Sudden Goldseeker (1937) s-3 Page 13

  "Wonder what he'd do if I called him 'Lem'?" he reflected.

  Stark's voice, bidding them to be on their way, put an end to his meditations. The two strangers hung back, evidently intending that the other pair should precede them, but the puncher had different views.

  "Go ahead," he said sharply. "We don't know the road." Muttering, they obeyed, and the cowboys followed. When out of the town, they quickened pace and soon caught up the coach. It was moving at a fair pace, considering the surface over which it had to pass--a mere trampled trail made by the heavy wheels of innumerable freight-wagons, but the driver knew it, and even in the darkness, could pick out familiar landmarks. They had climbed out of the gulch and the keen night air bit their faces and fingers. The all-embracing silence was broken only by the drum of horses' hoofs, the rattle of harness, and, at intervals, the long weird howl of a wolf, prowling somewhere behind the funereal walls of foliage which fenced them in.

  Presently the obscuring clouds slid aside and the pale light of the moon enabled them to get a glimpse of the grandeur through which they were passing.

  The cowboys, riding easily, were not concerned with the scenery; their eyes were on the bobbing backs of the pair in front and the jerking, bumping blob which was the coach, less than fifty yards ahead. They had met no one save two teamsters with a load of lumber, a few miles out of Deadwood. Sudden had stopped for a moment.

  "Ain't seed a soul 'cept a party o' four fellas, headed for Laramie," one of them told him. "No, I didn't reckernize any of 'em, but one was a short, chunky sort o' chap."

  "Which might describe friend Fagan," Sudden commented, when they had resumed their way.

  "Lesurge wouldn't send a man knowed to be his," Gerry objected.

  "Why not, if there's nobody left to spill the beans? He's figurin' we're on his side."

  "Any use warnin' them two on the coach?"

  "What can we tell 'em?--we've on'y got suspicions. They're watchin' for trouble a'ready--that's their job." At the foot of a long gradual slant, the sides of which were masked by dense brush, the driver pulled his team to a steady job-trot, and cursed fretfully:

  "Blast this moon; makes fair targets of us."

  "What you scared of?" the messenger asked, shifting his shot-gun so that it lay handily across his thighs.

  "Ain't scared o' nothin'," Injun Joe snapped, "but I don't like the trip, an' I'd be a damn sight more pleased if them hombres behind was ridin' the other way."

  "Pull up an' make 'em ride in front," the messenger suggested.

  Before the other could reply, two spits of flame jetted from the shadows on either side of the trail and the leading horses went down, checking the coach with a jerk which almost overturned it. With a full-throated curse, the driver slammed his brake on, and the iron-shod wheels squealed like tortured souls; it was his last conscious act. A couple of sharp cracks and Injun Joe slipped limply to the footboard, while the express-man leaned forward to pitch headlong to the ground, his gun dropping beside him. An instant later, Sudden's Colt roared and the fellow with the scarred face gasped and fell from his saddle. His companion, with a blasphemous imprecation, spurred his mount and crashed into the undergrowth. The puncher sent a bullet after him.

  "Hell, Jim, them jaspers are s'posed to be helpin' us," Gerry cried.

  "Didn't yu see?" Sudden asked savagely. "Those skunks downed Joe an' the messenger, an' they'd 'a' got us if we'd been ahead. C'mon." Stooping in his saddle, he dashed for the coach, and Gerry followed. On the right and left pistols exploded in the brush and bullets whined past their ears.

  Just as they approached the conveyance, a tall man on footappeared, running towards it from the front. Sudden fired, and the fellow staggered, spun round, and collapsed in an untidy heap.

  "'Then there were four'," the cowboy quoted grimly. Anchored by the braked coach and the carcasses of the leaders, the other horses had overcome their frenzied fear and now stood, trembling, but comparatively quiet. Sudden had his plan ready.

  "Shuck the harness off'n them dead broncs an' put our'n in their places," he directed. "I'll stand these devils off if they try to rush us." But the road-agents had apparently no such intention. Satisfied that the vehicle could not be moved, they were content to stay under cover and pot the cowboys at their ease. A friendly cloud had blanketed the moon and with his back to the dark blur of the coach, Sudden made a poor mark; also it was difficult for the hold-ups to see what Gerry was about. One glance told that young man the messenger was dead--a bullet had gone through the back of his head. Injun Joe was still breathing, and, with Sudden's help, he was placed inside the coach, room being found too for the body of the guard.

