‘Shore was lucky you happened by, Jim,’ opined Gimpy.
‘Luck was all it was,’ Green told him. ‘I just wanted to water my hoss.’
‘You got any idea who they was, boss?’ asked the cowboy who had been introduced by Tate as Ben Dobbs. The old man described the men, especially the leader, to his riders, who one by one shook their heads.
‘Never seen anyone around town hittin’ them spessyfications remarked a pudgy little rider whose sobriquet was Shorty. ‘Have you, Curt?’ This to a good looking rider of medium height, whose handsome countenance was spoiled only by a weak mouth which came close to giving his face a permanent sneer. This man, Green knew from the introductions, was Curt Parr.
‘Ain’t likely we’d see any o’ them in town, if they really was the Shadows,’ Parr said. ‘They shore don’t socialize much as I’ve heard.’
At this point the discussion was interrupted by the arrival of Cookie, who came to the door and stood arms akimbo, with mock—or mostly mock—anger written all over his face.
‘You fellers gonna stand here jawin’ all night? If so, I’ll feed yore supper to the hawgs an’ eat the pie myself.’
At this ‘invitation’ the hungry Slash 8 riders piled into the big dining room and took their places at the big whitewood table, polished by years of use, while Cookie brought in steaming platters of food.
‘Let’s eat,’ said Tate. ‘We can talk later.’
The next forty minutes or so were devoted exclusively to the devastation of the fine meal that the cook, despite his ordeal of the afternoon, had rustled together. Juicy steaks, fried potatoes, fresh bread, a formidable dried-apple pie, all washed down with what Green smilingly called ‘horseshoe coffee’, disappeared like smoke before the combined onslaught of these hardy outdoors men. Pushing his coffee cup away after the cook had tried to refill it for the fourth time, Green leaned back in his chair with a sigh and reached for the makin’s.
‘That was prime food, seh,’ he addressed the rancher sitting at the head of the table. ‘I ain’t eaten like that since about last Christmas.’
‘We got the best cook in the Territory, bar none,’ Dave Haynes told him.
‘You oughta stick around, Jim .’
‘Or are you headin’ West? There was a brittle silence following the question gauchely put by Curt Parr. In this country, as they all knew, it was considered neither polite nor wise to ask too much about where a man was going—or where he had come from. Green did not, however, seem to notice the silence, but smiled, and said ‘I wasn’t headin’ for no place in particular. I just rid up from Texas to see the country—sort of in the general direction of Santa Fe.’
‘Ridin’ the chuckline, Jim?’ Tate asked mildly. It was a polite way of asking if Green had a job, or money.
‘I ain’t broke, if that’s what you mean, seh,’ the cowboy told him. ‘An’ I got a job—sort of.’ Green said no more, but many years later, when the news reached them that his ‘job’ was finished, those present were to remember his words.
Green leaned back in his chair and through the smoke of his cigarette surveyed the Slash 8 outfit as they joshed each other about the day’s work. Gimpy, loyal, tough, and incorruptible, one of the old breed of riders who would literally die for the ranch he worked on, was obviously their unofficial leader. Dave Haynes, a straight, open youngster without an ounce of guile in his system. Dobbs and Shorty, both young, both full of high spirits, both likely to be good men to have around when things got tough. Only Curt Parr puzzled him; the man’s personality did not seem to fit in this essentially happy—go-lucky group. Green resolved to ask the old man about Parr later if he got the chance. At that moment, his reverie was interrupted by the rancher himself, who pounded the table with his fist for silence.
‘Boys, I ain’t much on speechifyin’,’ the old man began, ‘but I got somethin’ to tell you. I near stretched rope today, an’ I been thinkin’ deep ever since. They say a man thinks better when he’s nigh on meetin’ his Maker.’ He joined the chuckle which these words prompted, then continued, ‘You boys got a right to choose yore own trail. As far as I’m concerned, there’s goin’ to be trouble in this valley. Barclay wants my land, an' these hired gunslicks o’ his ain’t goin’ to give up easy. Which means some shootin’. Now, wait a minnit!—’ He held up his hands to stem a rising tide of protest and comment from his riders. ‘Afore you all buck-jump into a range war, you better hear me out. This is about my girl Grace.’
Gimpy leaned over to Green and murmured ‘The old man’s daughter. She’s in some fancy school back East.’ Green nodded his understanding as Tate continued talking.
