Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 04 - Sudden Outlawed(1934) Page 3

  “I guess he’ll take the western trail.”

  The ruffians nodded and went out. The stranger waited to absorb another drink and then did likewise, keeping well behind. Presently he saw the man he had betrayed jog-trotting listlessly along the street, heading—as he had surmised—for the western exit from the town.

  Callous as he was, he could not but admire the young fellow’s nerve.

  “He’s the right stuff, shore as shootin’,” he soliloquized. “Kind o’ hombre Rogue can use. If them rats ain’t weakened, they gotta do it here; he’ll be in the open soon.”

  As the black horse approached, he slid round the corner of a shack, from whence he could watch unobserved. Save that his hat was slouched over his face, the wanted rider appeared to be indifferent to his danger. But beneath the brim, his keen eyes scanned each passer-by, alert for the least sign of undue interest in himself, every sense taut and ready for action. So that he was not taken by surprise when three men, strolling aimlessly along the board sidewalk, abruptly swerved into the road in front of him, pulled their guns, and shouted:

  “Han’s up, Sudden!”

  Jim did not hesitate—made no attempt to parley. The revelation of his identity—an astute move on the part of his attackers—would bring them immediate aid. Dropping the reins—already knotted for just such an emergency—over the saddle-horn, his hands went up, but with a gun in each. As they rose he fired both weapons, once, and his opponents on the right and left went down. Then, with a pressure of his knees. Jim jumped Nigger full at the man in the middle Craggy Face. With an oath of dismay, the fellow saw the black thunderbolt hurling itself upon him and tried to leap aside. He nearly succeeded, but the massive shoulder caught and drove him into the dust.

  The whole affair had occupied but a few seconds, and by the time the almost petrified pedestrians had realized the facts, the fugitive was two hundred yards away. Ineffectual shots were fired and then he was no more than a diminishing dot on the trail. The man behind the shack smiled felinely and did not join the group round the discomfited reward-hunters.

  For some miles Jim rode hard, without looking back. When at length he did so he saw no sign of pursuit and eased his mount. He reloaded his pistols, thrust them back into the holsters, and swore with savage anger at the thought of the price he had had to pay for his freedom. This second exploit had put him definitely outside the pale of the law. Despite the sparse population, the story of it would travel quickly in a land where topics for conversation were few and news of any kind eagerly retailed.

  Head hanging, he puzzled over the problem of what to do. Southern Texas was closed to him—entering any settlement would probably result in having to shoot his way out of it, thus only adding to his unwanted reputation. The nearest border was hundreds of miles distant and he was without supplies. The dull beat of hammering hooves apprised him that he had been careless.

  Turning, he. saw a compact group of about a dozen riders pounding across the plain. San Antonio was not minded to let a noted desperado escape without making an effort.

  The posse was less than half a mile behind and the members of it were doubtless congratulating themselves upon an easy capture when they saw the black horse quicken its stride and begin to draw away. Spurring and quirting their mounts they decreased the gap again, several pulling out their rifles and firing in the hope of a lucky shot. The cowboy felt the wind of a bullet on his cheek, others zipped through the grass beneath the flying feet of his horse, and a cold fury flamed in him.

  “That’s a game two can play at,” he grated.

  Dropping the reins, he drew his rifle from the sheath under the fender, twisted round in the saddle and flung four shots at the bunched-up party of pursuers. Two of the ponies went down, throwing their riders heavily, a man reeled, clutched at the air, and pitched sideways to the ground. The posse, disorganized by this disaster, pulled up, and the quarry, with a wave of defiance, vanished over a fold in the surface of the plain. His own kind had made him an outlaw, had hunted and fired on him as though he were a dangerous animal. Well, he would accept the verdict.

  “Nothin’ else for it, Nig,” he told his horse. “We gotta find Mister Rogue; he’s our best bet.”

  It was a small salve to his conscience to reflect that among the desperate class of men he was now being driven to mix with, he was more likely to find those of whom he was in search.

  From the top of a slight rise he looked for the posse, but it was not in sight.

  “Kind o’ lost their enthusiasm, mebbe,” he said grimly, and rode on.