  Spasmodic shots interrupted these operations; lead zipped past or thudded into the woodwork, but neither man was hit. Sudden replied, firing at the flashes, and a string of oaths told him that one of his bullets had found a billet. By the time the moon peeped out again, the new leaders were in position; the big black was restive and disposed to be rebellious but a word from his master brought submission.

  A yell apprised them that the enemy had at length guessed their purpose, and the hum of hot lead drove the warning home. Not even waiting to return the fire, Sudden sprang to the driver's seat and grabbed the lines. In a second Gerry was beside him, the long lash hissed like a snake over the horses' heads, and the coach started with a jolt which nearly upset it as the near wheels climbed the corpses of the slain leaders.

  A howl of rage came from the road-agents as they broke from cover and saw their prey escaping, and a few futile shots followed. The sharp crack of Sudden's whip was the only answer.

  "There was four of 'em, an' one was limpin'," Gerry reported. "Think they'll follow?"

  "Shore, they got horses, ain't they?" was the reply. "Yore rifle handy?"

  "Yu betcha," Gerry told him. "Got the messenger's shotgun too an' she looks a dandy scatterer."

  "Yu'll have to do the shootin'--it'll take me all my time to keep this damned contraption right way up." The thud of rounding hoofs sounded above the bang and rattle of the bouncing vehicle. Sudden did not look round; his gaze was glued to the dim trail he was trying to follow. "They're a comin'. Kneel on the seat but be ready to grab; it wouldn't do for yu to be shook off."

  "I'm believin' yu," Gerry said, and meant it. The front wheels of the coach sprang into the air and bumped down, the back wheels following suit. Gerry clutched wildly and just saved himself. "Hell! what was that?" he gasped.

  "I guess we went over a log-- didn't see her in time," the driver explained.

  "Lucky I had my mouth shut or I'd 'a' lost my livers an' lights," Gerry grinned. "I shore thought we'd gone over the edge. Damn her, she's as lively as a young flea. Steady a bit, Jim, if yu can." A group of madly racing riders rounded a bend in the trail and yelped when they saw their quarry. Mason, his elbows resting on the roof of the coach, fired four shots and swore when he saw that he had palpably missed. Working the lever like a madman, he emptied the weapon and at last had the satisfaction of seeing a horse drop, but his whoop of triumph was cut short, for the rider got up and followed his friends on foot.

  The pursuers were now within twenty yards and discarding his rifle, Gerry snatched up the shot-gun and let them have both barrels. The result was devastating--for the assailants. One of them fell forward on his horse's neck, leaning sideways, and was flung, a lifeless lump, to the ground. Another's mount stumbled and went down, the rider leaping to save himself from being crushed under the animal's body. The remaining horseman reined in and contented himself with ineffective shots at the vanishing vehicle.

  "Reckon they've had a bellyful," Gerry exulted, as he rammed cartridges into the magazine of his Winchester. "There's three left, one of 'em crippled, an' they on'y got two ponies."

  "Good work," Sudden said. "When we get a piece along we'll take a peek at Joe." Proceeding with a little more regard for safety, they pressed on, and presently, when a faint light began to spread behind the eastern summits, Sudden dragged
his team to a stop wherethe trail crossed a shallow creek. A rumble of picturesque metaphor informed them that Injun Joe was anything but dead. In fact, when they opened the door of the coach, he heaved himself up, pistol levelled, and almost fell into their arms.

  "Damn yore rotten hides," he said thickly. "I'll ..."

  "Steady, ol'-timer," Sudden said, clutching the wavering weapon. "Yo're barkin' up the wrong tree." In a few words he set out the situation and the stage-driver's belligerent expression faded.

  "Sorry, boys," he apologized. "So they got pore of Fuzzy, Satan singe their souls! When I come to an' saw his remainders bumpin' about beside me I figured we was goin' to our funerals an' wondered why the hearse-driver was in such a hell of a hurry. I bin yellin' at you for near an hour."

  "This jerky ain't none silent," Sudden told him. "Where yu hurt?"

  "Guess my shoulder's busted," Joe replied.

  And so it proved. With the rough surgery of the range they bathed and bandaged the injury, and left the patient reclining on a bank while they watered and rubbed down the team. When all was ready for a resumption of the journey, Joe vehemently declined to travel inside.

