Sudden: Makes War Page 2

  “Easy, boy, it can’t be us they’re after,” he said. “Too far in front, an’ we ain’t got enemies around here—yet. Allasame, we’ll be careful.”

  A pressure of a knee and the animal lengthened its stride. Sudden, no longer sitting slackly in the saddle, kept keen eyes on the path they were following. There were plenty of quite innocent reasons for the shot, but he was reaching the region of a range war, and … A mile was traversed without further incident, and he was beginning to blame himself for over-caution when he turned into a sandy gully, the sides of which were hidden by brush. Here, nibbling at the tussocks of coarse grass along the edge of the trail was a saddled pony, and a few yards away, a man sprawled, face downwards.

  To all appearance, he might have been thrown by his mount, but an ugly red stain between the shoulder-blades pointed to a more sinister explanation. Standing beside the body, Sudden saw it was that of a man on the wrong side of fifty, with thinning grey hair, and deeply-lined features. His eye caught the Circle Dot brand on the grazing horse; what Dan Dover feared had come to pass. The gunman’s face grew grim.

  “The cowardly skunk never gave him a chance,” he muttered, and with a glance at the enclosing walls of vegetation, “Hell, he picked the right place too; small hope o’ findin’ any traces.”

  Nevertheless, he fixed in his mind the exact position of the corpse in case it might assist in locating the spot whence the shot was fired. Then he bent to examine the wound; the bullet had smashed into the spine, and death must have been instant.

  “Stick ‘em up. Pronto!”

  At the harsh command the stooping man straightened—slowly, to face four horsemen whose approach the soft, sandy floor of the ravine had deadened. Looking unconcernedly into the muzzles of four rifles, he raised his hands, but only far enough to hook the thumbs into the armholes of his vest.

  “Howdy, gents,” he greeted. “I’m glad to see yu.”

  “Mebbe,” the one who had spoken before said dryly. “What’s goin’ on here?”

  He was a short, weedy fellow of middle-age, whose naturally cunning expression was enhanced by a pronounced obliquity of vision. A straggling moustache drooped around and over a weak mouth and inadequate chin. Even the star, prominently pinned to his flannel shirt, could not endow him with dignity. Sheriff Foxwell, commonly called “Foxy” by friend and foe, was not a likeable person.

  “Mile or so back on the trail I heard a shot, an’ then I find—this,” Sudden replied, pointing to the dead rancher.

  “Why, it’s Ol’ Man Dover!” one of the party cried.

  They closed in on the prostrate-figure, thereby cutting off possible retreat by the man standing beside it. If he sensed the significance of this manoeuvre—and he could scarcely fail to do so—his demeanour was unchanged. The sheriff climbed clumsily from his horse.

  “Shore is,” he said, “an’ cashed all right. Plugged in the back, an’ his own gun in the holster. Where’s his rifle?”

  “On his hoss,” Sudden informed.

  “Huh! Looks like a bushwhackin’, but why?” Foxy questioned. He stooped and explored the dead man’s pockets, producing a sizeable roll of currency. “That don’t point to robbery, unless—the fella was interrupted.” His squinting eyes rested on the stranger.

  “Nobody in sight when I arrived.”

  “Mebbe this gent’ll tell us somethin’ about hisself,” an older man suggested.

  The sheriff looked sourly at him. “I’m handlin’ this, Hicks,” he reminded, “but as you’ve butted in we might as well know what this hombre is doin’ around here.”

  “I’m on my way to the Circle Dot,” Sudden said quietly, and anticipating the obvious question, “I was hopin’ to land a job.”

  The officer’s eyes were sharp with suspicion. “Happen to be acquainted with Dover?”

  “Never heard of him till this mornin’,” was the indifferent reply. “But I happen to be acquainted with cattle.”

  The sheriff shrugged his shoulders. “‘Pears an open an’ shut case to me,” he said. “You admit yore errand was to meet him, an’ we find you standin’ over his dead body, just about to search him, seemin’ly. Well, there’s plenty trees, an’ you got yore rope, Jed, I see.”

  The man addressed, a lanky, rawboned individual, nodded, and patted the looped lariat on his saddle-horn. Sudden looked at the puny maker of this swift decision with satirical disdain.

  “If yo’re tryin’ to throw a scare into me I’m tellin’ yu it’s a waste o’ time—I’m no greenhorn,” he remarked.

