire—to save his life. A little cough broke the tense silence and Parsons jumped; his nerve had gone.

  “`Li’l think-box don’t seem to be workin’,” the stranger said mockingly, and then, in a different tone, “I’m givin’ yu thirty minutes to leave town.” He looked at the landlord. “How much that mirror cost yu?”

  “She set me back one hundred bucks,” was the reply. The puncher turned to Parsons.

  “Ante up,” he said curtly.

  The gunman moistened his parched lips. “I ain’t got—” he began.

  “Yu took three hundred from a pilgrim in this room las’ night,” the saloon-keeper cut in.

  “Ante up,” the puncher repeated, and there was a deadly finality in his voice.

  Parsons pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, and, with fumbling fingers, peeled off several and flung them on the bar.

  �
��Better count ‘em,” he said, with a poor attempt at bravado.

  “Betche life,” the landlord retorted, and did so. “All correct,” he added.

  The puncher looked at the man he had worsted. “Yu got twenty minutes left,” he said.

  “Make good use of ‘em, or yu’ll be takin’ part in a funeral—the leadin’ part. Sabe?”

  Like a whipped hound the ruffian slunk out of the saloon, and the onlookers stirred to action again. The owner of the place put the matter plainly.

  “Stranger, I reckon this town is mighty obliged to yu,” he said. “That fella has been a blister on it for months—he’s killed two men an’ crippled four-five others. Oh, he can use his guns pretty nifty, but he’d have to start the day afore to beat yu.” One of the men had picked up the battered dollar and was examining it. The landlord called to him: “Pass that over, Timms.” He turned to the owner of the coin. “This buys drinks for the crowd if yo’re willin’, friend,” he said.

  “Set ‘em up,” the puncher smiled.

  The saloon-keeper sent bottles and glasses spinning along the bar in front of the lined-up customers, and then drove a nail through the defaced coin, fastening it to the edge of a shelf.

  “I guess I’ll git some questions ‘bout that,” he remarked. “Folk’ll think it’s bad money, but it ain’t—it’s good money, the best I ever see. What’s more, I want yu gents to remember that this yer saloon has got a new name—she’s `The Shot Dollar’ from now on, an’ yu’ll drink with me on that.”

  A chorus of acclamation greeted his proposal, and the landlord received many compliments on his business acumen. In the midst of the celebration he drew the puncher aside.

  “Stranger,” he said. “yu’ve done me one hell of a good turn. Is there any way I can square the ‘count?”

  “Yu don’t owe me nothin’,” was the reply. “That jasper was after my hair. Reminds me, I got a li’l business to attend to. See yu later—mebbe.”

  “If yo’re goin’ to look for Pug, yo’re wastin’ time,” the other told him. “yu busted that fella wide open, an’ his bronc’ll be throwin’ gravel plenty industrious just now.”

  “I gotta show myself,” the puncher replied.

  He stepped swiftly through the swing-doors, his gaze darting right and left, for, despite the landlord’s confidence, there was always the chance that the beaten man might make a desperate attempt to avenge himself and regain his lost reputation. But there was no sign, and after waiting a moment, the puncher stepped along the street. Then he became aware that someone had followed him out of the saloon.

  “Young man, I would like a word with you.”

  The puncher paused instantly, his manner alert. But there was nothing formidable in the speaker’s appearance: a short, bulky man of around forty-five, dressed in black “store” clothes, with a white collar and neatly-tied cravat. He had, the cowboy now remembered, been sitting alone at a table in one corner of the Palace.

  “I’ve some whisky and cigars at the hotel I’d like your opinion of—I think they are better than our friend back there provides,” the little man went on.

  “You see”—a twinkle sprang into his grey eyes—“I don’t have to buy mirrors.”

  The cowboy liked that twinkle, but he did not reply at once. As he had already proved, he could, on occasion, decide and act with amazing speed, but save under the spur of necessity, he was a deliberate animal. He was wondering what this man was. His educated speech, and his attire, with an indefinite air of authority, suggested a lawyer, schoolmaster, or parson; he wore no weapons in sight, but that meant little—card-sharps and crooks frequently posed as inoffensive citizens. The liquor he was invited to sample might be hocussed. He suddenly decided that he was able to take care of himself and his “roll.”

  “I don’t seem to have no other engagement, seh,” he drawled.

  “Good,” was the reply.

  Heads turned curiously as they passed along the street, for the story of the fracas at the Palace had soon spread and the puncher was already famous. Men smiled as they saw the stout little stranger almost trotting to keep up with the long, easy stride of the tall cowboy.

  “If he’s aimin’ to lift that fella’s wad he deserves to git it for his pluck,” remarked one.

  “Me, I’d sooner wrastle a wild cat.”

  At the hotel the little man led the way to a private parlour, reached a bottle of whisky and a box of cigars from a cupboard, and invited his guest to sit down and help himself. His next remark was a curious one.

  “You don’t seem to care for dancing,” he said, and the twinkle was again evident.