  "Which ridin' with a ruddy corpse ain't my idea o' enjoyment," was how he put it. "Prop me up atween you on the box; mebbe I c'n help, seein' I know the road." Since he would hear of nothing else, they had to give in, and having fixed him as comfortably as possible, Sudden cracked his whip and sent the coach splashing through the creek.

  Chapter XVII

  Watching the stage, with its coveted cargo, disappear in the distance, Hank and Fagan were constrained to call down curses on the men who had frustrated their hopes. Rodd, leaning against a tree to rest his damaged limb, eyed them sourly. "What's the use cussin'?" he said. "They've went. Come an' see to this damn leg--I'm bleedin' like a stuck hawg."

  "Which is the on'y way you could bleed," Hank retorted. Nevertheless, they bound a handkerchief round the calf of his left leg, which a bullet had perforated. Then, having made sure that the fourth man was dead, they searched his pockets, callously flung the body into the brush, and took the back trail, one horse carrying two of them. At the scene of the hold-up, a welcome surprise awaited them--Lem was sitting by the roadside; the slug which they thought had killed him having merely cut a shallow groove along one side of his skull, "creased" him, in fact.

  "Where's the coach?" was his first question.

  They all told him, each ornamenting the story to his taste. The scarred face showed that he did not believe them.

  "Five o' you let two get away with it?" he sneered. "I ain't swallerin' that."

  "True, anyways, take it or leave it," Fagan replied. "Then yu must 'a' made a Gawd-a'mighty mess of it."

  "We did, huh?" the squat man snarled. "What the hell did you do?"

  "I got the messenger an' Hank drilled the driver," Lem reminded. "After that, it should 'a' bin easy. Paul won't be pleased."

  "He warn't goin' to be, anyway," Rodd said meaningly. "But if we'd pulled it off that wouldn't 'a' mattered. It's his fault we failed--sendin' them other two."

  "Stark did that," Fagan explained, and added a lurid hope concerning the saloon-keeper's future. "Lanky didn't have yore luck, I s'pose?"

  "Dead as Adam," was the reply. "I drug him into the bushes, case anyone came along." There being nothing else to do, the other two horses were brought and the party headed for Deadwood, where they separated and entered by devious routes. Fagan went straight to the Lesurge cabin, where he found the owner alone.

  "Well?" Paul said sharply.

  "It ain't, the ruffian replied, and told his story.

  Lesurge listened unmoved, much to the narrator's astonishment. He had come prepared for blame, angry recrimination, but the motionless mask, with its deep, dark eyes, told him nothing.

  "So the cowboys got clear with the gold?" he said, when the tale was ended. "I thought they might." Fagan gaped at him. "You thought--then why in hell did you send 'em?" he burst out.

  "For that purpose of course," Paul replied easily. Comprehension began to come to the dazed man. "They were workin' for you?"

  "For us," Lesurge corrected. Fagan drew a deep breath; this man was too subtle for him. "Listen," the smooth voice went on. "Stark insisted on Green going, so I had a word with him."

  "Did you let on about us?"

  "No, that would have been too risky."

  "Hell, Paul, didn't I tell you that those blasted cowboys wiped out two an' crippled another couple of our crowd?"

  "Battles usually mean casualties."

  "You didn't stop to think that one o' them corpses might 'a' been me?" Paul's smile was a sneer. "I trusted to your natural instinct for taking care of yourself," he said.

  Fagan knew that he had been politely called a coward but he dared not resent it--then.

  "You could 'a' put us wise, anyway," he complained. "S'pose we'd got Green?"

  "I should have borne the loss with Christian fortitude, surprising as it would have seemed to me," was the reply.

  "An' yo're expectin them fellas to come back an' tell you where the dust is?" Fagan asked incredulously.

  "I am," Lesurge replied. "Curiously enough, though I hate him, I believe Green to be honest--to his employer."

  "Did he promise to smouch the gold for you?"

  "Not in so many words, but I think I made things clear."

  "Too damned clear, I'd say, from the way he slung lead at us. Well, I hope he don't disappoint you; we're all busted."

  "I'm afraid you'll have to wait, Fagan; I am almost down to bed-rock myself. Put your thinking-cap on; there should be--opportunities--to-night; everyone will be in town on account of the shooting."