  “Nary scare,” was the cool retort. “We’re just naturally goin’ to hang you, that’s all.”

  “Well, it’s a relief to know yu ain’t aimin’ to roast me at a slow fire, but has it occurred to yu that as I entered the gully from this end, an’ the shot—by the position o’ the body—must ‘a’ come from the other, there’s a flaw in yore evidence? Any one o’ yu might ‘a’ done it, but I couldn’t.”

  “Skittles! You’d make yore arrangements, o’ course, shiftin’ the corp to fit yore story.”

  “Knowin’ yu were comin’, no doubt.”

  “Now, that’s where you slipped up,” Foxwell countered, an ugly grin on his thin lips.

  The threatened man realized that the fellow was in earnest, and would carry out this monstrous injustice. He appealed to the others.

  “Yu standin’ for this?”

  Hicks answered. “It’s the sheriff’s business, but what about takin’ him in, Foxy, an’—”

  “Like you say, it’s my business,” the officer cut in angrily. “Here’s a respected citizen foully done to death, an’ we catch the culprit red-handed. Rainbow’s had too many o’ these killin’s an’ I’m goin’ to stop ‘em. Jed, git ready.’ Before any of them could move, Sudden leapt backwards, thus bringing all the men in front of him. At the same instant, his hands swept his hips and both guns came out. So swift and unexpected had the action, been that the riders had no time to level the rifles held across their knees. Now it was too late; the man they had deemed to be in their power, had them in his; and it was a different man, a tense, half-crouching figure instinct with menace.

  “Get ready yoreself, Sheriff, to hop into hell,” he said. “I can down the four o’ yu in as many seconds.” And to the horsemen, “Drop them guns an’ reach for the sky, or by the livin’ God …”

  The weapons fell into the sand, and four pairs of hands were uplifted, but not in prayer.

  The sheriff’s face had become a sickly yellow, and he was the first to obey the order, a fact which brought a cold smile from the giver of it.

  “That’s better,” he commented. “Now yu be good li’l boys an’ no harm will come to yu—mebbe.”

  “Yo’re resistin’ the Law,” Foxwell spluttered fatuously.

  “Me?” was the surprised retort. “Why, I ain’t resistin’ any. Start the game, Sheriff; it’s yore deal.”

  The taunted officer was saved the necessity of replying by the arrival of a new factor.

  Into the ravine from the Sandy Bend direction loped a rider. He pulled up when he reached the group of men. Sudden swore under his breath; it was young Dover.

  “You caught me up after all,” he said. “But yo’re too late.”

  The boy gave one glance at the body, sprang from his saddle, and knelt beside it. “Dad!” he cried, and then, as the full extent of his loss seeped in. “So they’ve done it, the murderin’ curs; I should never ‘a’ left you.”

  He looked up fiercely. “Whose work is this?”

  The sheriff started to lower a hand but changed his mind and nodded towards the stranger. “That fella, I guess.”

  The reply came in a bitter sneer. “Yo’re guessin’ is like the rest o’ yore doin’s—pretty triflin’. So that’s why yo’re all lookin’ paralyzed. You fools, this man wouldn’t know Dad from Adam, an’ moreover, he was expectin’ to ride for the Circle Dot.”

  “That don’t prove anythin’,” the sheriff said sullenly. “Road-age
nts ain’t in the habit o’ askin’ yore name an’ address afore they salivate you. Anyway, the 0I’ Man could have turned him down. He was robbin’ the body when we arrove.”

  With shaking fingers, Dan felt in his father’s pockets, and drew out the roll of bills.

  “Seems to have made a pore job of it,” he replied acidly. “Even a beginner couldn’t ‘a’ missed this.”

  Hicks spoke: “Do you know this fella, Dan?”

  “I met him this mornin’ at the Bend, an’ sent him along; we’re short-handed.”

  The sheriff’s mean eyes glittered. “Did you arrange for yore dad to come an’ meet you?” he asked.

  It was a moment before the shameful implication penetrated, and then the boy leapt to his feet, fury struggling with the grief in his face, and stepped towards his traducer.

  “Pull yore gun, you coyote,” he rasped.

  The officer had no intention of doing anything of the kind.

  “I’ve got my han’s up, Dover,” he reminded.

  Sudden had watched the scene in silence, but now he spoke:

  “Yu can take ‘em down, Sheriff—if—yu—wanta.”

