Sudden: The Range Robbers Read online

  no photo available

  The Range Robbers ~ Oliver Strange

  (Book 01 in the Sudden Westerns series)

  About Sudden

  James Green aka Sudden is a fictional character created by the author Oliver Strange and after his death carried on by Frederick H. Christian. The books are centered around a gunfighter in the American Wild West era, who is in search of two men who cheated his foster father. Jim the young man promises his dying father that he will find the two and take revenge. He gives the name James Green to himself and in time gets accused of a robbery himself and becomes an outlaw.

  The books were first published around the late 1920s and the early 1930s. They featured vivid descriptions of the western American landscape, rare in an author at that time. These books have been out of print for a very long time, and are currently available for purchase only in paper format, after being owned by one of more people.

  Chapter I

  The desert! As far as the eye could reach it stretched, alternating swells and levels of greyish-white sand, broken only by occasional ridges and hummocks of sun-scorched rock, protruding from the surface like the bared bones of a giant skeleton. Stunted mesquite, sagebrush, and the tortured forms of cactus, weird of leaf and beautiful of flower, were the only evidence of vegetation. Over all danced a shimmering heat which, flung down from a brazen sky and reflected back by the sand, made the eyes ache and the brain dizzy.

  Following a faintly-defined trail came a wiry little cowpony, pacing wearily but steadily through the burning sand, and picking its way without the apparent assistance of its rider, who, humped forward in the saddle, seemed oblivious of everything.

  An hour passed, and the pony’s ears pricked up and its pace quickened slightly. Aware of this, the rider looked up and saw that the weary desert tramp was at last coming to an end. On the horizon now the vivid blue of the sky deepened to an almost black serrated line, which he knew to be a range of hills. Far as they still were, they carried a message of hope, and the traveler pressed on.

  Gradually the character of the desert changed. The sand became dotted with an occasional scrub-oak and clumps of bunch-grass, while the mesquite bushes were bigger and more numerous. Another hour of steady plodding, and the edge of the desert was reached. The trail entered the foothills, twisting and turning as though to escape the grasping tentacles of the sand, which, like an encroaching sea, sought to engulf it.

  A whirring rattle, and a venomous flat head shot into view from the roots of a mesquite bush at the side of the trail. Instantly the pony jumped sideways into the air, coming down with all four legs stiff as rods. The rider, taken unawares, was almost hurled from the saddle, but gripping the animal with instinctive knees, kept his seat. His left hand streaked to his side, there was a sharp report, and the snake’s head flew from its body. Replacing the smoking weapon, the man applied himself to quieting his mount, which was again attempting to buck. Snatching off his hat, he slammed the pony over the ears with it, and a cloud of alkali dust enveloped the pair.

  “Playin’ yu never saw a rattler before, eh?’ he said, in a slow, soft drawl. “Thought I’d done broke yer of that sort o’ foolishness, yu animated bone-bag.’

  Another larrup from the hat accompanied the words, and the pony, changing its tactics, reached round and took a snap at the chap-covered leg of the rider, only to encounter the thrust-forward heavy wooden stirrup with a jar, which effectually discouraged any further attempt of the kind.

  “I shore thought yu knew better than to try that,’ admonished the soft voice, sarcastically. “Now yu have had yore play, s’pose we get on: I’m ‘bout as dry as a second-hand sermon.’

  They paced along over a plain trail through the increasing vegetation, and presently the animal, scenting water, began to trot. Passing along a narrow gully with precipitous sides, they emerged on the banks of a stream, shallow enough now, but with a wide sandy bed which showed there were times when it might justly be called a river; and indeed, when the snow on the mountains melted, Two Feather Creek became a raging torrent.

  The horse walked into the water and drank eagerly. The man only gazed at it reflectively, a sardonic smile on his lips.

  “An hour back, yes, an’ thank yu,’ he soliloquized, “but to spoil a thirst like mine with that slush now. Why, it can’t be more than a mile to a drink.’

  Starting his unwilling mount, he rode to the other bank and followed the trail across an open stretch of prairie at an easy lope. In a little while he came in sight of a collection of wood and adobe structures strung along the two sides of a dusty wallow called by courtesy a street.

