Sudden Gold-Seeker(1937) Read online

  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 roadagents 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 shotgun 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 stagedriver’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 saloonkeeper’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—tonight; 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 saloonkeeper 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 anymore, 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.

  On that same evening the disgruntled stage-robbers, reinforced by Berg, assembled in the shack where they usually met. Fagan had given them a mendacious account of his interview with their employer.

  “Paul’s powerful sick about it,” he said. “He ain’t blamin’ us, but we’ll have to wait for our pay—he’s mighty near broke. He kind o’ suggested that tonight’d be a good time to look around.”

  “Somethin’ in that,” Berg commented. “Town’ll be full an’ so there’ll be a lot o’ empty shacks.”

  “The one I have in mind’ll be empty enough for us with them two cowboys out of it,” Fagan said.

  “Yo’re right,” Berg agreed. “The of Jew has been buyin’ a deal o’ dust lately—more’n he can carry about.”

  “Good. Slip out one by one an’ wait for me outside his place,” Fagan directed.

  “Four’ll be a-plenty,” Berg excused. “You can do without me.”

  “Shorely,” Hank grinned unpleasantly. “A quarter share suits me better.” The little man began to protest but the other would not listen. “Yo’re in, or out of it complete,” he said roughly.

  “You dodged the last job.”

  “I had another to do,” Berg snarled.

  “Oh, yeah,” came the sneer. “Tell us you downed Wild Bill.”

  “Mebbe—” Berg started, and then caught Fagan’s warning frown—“I didn’t, but I was workin’ for all of us,” he finished.

  “An’ now yo’re going to do a spot for yoreself,” Hank retorted. He went out, followed by Lem, and Rodd limped after them.

  “You damned idjut,” Fagan growled. “Why not say straight out that Paul had Hickok bumped off?” Berg’s furtive face was sullen. “Did he now?” he asked. “I’ll have to tell him you said so.”

  “Right an’ order yore coffin at the same time,” was the savage rejoinder. “Don’t play with me, Berg; it ain’t healthy. Git after the others.” Unconscious of approaching peril, Jacob was bending over his cherished chess-board, intent on a problem, when
a knock disturbed him. He opened the door and at once iron hands closed on his throat, choking his cry of alarm. His assailant, a short, powerful man, carried him into the cabin, shaking the frail figure as a terrier might a rat. He was followed by four others; all were masked. Flinging his burden against a wall, the first intruder pulled a pistol.

  “Where’s yore dust?” he demanded. “Speak or die.” The old man did not flinch before the levelled weapon. “You are too late,” he said quietly. “All I had went East in the coach last night.”

  “That’s a lie,” the ruffian roared, and Jacob felt the cold muzzle of the gun pressing against his forehead.“It is the truth,” he replied steadily.

  “Then you can wish it good-bye,” jeered another. “Yore cowboy friends has rustled the damned lot, coach an’ all.” A glint of a smile showed on the prisoner’s pale face. Then he made what he would have called a bad move. “To know that, you must have been there,” he said softly.

  Fagan’s face became furious. “Cut the cackle,” he grated. “Where’s yore gold?”

  “Green and Mason are taking care of it,” came the calm reply.

  With venomous speed the pistol-barrel swung up and down, the victim’s knees gave and he toppled to the floor, his out-flung arms sending the chess-men flying; a trickle of blood stained the white hair. Fagan gazed down upon the sprawling, limp form.

  “I guess he won’t interfere no more,” he said. “Git busy, boys; the stuff’s here somewheres.” The scanty furniture was soon searched and hurled aside, the contents of a box scattered, and then Hank, who had tipped over the truckle-bed, uttered a grunt of satisfaction.

  “Here’s a short board,” he said.

  With the point of his knife, he prised it up, and chuckled at the sight of the tin canister in the hole below. Snatching it out, he lifted the lid and cursed when he saw only one small bag.

  “A measly two-three ounces,” he said disappointedly. “We’d oughta bin after it yestiddy.”