  The drawl of the last three words made them a plain insult, but Foxwell had a thick skin, and an inordinate desire to preserve it; he did not avail himself of the permission, preferring to take refuge behind his badge.

  “I was app’inted to keep the peace, not break it,” he said, and looked round at his following. “You’d think a son whose father had been bumped off would be anxious to have the guilty party brought to justice, huh?”

  “I am, an’ I know what he was after, an’ where to seek for him,” Dover said savagely. “So do you, an’ that’s why you’d like to pin it on a stranger. Don’t you worry; evenin’ up for Dad is somethin’ I can take care of. Now, get back to yore murderin’ master an’ tell him that you did all you could to blot his tracks—an’ failed.”

  Sudden spoke again. “They’re leavin’ rifles an’ six-gum here,” he said quietly. “There’s a heap too much cover, and they may get notions.”

  Under the threat of his levelled weapons, they let fall their pistols, wheeled and rode down the ravine. The sheriff shouter a parting:

  “Rainbow will have somethin’ to say ‘bout this.”

  “Shore, tell it how one man held up an’ disarmed the four o’ you,” Dover retorted. “The town ain’t had a laugh lately I’ll send yore guns to Sody’s; they’ll know then you ain’t lyin’.”

  When they had vanished through the entrance to the ravin his anger evaporated, leaving only the dull ache of sorrow. In a voice hoarse with emotion, he asked:

  “You ain’t backin’ out?”

  “Not any. That imitation sheriff has got me real interested. Might as well be movin’.”

  The grisly task of roping the dead rancher on the back of his pony was accomplished in silence. Then Sudden put a question:

  “Yu said yu knowed what the killer wanted. D’yu reckon he got it?”

  “I dunno, but likely Dad wouldn’t be carryin’ it. Did you see any tracks?”

  “On’y that.”

  He pointed to a kind of path, running at a right angle to where the dead man had lain, the sandy surface of which seemed to have been recently disturbed. Following it, they came to a bush at the side of the ravine. A white scar showed where a branch had been wrenched off, and in a moment or so they found it; the withering leaves were gritty.

  “Wiped his trail out as he backed away,” Sudden commented, and scanned the slope keenly. “He came down an’ went up here—them toe an’ heel marks is plain as print. I’ll see if I can trace him. Yu fetch the hosses along an’ meet me.”

  He climbed the bank and soon found indications that someone had preceded him. Trifles which would have escaped an untrained eye—bent or bruised stems of grass, a broken twig, the impress of a foot on bare ground, were all-sufficient to enable him to follow the path of the previous visitor along the rim of the ravine. For some two hundred yards he thrust his way through the fringe of bush and came to the place he was seeking. Shadowed by a scrub-oak, and screened from below by a rampart of shrubs, was a trampled patch of grass. Two flattened hollows about a foot apart caught his eye. He knelt down in them and looked along the ravine; the spot where he had found the body was plainly visible.

  “Easy as fallin’ out’n a tree,” he muttered. A yellow gleam in the longer grass proved to be a cartridge shell. “A thirty-eight—they ain’t so common.”

  Close by he picked up a dottle of partly-burned tobacco, tapped from the bowl of a pipe; the assassin had solaced himself with a smoke while waiting for his victim. There was nothing else, but in a nearby clump of spruce he found hoof-marks, a branch from which the bark had been nibbled, and several long grey hairs. He followed the tracks down to where they merged with many others in the main trail, and could no longer be picked out. Dover was waiting.

  “Any luck?” he asked.

  “Not enough to hang a dawg on,” Sudden admitted, and told of his discoveries.

  “Trenton uses a pipe,” the boy said. “Let’s be goin’.”

  They set out, and the sad burden on the third horse kept them silent. There was but a scant five miles to cover, most of it over open plain splotched by thorny thickets, patches of sage, and broken only by an occasional shallow arroyo. Soon they came upon bunches of cattle contentedly grazing on the short, sunburned grass, and presently the ranch-house was in sight.

  A squat building of one storey, solidly constructed of trimmed logs chinked with clay, it stood on the crest of a slope and afforded a wide view of the surrounding country. It had been erected for utility rather than elegance in the days when raiding redskins were not unknown, and save for three great cedars which provided a welcome shade, there was nothing bigger than a sage-bush for hundreds of yards all round. A little apart were the bunkhouse, outbuildings, and corrals. At the foot of the slope a double line of willows and cottonwoods told the presence of a stream. As they pulled up outside, a grizzled, bow-legged little man came out, stared, and as he recognized the laden pony, ripped out an oath.