  “That’ll be Hatchett’s Folly,’ he muttered. “It shore looks it.’

  Years before, a wandering prospector, finding gold on the banks of the Two Feather, made for the nearest settlement, got gloriously drunk, and proclaimed a new Eldorado. Scores of eager fortune-hunters followed him, and a town sprang up with the mushroom speed of Western enterprise. But the gold proved hard to find and scanty in quantity; many of the seekers got killed in quarrels among themselves, or by raiding redskins, and others migrated in disgust. The town of Hatchett’s, named after the discoverer, became Hatchett’s Folly, and only the coming of the cattle saved it from extinction.

  To the newcomer the place presented the familiar characteristics of the frontier settlements. The same squalid shacks, litter of tin cans, board sidewalks, and ever-prevailing alkali dust. On the largest of the buildings was a rudely-painted sign which read: “The Folly Saloon.’

  “That shore is the best name for a s’loon I’ve struck yet,’ commented the stranger, as he dismounted and secured his pony to the hitching-rail outside. “Town appears to be ‘bout dead,’ he added, and in fact, with the exception of two men loafing in front of a board edifice further along the street, which called itself an “hotel,’ there was no one in sight.

  The bar of the “Folly’ occupied the back of the room, facing the entrance, a strategic position which gave the barkeeper an opportunity of preparing for trouble before it arrived. At either end of the space in front of it were the tables used for the various games of chance promoted by the establishment, or desired by the customers. At one of these tables two men were playing poker. The only other occupant—the dispenser of liquids—instantly transferred his interest from the game to the new arrival.

  He saw a tall, lithe man of well under thirty, with a clean-shaven face tanned to the color of new copper, keen steel-blue eyes, and an out-thrust chin which spoke eloquently of determination. There was a suggestion of humor in the little lines round the eyes and at the corners of the firm lips. The leather chaps, blue shirt with loosely-knotted neckerchief, wide-brimmed Stetson and high-heeled boots, denoted the cowpuncher, but the heavy belt with two guns—the holsters tied down to facilitate easy extraction—might mean the gunman.

  The barkeeper absorbed all these details while the object of his scrutiny was reaching the bar. He was a quick observer—the nature of his occupation required it. Without a word the stranger spun a dollar upon the counter, and the barman pushed forward a bottle and a glass.

  “No, seh,’ said the customer softly. “I just naturally hate drinkin’ alone, an’ yu are havin’ one with me, Babe?’

  The barkeeper grinned understandingly, added another glass, and replaced the bottle with one from the back shelf. The visitor poured himself a generous three-finger dose, sent it down his throat at a gulp, and refilled the glass.

  “Good stuff,’ he said approvingly. “That desert o’ yores is some fierce.’

  “I don’t claim to own her, but she shore is,’ replied the other. “Come a long ways?’

  “Right from where I started,’ was the reply, with a smile
which robbed the snub of its venom.

  “An’ I reckon yu will keep a-goin’ till yu git there,’ said the barkeeper pleasantly, falling into the other’s humor.

  “Yu hit her, first pop,’ rejoined the stranger, adding, “I’m just havin’ a look at the country.’

  “Well, she’s shore worth it, in parts, Mister—. What did yu say yore name was?’ said the man of liquids, taking another chance.

  “I didn’t say,’ smiled the newcomer. “Yu can call me Green.’

  “I’ve heard of more appropriate labels, but it’s yore bet, an’ she goes as she lays,’ agreed the barkeeper. “I answers to Silas my own self. Here’s how!’

  They drank again, and the conversation turned to less personal topics. The stranger learned that the country round was interested only in cattle, the two principal ranches being the Frying Pan and the Y Z.

  “Then there’s the Double X up in the hills, but that’s only a little one,’ Silas explained. “If it’s a job yo’re huntin’, I’ve heard that the Y Z can use another puncher. The old man is all right, but the foreman, Blaynes, is a blister. That’s one o’ the Y Z boys playin’ there.’