  Gradually the character of the country changed, the open plain being broken by small, flat-topped mesas, shallow gullies, and occasional miniature forests of post-oak and mesquite, the latter sometimes of tree size. He halted at last before a great chunk of rock, with a curious V-shaped crack dividing it as from a giant axe-blow. The main trail—wagon-rutted here turned sharply to the north, but westward there were hoofprints leading down into what appeared to be a welter of canyons.

  “Split Rock,” the traveller decided. “Well, of hoss, this is where we say good-bye to a law-abidin’ life.”

  With a mirthless, sardonic smile he sent his mount loping to the left, following the faint trail which plunged into the broken country, and came at length to the narrow mouth of a gorge, the rocky walls of which almost met. Halfway up, on a ledge about thirty yards distant, the rider’s questing eye caught a flash of steel.

  “Stick ‘em up, stranger; I got yu covered,” boomed a voice, and a man with a levelled rifle rose into view.

  Jim guessed this must be one of the bandits’ sentinels. He had already decided on his own line of action, and though he halted, he did not obey the command to put up his hands. Instead he laughed satirically.

  “I’ve had yu fixed for the last two minutes,” he said. “yu oughta get that gun-barrel dulled some—I saw it away back. Got any ideas?”

  “On’y this,” the man replied, tapping his rifle.

  Jim laughed unpleasantly. “Shucks, yu’d miss an’ I wouldn’t. Well, if it’ll relieve yore mind any, I’m lookin’ for a fella called Rogue.”

  “I take it yo’re Sudden then.”

  “An’ yu might be right at that,” Jim smiled. “What about it?”

  “I’ve had word to pass yu along,” the guard admitted, “but yu’ll have to leave yore hardware with me—I’ll fetch ‘em in later.”

  “Like hell yu will,” the visitor retorted. “No, sir, me an’ the li’l hoss have had a long ride, but we’re plenty strong enough to tote my guns, yu betcha.”

  “It’s the rule,” the bandit grumbled.

  “There’s allus an exception—I’m it,” Jim told him lightly, and then, dropping his bantering tone. “Cut the cackle; either I go on or back, an’ I don’t give a damn which it is.”

  Sullenly the fellow motioned him on. “Go ahead,” he said. “See yu later—mebbe.”

  Jim sensed the sinister implication and laughed. “Yu will, if nothin’ don’t happen to yu meantime.”

  The man appeared to have an afterthought. “Anybody follerin’ yu?” he asked.

  “Yo’re a reg’lar question mark, ain’t yu?” was the sarcastic reply. “Did I seem to be hurryin’?”

  Half a mile farther on he rounded a bend and saw that the perpendicular sides of the gorge closed in; apparently there was no outlet. He had pulled up, and was studying the grey, weather-stained walls when a man stepped abruptly from behind a big boulder and strolled nonchalantly towards him. He was carrying a rifle, and though he did not raise the weapon, his finger was on the trigger.

  He was young, about his own age, Jim figured—though he had never known precisely what that was; his hair and moustache were very red, his blue eyes very pale, and the grin on his good-looking face very impudent. In a land where little attention was paid to such matters, the cleanliness and neatness of his attire drew the eye. He was obviously surprised to find the visitor armed.

  “Meet a gent called Ropey
back there?” he asked bluntly, pointing to the entrance of the gorge.

  “I guess, but he didn’t mention his name,” Jim replied.

  “An’ he let yu pass with that ars’nal?” the young man went on “Yu musta showed him a good reason.”

  “I’m showin’ yu the same,” was the grim reply.

  The youth looked at the levelled Colt which, having somehow got into its owner’s hand, was now covering him, and laughed with affected dismay.

  “Put her back in her li’l bed,” he said. “I ain’t arguin’ with yu none whatever. Do we have to plant Ropey?”

  “I reckon it would be premature—he was a healthy corpse when I left him,” the visitor replied gravely, but there was a twinkle in his eyes, and the menacing gun had vanished.

  “Glad yu didn’t hurt Ropey, I hate diggin’,” redhead remarked. “I figure yo’re here to see our revered chief an’ that yore name is mebbe—Sudden?”

  “I’ve been called that,” Jim admitted.

  “Good enough,” the other said, and pointed to the end of the gorge. “There’s an opening under the cliff, an’ on the other side yu’ll see the select but not pop’lar hamlet o’ Rogueville, consistin’ of a few undesirable villas tenanted by still more undesirable villains, of whom I am one. The man yu wanta see ain’t the biggest rogue but he has the name an’ the say-so. Savvy?”