‘Grace is nigh on twenty-one years old, boys, and she ain’t been out here for mebbe ten years. She’s been in a high-toned school since I cain’t recall when, an’ I’m wagerin’ she ain’t over-interested in running no ranch in New Mexico. I made me a will, years ago, an’ if anythin’ happens to me, the Slash 8 goes to Grace. You boys followin’ my drift?’
‘Hell, boss, yo’re sayin’ that if anythin’ happens to you, we’ll prob’ly find ourselves riding the chuckline,’ Dobbs said.
‘That’s about the way of it,’ Tate admitted.
‘Well, only one thing we can do, ain’t there?’ Gimpy asked. The Slash 8 crew nodded almost in unison. ‘Just make dang shore nothin’ happens to you!’ finished the old puncher.
A babble of agreement and argument followed these words, while Tate pounded the table trying to get them to stop and listen to him. After a few moments his efforts met with success and the riders turned to face him again.
‘You boys ain’t makin’ sense,’ he told them vehemently. ‘This place is awready mortgaged; I could easy sell out to the bank, move out o’ here, give you all a grubstake. If you stay, I can’t guarantee . . .’
That was as far as he got. A chorus of yells, denunciations, and arguments drowned whatever he was saying, until finally Gimpy pounded the table with the butt of his six-shooter and, casting a cold eye upon his fellows, stood up and announced, ‘I just ee-lected myself spokesman for this yere outfit. Anyone got any complaints about that, now’s the time to voice ’em!’
There was a silence worthy of a cemetery, and Green smiled to himself at Gimpy’s command over the crew.
‘Boss, what we got to say can be said short an’ sweet. We-all don’t care if you leave the Slash 8 to the Ol’ Ladies Home. Long as yo’re here, we aim to stay here with you, come hell or high water.’
A shout of agreement followed this speech, and Tate looked at his riders with an expression in which relief fought against and was extinguished by affection. With misty eyes, the old man said, ‘She’s a gamble, either way, but I figger the Slash 8’s worth it. Them night-ridin’ skunks’ll have a tough row to hoe.’
‘You said it, boss,’ chimed in Dave Haynes, his eyes snapping with eagerness. ‘Give Cookie a gun an’ there’ll be seven of us. That’ll make ’em think twice afore they try anything.’
‘Mebbe I didn’t oughta butt in on yore private scrap, seh,’ interposed Green, ‘but you can make that eight—if you an’ yore boys’ll have me.’
Tate looked up quickly. ‘You mean you’d—throw in with us, Jim?’
‘Why not?’ was the cool reply. ‘I ain’t shore but what I might find what I’m a—lookin’ for right here in Sweetwater Valley.’
‘Well, dang me if you ain’t welcome, an’ that’s for true,’ Tate chortled. ‘We can use all the help we can get.’
Green’s eyes flickered quickly over the faces of the Slash 8 crew. In only one pair of eyes did he see anything except whole-hearted camaraderie.
‘Boss is right, Jim,’ Dobbs added. ‘We can use extry hands.’
‘Yep,’ pointed out Shorty. ‘Someone’s got to double up to make up for Ben, account o’ he’s so shy.’
‘Shy? What do you mean, shy?’ fumed the outraged cowboy to whom this remark was addressed.
‘Work-shy, o’ course,’ grinned Shorty.
‘Me
, work-shy? Why, you fat tub o’ lard, I do more—’
‘—eatin’ than workin’, we know,’ interrupted Gimpy. ‘Quit yore chatterin’, boys, it’s time to hit the hay.’ So saying, he rose from his chair and made his way to the door, pausing to call goodnight to the old cook. Presently the others followed suit, and Tate asked Dave Haynes to make up an extra bunk for Green in the bunkhouse. Green stood as well, but Tate motioned him to stay, and when they were alone, he faced the new Slash S man squarely.
‘Jim, I got to thank you—’ he began.
‘I done told you, that ain’t half necessary,’ was Green’s reply.
‘I aim to get well paid in good eatin’.’
The old man nodded, obviously deep in thought, and the two men smoked in silence for a while. Presently, Tate spoke again.
‘Jim, how would you feel about lookin’ after my affairs for me—if somethin’ was to happen?’
‘Shucks, nothin’s goin’ to happen to you, seh,’ Green told him.
