Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 06 - Sudden Gold-Seeker(1937) Page 2

  “Shut yore rank mouth, yu toad,” the young fellow flamed out, “or I’ll close it for yu.”

  The short man grinned provokingly—he was of the type who would tease a tied dog—and he did not believe this raw youth to be dangerous.

  “Serious, was you?” he fleered. “Well, she’s a pretty piece, an’ I could be that myself for mebbe a month, an’ then He was not allowed to finish. Two long steps brought the cowboy within reach and his right fist flashed out to the jaw. There was no science in the blow, but it had all the power of a muscular young body behind it and the fury of one who was seething with rage. Entirely unprepared, the ruffian rocked on his heels and then crashed to the ground; he might have been kicked by a mule. Standing over him, pale with passion, the boy had a last word:

  “Mention that young lady again in my hearin’ an’ I’ll tear yu apart.” He turned to walk away and in an instant the stricken man was on his feet, his gun out, pointing at the broad back so carelessly presented to him. A movement of his finger and the murderous missile would have sped, but a warning voice intervened:

  “I wouldn’t,” it said. Though the words were quietly spoken, they conveyed a threat which the killer dared not ignore.

  The man with the gun stole a glance over his shoulder. He saw a group of citizens interestedly watching the fracas, and apart from them, a black-haired cowboy, lounging easily against a post some ten paces distant, a six-shooter levelled from his right hip. A tiny tendril of smoke curled up from the cigarette between his lips.

  “Face me,” came the order. “I never shoot a fella in the back unless I has to.”

  “What right you got to interfere?” the other blustered, but he made the movement.

  There was no mirth in the cowboy’s grin. “Yu’ve got yore gun out an’ it’s just about as far from yu to me as from me to you,” he said. “If yu wanta argue …” The bully had no such wish; he did not like the look of this third party in the affair. Though he was little older in years than the other cowboy, there was an air of cool confidence about this one which spoke of experience.

  He did not know it, but the spectators were in agreement with him; this sinister, granite-faced figure was entirely different from the smiling, good-humoured puncher they had swapped jokes with in the saloon.

  “I ain’t got no quarrel with you,” the squat man evaded. “No, I’m facin’ yu,” came the swift retort, and then, “Well, we aim to please.” The other cowboy had turned and watched the scene with an interest natural in one who had escaped death by the merest chance. He now came striding back. The black-haired one grinned at him.

  “Pull yore gun an’ stand right here,” he said, pointing to the post he had been using as a support, and when this had been done, he stepped aside. “All set, Angel-face,” he went on.

  “Here’s the fella yo’re honin’ to slay. Fly at it.” This invitation seemed no more to the liking of the short man than the previous one. He shrugged his enormous shoulders and managed to achieve a heavy sneer.

  “Play-actin’,” he said. “Dime novel stuff. I’ll argue with both o’ you when yo’re growed up.” He put away the drawn gun, thrust his hands into his pockets, and slouched away. The black-haired cowboy’s voice followed him:

  “Yella right through, like I figured,” he said, and shook a finger at the man he had assisted. “Don’t yu give him another chance like that.”

  “It was shorely a fool thing to do,” the other confessed. “I reckon I have to thank yu—”

  “Yu don’t have to do no such thing,” was the smiling reply. “Let’s get acquainted. I’m Jim Green. I live mostly under my hat, an’ I ain’t got a friend in the world.”

  “I hate to call yu a liar so soon but I know of one, anyways,” the boy grinned, and shoved out a fist. “I’m Gerry Mason. All my relations died off on me, I got tired punchin’ cows, an’ here I am. I guessed I’d grab me a gold-mine.”

  “Why, that’s one good idea,” Green responded, as if the notion was entirely novel. “I’m foot-loose my own self just now.”

  “We might double-team it,” Mason said eagerly, “that is, if—”

  “Yu decide to go,” the other helped him out. He had divined the possible obstacle which had quelled the boy’s enthusiasm —a certain slim, black-robed form. “There ain’t no need for haste. We’ll have to fix things.” The statement brought a look of relief to Mason’s face, and Green smiled understandingly; if the girl remained in Wayside, he would lose his new friend, for he himself must be moving on.