  He indicated the younger of the card-players, little more than a boy, whose face was getting more and more solemn as his hard-earned money passed to his opponent. The stranger looked at the pair for a moment and then said:

  “Reckon he’ll be a “wiser head” before he’s much older. Who’s the hard citizen?’

  The barkeeper laughed at the pleasantry, though it was a joke he heard every time a “wise-head’ puncher came to town, and then replied to the question in a whisper:

  “The hard citizen—an’ yu shore have got him right—is Poker Pete, a slick man with cards or guns by reputation. If yo’re aimin’ to stay in these parts yu might remember that he’s got friends hereabouts.’

  “That so?’ queried the other nonchalantly. “Well, I guess some folk around here ain’t particular who they mix up with.’ They watched the play in silence for a while. The gambler was winning, but beyond an occasional gleam in his beady eyes, his face betrayed no emotion whatever. He was a big-made man, beefy, but in poor condition, and the rusty black coat he wore seemed curiously out of keeping with the trousers thrust into top boots, and the slouched hat. His opponent, who had evidently visited the bar on more than one occasion, betrayed a lamentable lack of that stoicism so essential to good poker-playing, and profane expressions of joy or disgust punctuated his game. At length, with a hearty curse, he slammed down the cards, rose to his feet, and cried:

  “That lets me out. Yu done corralled the whole herd, every cent of three months’ pay, ‘cept what went for irrigatin’. I never see such luck. Am I good for a drink, Silas?’

  “Have one on the house,’ replied that worthy, and passed the bottle. The gambler did not speak or move. Idly ruffling the pack in his hands, he glanced at the stranger. It was an invitation.

  “Shore I’ll take a whirl with yu,’ said the visitor, and seated himself in the chair the cowboy had vacated.

  He won the cut for deal and the game commenced. Both men played cautiously, each testing the strength of the other. Bets ruled small, and at the end of half an hour there was but little between the players. Then the man who called himself Green picked up a hand, looked at it, and said: “S’pose we get outa the infant class an’ whoop her up a bit.’

  “Suits me,’ replied his opponent.

  The amount of the bets increased, and the stranger won steadily. The gambler appeared to lose a little of his immobility as misfortune continued to dog him. “Luck’s dead out,’ he grumbled, as he pushed across another twenty dollars, “but it’s bound to change, an’ I’ll get yu yet.’ The possibility of seeing an expert trimmed had drawn Silas from behind the bar, and he now stood with the young puncher, both closely watching the game. The gambler, who had now lost about a hundred dollars, dealt. Green glanced at his cards, laid them face down on the table, and said: ‘bettin’ fifty—in the dark.’

  “I’m seein’ that an’ raisin’ her as much,’ was the instant reply. “Come again,’ said Green, pushing out another fifty.

  “Which makes her two hundred,’ retorted Poker Pete, and reached for the pack. “Yu want any cards?’

  “Put ‘em up!’ came the sharp command, and the astonished gambler looked up into the threatening muzzle of an unwavering Colt.

  “What th’ hell…’ he began, but nevertheless his hands reached for the roof: it seemed a safer position for argument.

  The other stretched forward, and with his left hand extracted a gun from its place of concealment under Pete’s armpit.

  “Keep ‘em up,’ he said menacingly, and then, to the two onlookers, “Yu see, he dealt me three kings, an’ I’ve a hunch there’s three aces in his own hand. He reckons I’ll take two cards, so he fixes the other king and a low one top o’ the deck, with the other ace comin’ next, so that whether I take one or two, or none whatever, he’s got me beat every way there is. Now,

  seh,’ —this to the barkeeper— “I’ll be obliged if you will turn up his hand, an’ then the three top cards o’ the pack. If I’m wrong, I’ll eat dirt, an’ the stakes are his, but if I’m right’

  He broke off grimly and watched Silas expose the cards. They proved to be placed exactly as he had predicted. The cheat also watched the operation with an expression in which fear and hatred were curiously mingled. The test over, the stranger looked at him with plain contempt.

  “Yu a gambler,’ he sneered. “Why, yo’re only a cheap tinhorn. Yu don’t know nothin’ about poker. I’ve seen boys o’ fourteen who could skin yu at the game. How much did he take outa yu?’ This to the previous player.