‘Mebbe, mebbe not. I’d like to think that I got everythin’ in order just in case. Won’t you think about it, Jim? I was thinkin’ mebbe I could make you my foreman, an—’
‘Mister Tate, you don’t know anythin’ about me,’ Green told the rancher. ‘I’m thinkin’ you feel beholden to me, account o’ what happened. But—’
‘—but, nothin’, Jim. I reckon I know how to size up a man. You ain’t no long rider.’
Green smiled, and the old man misinterpreted Green’s expression.
‘Yo’re thinkin’ about what happened this afternoon. Hell, boy, that was a mistake .... ’
‘No, seh, it ain’t that.’ All traces of humor disappeared from Green’s face as he spoke, and something akin to sorrow took its place. ‘I’m right proud o’ yore confidence. But I better tell you how wrong you are: down in Texas, where I come from, I’m known by another name. They call me “Sudden”.’
Sudden! Tate’s eyes widened at this revelation. So this quietly-spoken young man who had already so ably demonstrated his wizardry with the six-gun was Sudden, the daredevil whose exploits were already becoming a legend in the West. Sudden, who had cleaned out Hell City and Lawless! Few had not heard of his lightning speed on the draw, his amazing adventures, or of the fact that he was wanted for murder. Tate looked afresh at the man who had saved his life.
‘Jim,’ he said slowly, ‘I don’t care where you come from, or what you done. From here on in, I ain’t never believin’ another lyin’ word I ever hear about Sudden the outlaw. Although I never figgered on this nohow . . .’
‘It’s true enough, seh,’ Green said. ‘If I hadn’t told you, it mighta come back on you some day.’
Tate puffed on his pipe furiously for a moment.
‘What I said still goes,’ he announced finally. ‘If anythin’ happens to me, I want you to run this ranch until my girl is of age. I’m a-makin’ a paper tonight to that effect. Tomorrow, I’ll send it over to my old friend Judge Amos Pringle in South Bend.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘I’ll have to tell him, boy.’
Green looked up quickly. ‘You trust him.’ It was not really a question, but Tate nodded just the same. ‘Then tell him the whole story,’ continued Green. His voice was harsh and compelling. The two men sat limned by the lamplight, Tate listening in amazement as the black-haired cowboy proceeded to tell the story of how blind Fate had thrust upon him the unenviable reputation he owned. In awed silence, the old rancher heard of a boy’s promise to a dying man, of a blind search for two killers which had ensued, and of the false accusation that had sent Green, then a mere youth, wandering in the West with a price on his head and every man’s hand against him. At the end of the story, Tate shook his head and said, ‘What I said goes, Jim. If yo’re Sudden, then there’s been some damn lies told about you. In the meanwhile’—he held out his hand—‘I’m backin’ you to a fare-thee-well. You’ll take the job?’
‘I’ll do the best I can, seh,’ promised Sudden. The two men shook hands gravely.
‘Never expected nothin’ else,’ was Tate’s gruff rejoinder.
They said goodnight and Sudden left the old man alone with his pipe in the comfortable room. ‘So that’s Sudden,’ Tate reflected. ‘He’s all o’ that, I reckon. I’m mighty glad he’s on my side o’ the river.’ Nodding to himself, he knocked out the ashes of his pipe in the huge fireplace, and sat down at the battered old roll top desk, pulling out pen and paper. He scratched away laboriously for some time until what he had written was entirely to his satisfaction, and then stood up, stretching. He walked over to the kitchen door and called for Cookie, who came in wiping his hands.
‘Want you to read that,’ Tate nodded at the letter, ‘an’ witness my signature.’ Without comment, Cookie picked up the letter and read what Tate had written. Surprise came and went in his expression, but he finished the letter before asking, ‘You know what yo’re doin’, I hope?’
‘I hope,’ was the non-committal reply.
‘What’s this bit mean here?’ the cook asked, ‘ “When Green is ready to tell you about himself, be prepared for a surprise, perhaps a shock, but judge him by his actions up to then as you I know them and nothing else.” ’
‘It means I ain’t tellin’ you no more’n I told Judge Pringle,’ was the waspish reply. ‘Just sign the letter.’
‘I’ll sign,’ muttered the cook, ‘but yo’re shore puttin’ a lot o’ trust in a man you only met today. He could be planted by Barclay, you ever think o’ that?’
‘Shore,’ was the equable reply. ‘I’m gamblin’ on it not bein’ so. In fact, you might say I was stakin’ everything I own on it.’
Cookie nodded, once, then quickly scribbled his signature beneath that of his employer. ‘From what I seen today, I figger yo’re probably right. I just hope he ain’t gonna get frightened off if things get tougher.’