  "What shootin'?"

  "Hickok was killed last night," Paul said coolly, and disregarding his hearer's oath of amazement." He was playing poker in a saloon and by a careless oversight on his part, he was not facing the door. A fellow stepped in, put a gun to the back of Hickok's head, and fired. The bullet went right through and wounded the player sitting opposite." Fagan's question was practical. "Who done it?"

  "A man named McCall, I'm told," Paul said carelessly. "I don't remember to have seen him. He claims that Hickok killed his brother."

  "Does Berg know him?" Fagan asked, his squinting little eyes on the other's face.

  It told him nothing. "Now you mention it, I believe he does, but if I were you, I wouldn't speak of it." Quietly spoken as the words were, they had an inflexion which made them bite, like drops of acid, into Fagan's brain. He knew what he wanted to know, but regretted his curiosity. Paul Lesurge had brought about the death of Wild Bill. Was that why Green had been got out of the way? It was more than possible. Who would be the next? He almost wished he had not returned to Deadwood, but after their failure there was nothing else to do. If only ... The cold voice was speaking again:

  "It will be best to let the boys regard the gold as lost, you won't object to taking a bigger share, I presume? In the meantime, you must--help yourself." The casual, supercilious tone became hard, incisive. "Remember this, Fagan; the affair of the coach is known only to a few; keep your mouth shut or you'll--swing."

  "But .not alone," the other snarled, driven beyond endurance.

  In a flash Lesurge had him by the throat, his face pale with passion. "Are you threatening me, you dog?" he hissed. "Who would believe a word from you? By God! I've a mind to have you hanged in the morning...." Then the fury died out, his hand fell away, and he laughed. "I'm sorry, Fagan; we've known each other too long to fall out. It was my fault--nerves all ragged. Have a drink, and forget it." The liquor, and Paul's apparent contrition, smoothed the other's ruffled plumage for the moment, but outside the cabin his expression became ugly; Fagan was not one to forgive or forget.

  * * * Reuben Stark, his eyes bulging, his bloated face purple, glared at the man who had just broken the bad news. Over a hundred thousand dollars, and the greater part had been his; it was a bitter blow.

  "They got away with it?" he
gasped. "But--how?"

  "Shot the driver and express-man and drove off," Paul lied. "But, damnation, what were the other two fellas doin'?" the saloon-keeper exploded.

  "One of them was lying in the road, stunned by a bullet from Green which was within an inch of killing him; the other gave chase, but with Mason firing at him from the coach, he was helpless."

  "Green an' Mason," muttered Stark dejectedly. "The two

  "You insisted on sending," Lesurge cut in cruelly. "You must let me have some money, Reuben. This robbery hits me hard, and my men did their best and must be paid. McCall too "

  "I know nothin' o' that, Paul--I've never seen the fella," Stark snapped, glancing fearfully round the room. "Don't speak that name here." Lesurge shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "Everybody is speaking the name everywhere, but I'll call it a debt to Berg, if you like," he returned. "Of course, he'll get off."

  "Shore, these damned gunmen have had their day," Stark replied. He threw over a roll of greenbacks. "I wish someone had served that swine Green the same way," he added vindictively, Paul pocketed the money. "Well, he won't trouble you any more, and with Hickok--removed--things are not going too badly," he consoled. "You can't hope for the luck to run your way all the time. Lora was asking about you." The pig-like eyes lighted up. "Was she now? Ain't seen her in weeks. Why don't you fetch her round to the Monte?"

  "Well there's Miss Ducane, she isn't used to that sort of thing --yet. Maybe later ..."

  "Glad to see Miss Lora any time," Stark said. "Mighty fine gal, yore sister, Paul; she'd make--"

  "A good Queen of Deadwood, eh?" Lesurge finished. "I agree."

  "Gawd, you said it--took the words right out'n my mouth," the fat man cried. "We must drink to that." For a moment, he had forgotten his losses. He filled two glasses and raised his own. "Here's hopin'," he said.

  Lesurge honoured the toast, a satiric smile on his thin llps. "Wise men don't hope--they act," he remarked. "By the way, best not talk of that coach robbery, except to those concerned; you don't want to advertise failures." Stark assented, eagerly enough, and Paul left him almost good-tempered; he was seeing visions, and could she have shared them, Lora Lesurge would have been amused.