  “Hundred an’ twenty,’ replied the puncher. “But I ain’t kickin’—I lost

  “Lost nothin’,’ retorted Green. “When yu go up agin a stacked deck yu don’t lose—yu just get robbed.’

  He pushed the amount from the money lying on the table, pocketed the remainder, and then holstered his gun. Instantly the gambler sprang to his feet, his right hand dropped to his neck, there was a rapid movement, and a heavy knife flashed past the stranger’s ear, burying itself with a dull thud in the log wall. The man whom death had missed by a bare inch looked at the poisonous face of his would-be murderer and laughed cynically.

  “Ain’t there nothin’ yu can do well?’ he asked, and then, “I shot a rattler on my way here, an’ I just can’t go on wastin’ good cartridges on vermin.’

  With the words he leapt suddenly, clearing the intervening table, and as his feet touched the floor, his fist, with all the momentum of his body behind it, caught the gambler on the jaw, lifted him clear of the ground and hurled him with a crash against the wall. There he lay, limp and huddled, only the hatred in his eyes showing that he still lived. The visitor forbore to add to the punishment.

  “Fade,’ he said, and with a muttered curse the beaten man climbed slowly to his feet and staggered from the’ saloon. Not until he had vanished did the grim features of the victor relax, and then, “Where do I eat?’ he asked.

  “Down at the hotel, with me,’ said the puncher eagerly. “Gosh! I’ll be proud to know a man who can hit like that. Larry Barton is my brand.’ The other man smiled at the boy’s wholehearted invitation, and after seeing to the needs of his horse, accompanied his new friend to the hotel, where they dispatched a satisfying meal.

  “If yu got any notion o’ settlin’ down around here yu want to remember that Poker has the name for never forgettin’ or forgivin’,’ Larry said. The remark amounted to a question, and the other man rolled a cigarette with meticulous care before he replied.

  “That sort o’ makes me eager to stay,’ he said quietly. “But I gotta get a job—I ain’t no plutocrat.’

  “Fine,’ said Larry. “All yu hey to do is fork yore cayuse an’ come along o’ me to the Y Z. I heard the Old Man sayin’ he wanted another puncher. I reckon yu understand cattle.’

  “I expect I’ve got notions t
hataway,’ was the smiling reply.

  “Well, the Y Z is one good ranch,’ returned the boy. “Blaynes, the foreman, is shore tough, but the Old Man is all right, an’ his daughter, Miss Norry, makes a short-sighted man’s life a burden.’

  “Good-looker, eh?’ queried the stranger.

  “Good everythin’,’ was the enthusiastic answer. “But shucks, what’s the use? I’m only a cowhand. Say, we’d better get agoin’.’

  Chapter II

  SIMON PETTER—more generally referred to as “Old Simon’—the owner of the Y Z ranch, was a grizzled, stoutish man in the early fifties. His face was good-natured, but in the rounded chin there was a hint of weakness, which a short beard did not fully conceal. He had the repute of being a fair man in his dealings, and was generally liked in the district. He stood now on the broad verandah of the ranch-house, apprising the man Larry had enthusiastically presented to him, with a brief account of what happened at the “Folly.’

  “Poker Pete, eh?’ he said. “Well, he’s had it comin’ to him for quite a while. So yu rough-housed him, eh?’

  “Maybe I didn’t think I was handlin’ aigs,’ said the stranger, with a grin.

  Simon liked the smile and the competent look of power in the wearer of it.

  “An’ yu want a job?’ he continued.

  “Why no, seh,’ replied the drawling voice. “I ain’t near so broke as that, but I’m willin’ to take one.’

  “What’s yore name?’ came the blunt question.

  “Green is the only label I can produce at the moment. Yu will find I answer to that as well as another.’

  Old Simon looked at the steady narrowed eyes, and his own twinkled. In that country names were nothing—more than one good man finding it expedient to sail under false colors. Anyway, the applicant looked capable, and he wanted men of that stamp just now.

  “The pay is forty a month, an’ grub is good,’ he said. “Larry will take yu down an’ introduce yu to the boys. My foreman, Blaynes, is away; yu can report to him in the mornin’.’