  The guest grinned broadly. “Shore do, but I’m a mite fussy ‘bout the music,” he replied.

  A short silence ensued; the puncher was waiting for the next move. The liquor and the smoke were both of good quality—he had expected they would be—but that only made him more suspicious. His host evidently divined his attitude.

  “Time we got acquainted,” he said. “My name is Bleke, and I hail from Tucson; you may have heard of me.”

  Though the cowboy’s lounging form remained motionless, his narrowed eyes widened. It was difficult to believe that this harmless-appearing little man could be Governor Bleke of Arizona, whose reputation for cold courage and implacability of purpose as a ruler extended far beyond his own turbulent territory, but—and he afterwards wondered why—it never occurred to him to doubt the statement. Custom required that he should now declare his own name, but he hesitated. His host smiled shrewdly.

  “You are James Green of Texas, and sometimes men call yoù Sudden,” he said easily.

  “I came here to find you.”

  The puncher stiffened, his cigar clamped between his lips, leaving both hands free; his eyes were frosty. The man from Tucson held up a hand, palm outwards, the Indian sign of peace.

  “You’re forgetting that this salubrious settlement of Juniper is in New Mexico,” he pointed out. “If I ordered the sheriff to arrest you he’d tell me where I could go.” The cowpuncher looked a shade abashed, and Bleke went on, “You’re drifting, young fellow, and drifting the wrong way. Already you are named as an outlaw, and two sheriffs are searching for you.”

  “An’ they want me for crimes I never committed,” Sudden said bitterly. “Things done when I was scores o’ miles away. I never stole a dollar in my life, an’ yet I’m hunted like I was a mad dawg.”

  “All that I know,” replied the elder man. “If you are quick with a gun it’s easy to get a bad reputation in the West; you get trouble forced on you, as it was back there in the saloon; the way you handled that skunk told me a lot—you had every right to kill him. But where’s it going to end, Green? Sooner or later you’ll be caught and punished for something you didn’t do, and then—you’ll run wild. As it is, you’ve got to keep moving.”

  “There’s another reason for that,” the puncher said darkly.

  “Well, that’s as maybe; I’m not asking,” Bleke replied. “I want a man who can use his weapons”

  “I’m no hired killer,” the other harshly interrupted.

  “If you were I wouldn’t be talking to you,” was the sharp retort. “Listen to me; there are plague spots in Arizona that I want cleared up, and the man who does that must be able to protect himself. As a deputy-sheriff he will have the authority of the law behind him, but that won’t mean anything unless he can back it up with a gun, and it’s more than likely to tell against him should it become known; he’ll have to use his own judgment, and that’s why I’m looking for a man with a head as well as hands. This country is young, and the law isn’t very well regarded, but the time is coming when it will be, and this is a chance for you to get in on the right side.”

  The cowboy did not reply at once; his keen gaze rested speculatively on the maker of this curious proposition. He was beginning to realize the quiet, forceful personality of this apparently insignificant little man. Bleke too was silent, waiting, and then the twinkle crept into his eyes aga
in.

  “Of course, it’s a risky job I’m offering,” he said. “You’ll have to depend on yourself too—I won’t be able to help you. If you lose out …”

  “I’ll go yu, seh,” the puncher said instantly.

  The elder man smiled and nodded. “I’m right glad,” he said, his heart warming to the young fellow who had risen so promptly to his mild bait.

  “Anyone dependent on you?”

  The visitor shook his head. “I’m shore a lone wolf,” he said.

  “Good—from my point of view, that is,” the Governor commented. “Now for details.”

  When, half an hour later, the newly-appointed deputy-sheriff departed, Bleke lighted another cigar and smiled his satisfaction.

  “I reckon I’ve found my man and done the State a service at the same time,” he soliloquized. “One more turn of the screw and there would have been another good citizen gone wrong and merry hell to pay. That boy is of the outlaw breed, sure enough, and worth saving.

  Well, if he’s looking for action, he’s liable to get it where I’ve sent him.”

  Chapter II

  Two weeks later the man who had humiliated Pug Parsons in Juniper halted his horse on the flat top of a mesa and surveyed the surrounding expanse. The railway, by a devious route, had brought him part of the journey across Arizona, but for the last four days he had been riding, and knew that he must now be nearing his destination. The view was wild but imposing. Great ridges of rock, spired and pinnacled, their bases buried in primeval forest, were on every side, and between them were savannahs of rich grass in which the tiny lakes and streams gleamed like silver in the sunlight. Through a gap in the hills the wayfarer caught a glint of yellow, and knew it for a desert. There was no sign of human habitation, and indeed he had seen nothing of the kind since he had left Doverton in the early morning. The sky was a vault of palest blue, and with no movement in the air, the vertical rays of the mid-day sun had almost the heat of flames.

  “Shore is a fierce bit o’ country,” the cowboy mused. “If half I’ve heard is correct, I’m due for a right interestin’ time.”