  Chapter II

  When Mary Ducane, having removed the dust of travel from her person, came downstairs again, she found a meal and Paul Lesurge awaiting her in the parlour of the hotel. His eyes regarded the healthy freshness of her with discreet approval.

  “You must be in need of something, and as I am a fellow guest here, I hope you won’t mind if we eat together,” he said.

  Mary did not mind, and said so. She was feeling very lonely in this far-off spot on the plains, and the stranger’s solicitude for her comfort was welcome. He was, too, a new experience, for though her life had been spent among rough, uncultured people, she had all a woman’s appetite for the niceties of existence. And Lesurge was far too astute to allow the least suggestion of gallantry to appear.

  They spoke seldom until the business of feeding was over, but he gathered that she was alone in the world save for an uncle whom she had come to Wayside to find. Lesurge started to his feet.

  “But how stupid of me to bring you here,” he cried. “We should have gone in search of your relative at once.” His contrition was so very evident that any lurking doubt the girl may have entertained, vanished, and she hastened to explain the situation.

  “My uncle does not know I am coming, and may even have left Wayside. He was my father’s brother and came West long before I was born. Dad used to say, ‘Phil was the restless one.’”

  “But you have seen him?” Lesurge asked.

  Mary shook her head. “He never visited us, and for years we heard nothing. Then, about seven months ago, a letter came, saying that he had discovered a rich mine and asking my father to join him. Dad decided to do so, sold our farm, and then …” Her voice broke and her eyes became misty.

  Lesurge nodded sympathetically. “I understand,” he murmured. “He died.”

  “He was—murdered,” she said bitterly. “Stabbed in the dark on his way home; it was known he had sold his land—poor Dad could never keep a secret—and I suppose they were after the money.”

  “I hope they didn’t get it.”

  “No. It was in the bank, but when everything was settled up there was little more than enough to bring me here, so”—she smiled bravely—“I shall have to find my uncle, or some work.

  You have not heard the name?”

  “No, but I have been here but a little while myself, and there are outlying settlers I may not have come in contact with. I will make inquiries at once. Of course, it is possible he is not using his own name, but we won’t anticipate difficulty.” He saw a tiny crease in her smooth forehead, and asked, “Anything else troubling you?”

  “I was wondering if I left Mister Mason rather abruptly—the young cowboy who was holding my bag,” she explained. “He was very kind during the journey, he protected me …”

  “Protected you?” Lesurge repeated.

  “Yes, the other passenger was—unpleasant,” she replied. “I should not like to be deemed ungrateful.”

  “I’ll put that right,” he assured her. “Naturally you were a little flustered. These cowboys have pretty tough hides, anyway. As for the other fellow, I’ll have a word with him too; you won’t have any more trouble in that quarter, I promise you. ” He cut short her thanks with a wave of the hand. Then, raving suggested that it would be best to keep her affairs to herself for the present, he went out to find Philip Ducane. A few paces from the hotel he met the “unpleasant” passenger, who greeted him with a scowl; he had been at the bottle again. “Hell of a tim
e yore friends have to wait for you when here’s a skirt around,” he growled.

  Lesurge surveyed him with cool contempt. “If you weren’t trunk you wouldn’t have the presumption to refer to me as a friend,” he said bitingly. “Get this; you are merely a tool [ use, and throw away if it proves inefficient. I learn that you made yourself ‘unpleasant’ to Miss Ducane on the way here. [f that happens again, I shall make myself ‘unpleasant’ to you” A sudden thought occurred to him. “You haven’t told anyone here that you know me?” He saw the lie on the other’s lip. “You would. Of all the blundering blockheads … I suppose the whole town knows?”

  “I on’y mentioned it to that cowpunch fella, Mason, what come with us,” the man grumbled.

  “And he’ll pass it on to the girl, of course,” Lesurge said disgustedly. “Well, we must deal with him. Didn’t you tell me that Miss Ducane’s father—died?”

  “So he did,” Fagan replied.

  “Yes, a man is apt to with four inches of steel in his throat,” Paul said acidly, and caught the furtive look of fear in the other’s eyes. That was good; he liked to have a hold over those he employed; it lessened the risk.

  “She talked then,” Fagan ventured.

  “Quite a lot,” was the meaning reply. “What was her father like?”