  Having delivered this satirical address, he leaned his rifle against a rock and began to fashion a cigarette.

  “Ain’t s’posed to smoke on this job but I never could obey orders, which explains me,” he grinned. “See yu again, I hope.

  The visitor expressed the same desire and went on his way. He found the opening—cleverly concealed by an outflung buttress of rock—and rode through. Before him lay a beautiful little oval-shaped basin, the grass-covered floor of which sloped up on every side to an enclosing rampart of rock. In the centre, a tiny circular lake, fringed with willows, gleamed amid the surrounding green like a huge silver coin. Cattle and horses were grazing near and on the far side of the valley were several log shacks.

  By the time he reached them some half-dozen men had appeared; there had been no one in sight when he entered the valley. A brief glance told the visitor that redhead had probably described them correctly.

  “An’ what th’ hell might yu be wantin’?” asked one, a coarse-faced, broken-nosed fellow.

  “Civility first, from yu,” Jim snapped. “An’ then—to see yore boss.”

  The reply produced a scowl and a sneer. “We don’t go much on bosses here. If yu want Rogue, he’s there.”

  Following the direction of the jerked thumb, Jim walked his horse to a shack some twenty yards away, in the doorway of which a man was standing watching the proceedings without apparent interest. The bandit leader did not look formidable. Over forty, shortish but heavily built, with greying hair and beard, he might have passed for a prosperous rancher. He greeted his guest with a grin.

  “Light an’ rest yore saddle,” he said, and the low, husky voice seemed familiar.

  Jim got down and trailed the reins. “Best tell yore men to leave this hoss alone—he don’t like strangers,” he warned.

  “They won’t interfere with him,” Rogue replied. His gaze dwelt on the animal. “Shore is a beauty, an’ yu trained him right. Like a woman, a hoss any man can handle ain’t no good.”

  They entered the shack. It consisted of one room only, furnished with a pallet-bed on which blankets were spread, a rough, home-made table, and chairs with rawhide seats. Pegs driven into the log walls supported guns, bridles, ropes and other paraphernalia of the range.

  Rogue pointed to a chair and produced a bottle and glasses.

  “Well, yu got here-Sudden,” he said.

  This time there could be no mistake. “So it was yu?” Jim said, and smiled. “I guess that sheriff man was peeved.”

  “Peeved?” repeated the other. “He was madder’n a teased rattler an’ twice as ‘poisonous.

  He’d ‘a’ stretched yu.”

  “So Judson—died?”

  “Yeah, durin’ the night; never opened an eye again.” There was silence for a few moments and then Jim said, “I’m still wonderin’ why yu—interfered?”

  Rogue laughed. “I don’t like sheriffs nohow an’ yu put up a pretty fight,” he explained.

  “‘Sides, yu done me a service.”

  “I’m still in the dark,” the visitor persisted.

  The outlaw hesitated for a space, his hard grey eyes studying the boy before him; but he learned nothing.

  “I’m playin’ straight with yu, Sudden,” he said, and the husky voice had a harsh note in it.

  “If yu hadn’t been there they’d have picked on me an’ I had Judson’s money-belt round my middle.”

  Jim sat up. “yu did it?” he cried, jolted out of his impassivity.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t wanta kill the fool,” Rogue said. “I got the drop on him an’ I’m steppin’

  in to take his gun when he jumps his hoss at me. I try to wing him but he’s movin’ yu see, an’.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. There was no regret in his voice; rather there was blame for a murdered man who had not played the game properly, and paid the penalty. “I was a plain fool to come into town but I figured him finished. I had to have the coin; things have been quiet lately an’ the boys was gettin’ restive.”

  The latter remark sounded like an excuse, but Jim knew it was not so intended; Rogue was simply giving him all the facts. To Jim, the important point was that this man who had coolly confessed to the crime had not been content to let another suffer for it, and he, Jim, owed his life to him; he could not condemn, and in his present rebellious attitude to his own kind, had no wish to.

  “What made yu think I’d come here?” he asked.

  “I saw them bills an’ knew Mallick would close the towns to yu,” Rogue explained.

  “Reckoned yu’d make for San Antonio an’ sent one o’ my men to watch for yu. Didn’t he find yu?”

  “Shore, but it wasn’t him sent me,” Jim said, and told of the attempted arrest and chase.