The old man shook his head, his tired eyes bright.
‘Somethin’ tells me he’s a hard man to frighten, Cookie. Very hard, indeed.’
ChapterTwo
Immediately after breakfast next morning, George Tate accompanied Sudden to the corral, where the men were readying their horses prior to receiving orders for the day’s work. Tate told them of his decision to make Green his special lieutenant.
‘I ain’t figgerin’ on gettin’ bushwhacked,’ the old man told his riders, ‘but if anythin’ happens to me, Jim will take over the runnin’ o’ the Slash 8. For now, he’s one of you. Any questions? Gimpy limped forward. ‘Boss, up to now I been foreman. You want to change that, it’s okay with me. If there’s any shootin’ war startin’ I figger Jim here can teach us all a trick or two.?
‘Gimpy, you been my foreman a number o’ years,’ Tate said. ‘I figger yo’re about the best man in the Territory, an’ that includes Jim here—meanin’ no offence, Jim.Gimpy knows this range like his own hand, an’ you don’t. I’m talkin’ about what happens if—’
‘Hell, boss, don’t go on about it,’ chipped in Dobbs, ‘you make a man right mournful. Me, I figger Jim knows which end of a horse is the front. We can show him anythin’ else he needs to know. Speakin’ for myself, I’m shore glad he’s joinin’ the Slash 8!’
The chorus of agreement which had followed this remark had made Green feel completely welcome among the Slash 8 riders, and after a few further remarks, Tate had stumped back into the house, leaving Gimpy to allocate the day’s chores. Gimpy suggested that Dave Haynes accompany Green on a brief tour of the Slash 8 range, to get the lay of the land, a suggestion which met with both Green’s and Dave Haynes’ approval.
‘I’ll saddle up an’ be right with yu,’ he told the young cowboy.
‘No need for that, Green,’ Curt Parr called out. ‘I already saddled a horse for yu.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the corral, saying “I figgered yore nag probably needed a rest, so I got Ol’ Sleepy ready for yu. He’s a mite long in the tooth, but if yu get lost, he’ll shore show yu the way home.’ The sneering smile which accompanied t
hese remarks, and the barely concealed grins of the other riders, who were making no attempt to depart about the business which Gimpy had outlined to them, deepened Green’s suspicions. Sudden surmised that Parr had concocted a special welcome for him. He did not miss Dave Haynes’ worried frown at the sight of the seemingly placid horse which now stood, eyelids drooping, tail twitching despondently. The grinning Parr led the animal out into the yard and handed the reins to Sudden. With a shrug, he accepted the reins from Parr and vaulted into the saddle.
Even before he had got his feet settled firmly in the stirrups, the pony, with a vicious squeal of rage, dropped its head and leaped into the air, coming down on legs as rigid as steel rods. Sudden, who had been partially prepared for something of the sort, did not lose his seat, however, but gripped with his knees and hauled up on the reins, sawing at the animal’s head until, by sheer strength, he brought it up. Instantly, the pony reversed its tactics and reared upwards and backwards, intending to roll over with its full weight upon the hated rider upon its back.
Sudden drove home his spurs and threw his weight forward, and again the maddened beast’s purpose was foiled. Undeterred, however, it now began to buck, sunfish, swap ends, and generally employ what Dave Haynes referred to later as ‘all the tricks in the book, plus a few that ain’t been invented yet’, in its attempts to dislodge the rider on its back. Yet still the grim-faced Sudden kept his seat. His lean visage, jaw tautly set, snapped back with each jolt, and a trickle of blood appeared from his nostrils. Only the steely grip on the reins, forcing the bit back into the animal’s mouth, kept it from getting its head forward.
Once again, the horse reared backwards, but this time the rider was ready for such a maneuver, and drawing his pistol with lightning speed, brought the barrel crashing down between the brute’s ears with a force that jarred the creature into near insensibility. Another attempt received the same treatment, and this time the horse, with a scream of rage, began to thunder around the yard, scattering the watchers, while Green’s ruthless grip on the reins hauled its run into a tight circle. A few moments more and the animal came to a standstill, sides heaving and white with foam, its eyes rolling, but none the less, mastered. In another few seconds, Green vaulted down from the saddle, and stroked the flaring muzzle. Dave Haynes stepped forward.
Sudden--Strikes Back (A Sudden Western #1) Page 3