  “Short, dark fella, goin’ grey, with a scar over the left eye—claimed he got it fallin’ off a fence. No snap to him, but middlin’ chattersome. Farmed a quarter section but I don’t reckon he made much.”

  “What was his name? The girl only referred to him as `Dad..’ ”

  “George, but he was generally knowed as `Squint’—him bein’ a bit cross-eyed.”

  “Excellent. Well, I’ve been busy here trying to get on the track of Philip Ducane. I think I’ve talked with every man within ten miles of this place but no one appears to have heard of anyone who might be the fellow, which is fortunate for us.” Fagan’s face expressed astonishment.

  “You got me guessin’,” he admitted.

  “That surprises me, of course,” was the sarcastic rejoinder. “Obviously, since the real uncle is missing, we must supply one—can’t let a lady travel all this way to be disappointed, can we? She has never seen this relative, and with the facts you found out and what she let slip to me, we can prime our man so that he’ll pass muster. The only difficulty is to find a person to play the part.”

  “Seems a lot o’ trouble,” Fagan objected. “If she’s got the letter tellin’ how to find the mine, that’s all we want.”

  “Unfortunately, the matter is not nearly so simple, owing to the fact that the letter no longer exists. Ducane apparently considered there was risk and destroyed it, he and the girl first committing the important part to memory. That’s why you didn’t find it on the body.”

  “I tell you I…”

  “Don’t trouble; for a rogue you’re the poorest liar I ever met,” Lesurge interrupted.

  “Anyway, the past is done with; we have to deal with the future. Where can we find our man? He must be about the right age, devoid of scruples, and know a great deal about gold-mining—by heaven! I’ve got it—Snowy.”

  “That lyin’ of soak I see in the saloon?” Fagan gibed. “Why, he’s on’y a half-wit.”

  “And at that he’ll have more sense than you.” The brutal retort pierced even the calloused consciousness of the man to whom it was directed.

  “See here, Paul,” he protested. “You’ve been handlin’ me pretty rough with that tongue o’ yores; I expect to be treated like a ‘uman bein’, not the mat you wipe your boots on. Don’t forget I put you up to this racket.”

  “Because you couldn’t handle it yourself.”

  “Mebbe, but if I choose to chatter … ” For an instant the other lost control and his usually placid features were distorted by a venomous fury before which Fagan, hard-boiled as he was, quailed.

  “I’m boss, and I’ll treat you as I please,” Lesurge gritted. “Double-cross me and I’ll make this world so hot for you that you’ll shiver when you land in hell. It’s been tried, and by cleverer men, and you know what happened to them.” The spate of passion went as quickly as it had come and the mask was back. “Don’t be a fool, Fagan. If Ducane told the truth, this is the biggest thing I have ever attempted; success should put us on Easy Street for life. Think of it, you’ll be able to live—I should say—spend, like a gentleman.” The ruffian did not resent the bitter gibe; the prospect of gain was alluring, and moreover, he knew the fiendish nature of this man and feared him. Paul Lesurge had an evil reputation among his “friends.”

  “What d’you want me to do?” he asked, submissively enough.

  “Get hold of that cowboy, Mason, and find out how much the girl has told him.” Fagan looked uncomfortable. “Him an’ me ain’t on the best o’ terms—he got uppity on the journey, over the gal—an’ we had a ruckus.” Knowing that the other man must hear of it, he told the story, his own way. “Took me unawares, blast his soul, an’ if the other guy hadn’t sat in, we wouldn’t have had to trouble about Mister Mason,” he concluded vindictively.

  Lesurge took the news calmly. “It’s a pity,” he said.

  “Shore is,” Fagan agreed. “I’d ‘a’ blowed him to bits.”

  “I wasn’t meaning that, but you may be right,” was the reply. “Well, it can’t be helped; I’ll tackle Mason myself. That other cowboy may prove troublesome too; an awkward customer, I fancy.”

  “Huh! there’s allus one way.”

  “Yes. Did you notice the butts of his guns?”

  “Keeps his tally on ‘em, eh?”

  “If he did I wouldn’t think twice about him,” Lesurge said. “He’s a stranger and doesn’t seem to have any business here.”

  “Them cow-wrastlers drifts around considerable.”