  If the outlaw smiled it was behind his beard; he guessed the part his envoy had played.

  His comment contained more than a touch of admiration:

  “Three fellas, with their guns out, an’ then yu busted up the posse! Yu ain’t losin’ any time justifyin’ yore label. Sudden.”

  “My name’s Jim—I’d liefer yu called me that.”

  “Mine’s Roger, but everybody calls me Rogue an’ I dunno as I care. Allasame, Jim goes with me. Now, yu better stick around awhile, yo’re safe here. Later on, yu can decide ‘bout stayin’; I’m hopin’ yu will; I want a fella I can trust.”

  “I’m obliged to yu,” the visitor said.

  “Shucks, its shore up to me to watch out for yu,” Rogue rejoined. “Yu can double up with Sandy, an’ we all feed together in the big cabin. Now, there’s another thing: yore face wouldn’t look no worse without hair on it.”

  He rummaged on a shelf and produced a bottle. “This dye’ll wipe out them markin’s. I’ll show yu yore quarters.”

  He led the way to a little hut standing rather apart from the others, built of unbarked logs, clinked with clay. As they approached a cheerful but unmelodious voice within announced that it was “his night to howl.”

  “An’ he’s shorely doin’ it,” Rogue said, with a saturnine smile. “Hey, Sandy, I’ve brung yu a bunkie.”

  The young man who emerged proved to be the second sentinel of the gorge and his face opened in a wide grin when he saw the new-corner.

  “Shucks, it’s shorely up to me to watch out for yu,” Rogue introduced. “Yu can put him wise an’ make him known to the boys.”

  “Pleased to,” Sandy said, shaking hands.

  When the outlaw leader had gone, with a word that he would see them at supper, Sandy turned to the visitor.

  “I’m lucky to get yu,” he said. “Last fella I bunked with musta been
bit by a mad dawg some time, the sight o’ water gave him the fan-tods.”

  Together they inspected the quarters. Two beds—mere frames with strips of rawhide nailed across them, a couple of up-ended boxes for seats, a cracked mirror, and a few pegs comprised the furniture. The previous sole owner of all this magnificence waited covertly for comment, but when the stranger spoke it was about something entirely different.

  “Yu ain’t been with this crowd very long,” he said.

  Sandy stared at him and retorted quizzically, “Tell me somethin’ about my future, Mister Medicine Man.”

  “Shore,” Sudden smiled. “I’m sayin’ yu won’t be with ‘em a great while, neither.”

  Sandy grinned. “Now I’ll do a bit o’ wizardin’,” he said. “Listen, yo’re a nifty poker player, an’ yu an’ me is goin’ to he good friends.”

  They shook hands on that, and then, having brought in his saddle, blankets, and war-bag, the visitor proceeded to shave off his moustache. Sandy watched the operation in silence and then laughed slyly.

  “I grow one an’ yu get shut o’ yores—funny, ain’t it?” he remarked, and, inspecting the result critically, “It certainly makes a difference. What yu goin’ to do with the bottle?”

  “Rogue thinks my hoss would look better all black, an’ I’m inclined to agree with him,”

  Sudden explained, his eyes twinkling.

  The removal of the tell-tale marks did not take long and when the horse had been turned loose to graze, Sandy suggested that it was getting near grub-time. On the way, Sudden put a question.

  “Rogue ain’t a bad of scout but difficult to figure,” was the reply. “There’s times he’s near human an’ others when he can be a devil from hell, gotta be, I reckon, with the team he has to handle; there ain’t a tougher crowd between Kansas an’ the Rio Grande.”

  Sudden’s own observations during the meal supported this description. Sandy alone seemed to be of a different type; somehow he did not “belong.” Rogue’s remark anent a “man he could trust” no longer astonished him.

  They fed at a long table in the largest building, which served as a general living-room for the community. Rogue sat at one end, and at the other was a man who immediately attracted the attention of the newcomer. In the thirties, of medium height, slim and supple, he had the face of a demon. The acquiline nose, high cheekbones, cruel mouth and lank, black hair proclaimed a mixed origin, despite his yellowish-white skin, and Sudden was not surprised to hear him addressed as “Navajo.” His dark eyes, flashing from beneath lowered lids, and sinuous movements, were reptilian. He was, Sandy whispered, a sort of second in command of the band.