  “Hell’s flames, boy, what’s happened?” he demanded. Dover dismounted wearily. “They got Dad, Burke,” he said gruffly. “Tell you about it presently. Help me take him in.” So the rancher came home for the last time. The sad spectacle was watched by a thin-featured, sunken-eyed youth of about seventeen who had crept to the door. He shrank aside to let the bearers pass, and then swung round, face buried in a bent arm, and shoulders shaking.

  “It shore is tough luck,” Sudden consoled. “Don’t take it too hard.”

  “He was mighty good ter me,” came the mumbling reply.

  “We all gotta go—some time.”

  “Yep, but not that way—widout a chanct,” the lad replied fiercely. “Gawd, if I was on’y a man, ‘stead of a perishin’ weed, I’d cut th’ hearts out o’ th’—” He finished with a torrent of vitriolic expletives.

  “Yu ain’t got yore growth yet, son,” the puncher said.

  “Growth?” the boy echoed bitterly. “What yer givin’ me? I’m a longer—one o’ Gawd’s mistakes what nobody wants, an’ I’d ‘a’ croaked by now if it hadn’t bin fer him.”

  A violent spasm of coughing racked his spare frame.

  Chapter III

  A few moments later, Burke reappeared. “Dan’ll be along presently,” he began. “He’s told me about you, Mister, an’ I wanta say right out that yo’re mighty welcome, ‘specially now. By the time we git shut o’ the hosses, supper’ll be ready; we got a good cook, if he is Irish.”

  As they returned from the corral, carrying saddles, rifles, and blankets, the little man spoke again:

  “This is a knockdown blow for Dan, he fair worshipped his dad, which goes for the rest of us. It was fear o’ this happenin’ sent him to the Bend. I’m goin’ to git a good man, Burke,’ he told me this mornin’, òne who’ll put the fear o’ death into these cowardly dawgs.’ He glanced sideways at the tall, lith
e figure for each of whose long strides he had to take two. Ì’m thinkin’ he was lucky.’ ”

  “How many on the pay-roll?” Sudden asked.

  “Eight of us in the bunkhouse,” Burke replied. “I’m the daddy o’ the outfit—bin here goin’ on twenty year.”

  “I’m takin’ it yo’re foreman.”

  “We never had one—the Ol’ Man ran his own ranch; you might call me sorta straw-boss.”

  “Yeah, but now—”

  “See here, Mister—

  “Make it `Jim’.”

  “I’m obliged. Well, Jim, it’s thisaway: I’m a good cowman an’ so is the boy; I’ll fight to a fare-you-well an’ he’ll do the same, but that ain’t enough in a war, which is what yo’re hornin’ in on. The Circle Dot needs a fella with experience; Dan ain’t had none, an’ I’ve had too much—old men git sorta fixed in their notions.” A faint smile passed over the wrinkled, sunburned features.

  “Once I had dreams o’ ownin’ a ranch, but now I ain’t got no ambition a-tall, but I’d like to go on bein’ straw-boss.”

  Sudden nodded, realizing the tragedy behind the simple statement; the mounting years of hard, dangerous work for a bare living, the gradual extinction of hope, and the prospect of poverty when the heavy hand of Time prevented him from following the only occupation he knew.

  The living-room of the Circle Dot ranch-house was spacious, with a great stone fireplace, in front of which lay a fine grizzly pelt. The furniture comprised a table, desk, and chairs, solid but suggestive of ease. Saddles, guns, and other ranch gear made it comfortably untidy for a man. Burke read the stranger’s thought.

  “Dave wouldn’t have a woman in the place after he lost his wife,” he explained. “I reckon Paddy—he’s the cook—ain’t got the instincts of a home-maker.”

  At that moment Dan came in, haggard, but grim-faced. “You’ll feed with us to-night, Bill,” he said. “We gotta talk things over.”

  The meal was brought in by the cook, a short and incredibly fat man, whose chubby countenance wore an expression of gloom utterly out of keeping with his deep-set twinkling eyes. While they were despatching it, Dan related the happenings of the day, and by the time the tale ended, Burke was regarding the newcomer with increased respect.