  “True, and we shall be on the move ourselves soon and quit of them both.” In which Paul Lesurge, for once in his life, was wrong.

  Snowy possessed the doubtful distinction of owning the most dilapidated dug-out in Wayside. Here, seated on rude stools, with the remains of a bottle of whisky—brought by the visitor—between them, Paul Lesurge and the tenant of the dug-out were conversing.

  “Well, that’s the position,” Paul said. “What do you think of it?” Snowy considered for a while, sucking at a very excellent cigar with which he had been provided. His dull eyes and hesitant articulation showed that he had not neglected the liquid part of the entertainment. He shook his head.

  “Seems kind o’ tough to ring in a stranger on the gal,” he offered. “A nice-appearin’ lass, too.”

  “It will be doing her a service,” Lesurge pointed out. “I’ve searched all over and this Ducane fellow hasn’t been heard of. What is she to do out here all alone, and with no money?

  But with us to help her…” His alert mind forestalled the next question. “You see, she wouldn’t trust strangers with what she regards as her uncle’s secret.”

  “That’s so,” the other agreed. “But she’ll expect me to know where this yer mine is.”

  “You have had an illness and it has left lapses in your memory,” Lesurge explained.

  “You’ll remember just enough about your father to gain her confidence—I can put you wise to that.” The old man nodded approvingly. “I call that cute,” he said. “You got this all figured out, mister. How d’you hear ‘bout her daddy bein’ bumped off?”

  “Miss Ducane told me.”

  “I reckon he opened his mouth too wide,” Snowy reflected, and his eyes grew cunning.

  “Hadn’t thought o’ that; them as got him might wanta get his brother too. I ain’t honin’ to pass out.” Lesurge smiled; the old devil was playing for better terms, therefore he meant to come in.

  “We’ll take care of you,” he assured. “We have to—you’ll be our big card. Think of it, man; you’ll have more gold than you could spend in another lifetime, gold to play with, gold to throw away.”

  The wizard word brought a fanatic gleam in the prospec
tor’s half-shut eyes. “Gold—beautiful red gold,” he mumbled, and then, “If we make good, what about the gal?”

  “She’ll get her fair share, one-fourth, of course,” was the reply. “That’s fair, I think, eh?”

  The old man’s assent was reluctant. “Shore, but it’ll be a lot o’ coin for a gal,” he muttered.

  “Well, perhaps we can come to some arrangement,” Lesurge said. “I take it you’re willing to join us?” Snowy snatched up the bottle. “Here’s life an’ luck to Philip Ducane, seein’ I’m to be him,” he cried, and tipped the raw spirit down his throat.

  The reckless act evidently spurred the younger man’s memory. “That’s one of the things you’ll have to lay off a bit,” he warned. “I won’t stand for drunken babblers.”

  “See here, mister,” Snowy said thickly. “I run away from home as a boy because I wouldn’t take orders, I never have took ‘em, an’ I ain’t goin’ to start now. You come to me, I didn’t come to you. Pin that in yore hat an’ take a peek at it times you feel too brash.” Lesurge bit his lip, inwardly promising himself that he would get even with the cantankerous old crook. But for the moment he must temporize.

  “I’m not giving orders, merely a piece of advice,” he said quietly. “And here’s another: clean yourself up a bit—the girl won’t want to be ashamed of her relative. All I’m asking you to remember is that a pile of money is at stake.”

  “When d’you aim to break the glad tidin’s?” Snowy asked, a suspicion of a jeer in his tone.

  “In the morning, but I’ll see you first and prime you in readiness. Good-night.” Holding on to his rickety door, the old man watched him go, a grin of derision upon his unwashed features. Then he grabbed the bottle, ruefully regarded the small quantity remaining, drained, and flung it after the disappearing form of his visitor.

  “To hell with you an’ yore advice, Mister Lesurge,” he said shrilly. “I’ll do as I damn please, but—I’m agoin’ to get that gold, an’ I ain’t trustin’ you—no, sir, you got a mean eye an’ yore neck looks like it oughta have a rope round it.” He dived again into his abode and the Pioneer Saloon missed his custom that night. But it had that of Fagan, who made up for it so completely that Lesurge was moved to caustic comment: