“How did Dad come to be on that trail?” Dan asked finally.
“Came to meet you,” was the reply. “He had a message askin’ him to, left by a stranger who claimed to have run into you; must ‘a’ bin soon after you started.”
“I never sent it, an’ didn’t see a soul till I was halfway to the Bend; it was just a trap.”
Another thought brought his brows together. “Nobody outside o’ here knowed I was goin’ —I on’y decided this mornin’.”
“Either they’re watchin’ yu, or someone passed the word,” Sudden remarked. “Shore o’ yore hands?”
“They’ve all been with us some time ‘cept one, who came a few months back. Dunno much about him—Dad warn’t the suspectful sort, unfortunately.”
Sudden smothered a smile; Dave Dover had passed on his trustfulness to his son apparently, as witness his own case.
“Flint is wise to his work, an’ does it,” Burke put in.
“If he’s here for a purpose, he’d naturally wanta stay,” Sudden pointed out. “Who’s the boy?”
“Dad picked him up at the Bend ‘bout twelve months ago. Just a hobo kid stealin’ a ride on a freight car what come further west than he figured on. He was precious near starved, an’ his lungs is all shot to pieces. Wouldn’t give any name, but he talked a lot o’ New York, so the boys christened him `yorky.’ He’s s’posed to help the cook, but spends most of his time smokin’ cigarettes an’ damnin’ everythin’ an’ everybody.
“A queer li’l runt—‘pears to have a spite agin hisself—but he’s got guts. Soon after he arrived, he goes with one o’ the men in the buckboard to Rainbow. Said the ranch was deadly dull, an’ he wanted some excitement. He got it. The storekeeper’s son, a big lummox of a lad an’ the town bully, started on him. They fought, an’ Yorky was fetched home with a bruise on every inch of his body. But not a chirp could we git out’n him.—.”
“Dad was hoppin’ mad. He rides into Rainbow next mornin’, learns the truth, an’ tackles the storekeeper. ‘I want a word with your boy, Evans,’ he sez. `You needn’t to trouble, Dover, he’s had his lesson,’ the storekeeper replies. `Right now he’s in bed, both eyes bunged up, two teeth missin’, an’ a neck what looks like he’d had a turn-up with a cougar.’
“`Yorky was half-dead to begin with, an’ yore boy twice his weight,’ Dad points out.
“`Mebbe, but the half what ain’t dead is lively enough,’ Evans retorts. `He fought like a wild thing—fists, feet, teeth, an’ nails, anythin’ went, an’ when I drags ‘em apart, he stands there spittin’ out blood an’ curses. “No blasted hayseed can call me names an’ git away with it,” he sez, an’ keels over.’ ”
Dan was silent for a moment, his eyes sombre. “That was Dad,” he said. “Hard as granite at need, but with ever a soft spot for sufferin’ in man or beast; I’ve knowed him mighty near kill a man for maltreatin’ a hoss.” He roused himself, striving to thrust aside the burden of grief which oppressed Hun. -Well, this ain’t gettin us no place. Burke, l’m minded to ask Green to be foreman.”
“What you say, goes, Dan,” the little man replied steadily: Sudden shook his head. “That won’t do nohow; I’ve a better plan,” he said. “Burke here, knowin’ the range an’ the outfit, oughta be foreman; that’s on’y right an’ fair. I can be more use to yu if I ain’t tied. Call me stray-man, say; that’ll give me a chance to snoop around, learn the country; an’ keep my eyes an’ ears open.”
Burke’s despondent face brightened amazingly at this proposition, but Dover still seemed doubtful. “I’d like a lot for Bill to have the job—it’s due him,” he admitted. “But it don’t seem much to offer you.”
“Shucks!” was the smiling reply. “It ain’t what a man’s called but what he does that matters.”
“If Jim slept here ‘stead of in the bunkhouse he’d be less liable to have his comin’s an’ goin’s noticed,” Burke suggested.
“Which is one damn good notion,” Dover said eagerly. “I’ll be glad to have you, Jim; it’s goin’ to be lonesome …” He broke off and swept a hand across his eyes as though to disperse the mist of misery which enveloped him every time he thought of his loss. “Hell burn them,” he burst out. “They shall pay, the curs.” The moment of fury passed, and he looked up wearily.
“Didn’t mean to let go thataway. Burke, the boys will have the bad news by this; go an’ tell ‘em the good—‘bout yoreself; I reckon they’ll be as pleased as I am.”
“I’m obliged, Dan,” the foreman replied. “I’ll do my best.” He turned to Sudden. “I’m thankin’ you too, Jim; mebbe I was lyin’ about that ambition.”
“Yu didn’t deceive me, ol’-timer,” the puncher grinned.
When they were alone, he looked at the boy into whose life he had so strangely stepped.
“Yu got a good man there,” he remarked. “Yu’ve done the square thing by him, an’ yu won’t regret it.”
“No, Bill Burke’s white, an’ he was fond o’ Dad,” Dover replied. “Jim, the situation is more desperate than when I spoke to you at the Bend; it ain’t too late to slide out—if you want.”
“Forget it,” Sudden said. “When I start anythin’ I aim to go through. All I want now is a bed, an’ it wouldn’t do yu no real harm to try one. An’ remember—there’s allus light behind even the blackest cloud.”
Breakfast was no more than over when Yorky came in to say that “a guy from town” was asking for Dan. The young man went out, and Sudden followed. The visitor proved to be Hicks.
“Mornin’, gents,” he said, pleasantly enough. “The sheriff’s holdin’ an enquiry into yestiddy’s bad business, an’ he’d like you both to be there. It’ll be at Sody’s, an’ Foxy sez mebbe you could fetch along …” He broke off.
“You can tell him—” Dan began fiercely.
“That we’ll be on hand,” Sudden finished, and when the messenger had departed, added,
“No sense in r’arin’ up an’ settin’ folks against us.”
“It’ll be a mere farce,” was the bitter comment.
“Shore, but we gotta play the game their way—for a spell,” Sudden replied, and then, thoughtfully, “Some o’ yore outfit might care to be present at the buryin’—Burke, say, an’ three-four others.”
“Yu think they’ll try anythin’?”
“Oh, I guess not, but as a mark o’ respect for the deceased, yu know.”
So it came about that when the buckboard, driven by Burke, arrived in town, it was accompanied by five armed horsemen, a fact that caused a stir of excitement.
“Who’s the black-haired hombre?” asked Seller, who, as carpenter and coffin-maker, had an interest in the proceedings.
‘Must be the fella what found the body an’ held up Foxy,”
Evans told him. Some of the sheriff’s party had talked. “If he’s throwin’ in with the Circle Dot, gettin’ rid o’ Ol’ Dave ain’t goin’ to help much.”
“Ain’t the Wagon-wheel dealin’ with you now?” came the sarcastic query. “Or are you tired o’ livin’?”
“They are, an’ I ain’t, but I don’t like ‘em none the more for that,” the storekeeper retorted.
“If this burg has to sit up an’ beg every time Trenton gives the word, it’s a mighty pore prospect.”
“You said it. Dave Dover had a rough tongue, but he was a square shooter. Well, I got a box for him—it pays to keep one ready in this man’s town—but I’d lie fer some other fella was to fill it.”
Rainbow was a small place, and utterly unlovely—a huddle of primitive buildings flung haphazard along one side of a sandy but unfailing stream. It boasted a bank, stores, an hotel—so-called—eating-house, and a sprinkling of private habitations. It owed its existence mainly to the proximity of two ranches—the Circle Dot and the Wagon-wheel—and also to the fact that its location and supply of water made it a convenient halt for trail-herds from more distant ranges bound for the Bend.
Relaxation was lavishly catered for; a facetio
us citizen once remarked, “Take away her saloons, an’ Rainbow very nearly ain’t.” The most important of these were the Parlour, and Sody’s. It was into the latter that the corpse of the murdered man, covered with a blanket, was carried and laid at one side of the cleared space in front of the bar. The sheriff was seated at a table, with half a dozen citizens ranged behind him; his eyes grew meaner when the Circle Dot contingent entered.
“Any need to fetch along them riders?” he snarled. “They’ve as much right to be here as you have,” Dan told him.
“Well, let’s git on. Gotta be reg’lar, but I reckon we’re just losin’ time on this yer enquiry.”
“I didn’t ask for it. Shore is a waste o’ time; even you can’t make it anythin’ but murder.”
“That’s for the jury to decide,” Foxwell snapped. “I’ve selected ‘em a’ready.”
“So I see—all men who didn’t think much o’ Dad.”
“It wouldn’t ‘a’ bin easy to find six who did,” the sheriff sneered.
“An’ that’s a damned lie,” Dan flared. “So now what?”
Before any reply could be made, a man, who had been kneeling beside the body, stood up. Dressed in a skirted coat which had once been black, a dirty boiled shirt, coarse trousers tucked untidily into the tops of his boots, he presented a picture of gentility in the last stages of decay. And his gaunt, clever, but dissipated features, and long, untended hair, added to the illusion, though he was little more than thirty years of age. His red-rimmed eyes regarded the peace officer belligerently.
“Have you brought me from my bottle to listen to your wrangling?” he demanded, in a hoarse but cultured voice. “Of course, Foxwell, if—by a miracle—you are about to fight and provide me with a patient, I am not objecting.”
The sheriff had no intention of fighting, despite the gibe; he found the interruption very timely.
“I’ll take yore report first, Malachi,” he said.
“Doctor Malachi, to you,” came the correction. “What do you imagine I can tell you? The man is dead—been so for fifteen hours, or more; shot from behind, doubtless from hiding, as seems to be the chivalrous custom in these parts. Here’s the bullet, from which you will learn little; contact with the spinal column has distorted it.” He tossed the bloodstained pellet on the table, wiped his long, thin fingers on a rag of a handkerchief, and added, “My fee is five dollars—cash.”
Foxwell stared at him. “Hell, Doc, you ain’t told us nothin’ we didn’t know,” he protested.
“Five bucks for diggin’ out a slug?”
“That is my charge for extractions—teeth or bullets,” Malachi returned serenely. “And remember, Sheriff, if you should chance to become ill, it would be most unfortunate if I were too occupied to attend you.”
The officer glowered but gave in, not unmindful of the fact that most of those present were enjoying the incident. The doctor, despite his loose habits and acid tongue was, by reason of his profession and education, a privileged person; he was, in truth, the only qualified medical man within a radius of fifty miles or more. Malachi picked up the bill Foxwell produced, walked to the bar, and appeared to take no further interest in the proceedings. The sheriff examined the fatal fragment of lead.
“Like Doc said, it don’t tell us a thing,” he said, and Sudden could have sworn to the relief in his tone.
“My statement was that you wouldn’t learn much,” a voice from the bar interjected.
“Weigh it, you idiot.”
Foxwell had to comply. Scales and an assortment of cart ridges were fetched; only in one instance did the weights tally.
“She’s a thirty-eight,” Hicks, who was making the tests announced. “That don’t git us much further, unless—” His gaze went to Sudden. “What gun do you carry, Mister?”
“A forty-four,” the cowboy replied.
“No good foolin’ about over the slug, thirty-eights ain’t so scarce,” the sheriff said irritably. “We wanta hear how that fella found the body.”
“I met young Dover in Sandy Bend an’ mentioned I was needin’ a job. He asked me to head for the Circle Dot, an’ promised to follow later. On the way I heard a shot an’, soon after, came upon the dead man. I was lookin’ him over when the sheriff an’ his posse turned up.
Then—”
“Awright, I know the rest,” Foxwell cut in hastily.
“A murdered man, and another on the spot, that should have been enough evidence for you, Foxy. Why didn’t you hang him?”
The sarcastic question came from the bar, and the sheriff unthinkingly told a half-truth. “I changed my mind.”
“I don’t blame you,” was the instant rejoinder. “If I had a mind like yours I’d do the same.” A ripple of laughter followed, and the voice went on, “Don’t you think the jury might like to know the reason for this astounding departure from your usual methods?”
“The jury knows all it needs to,” the badgered man retorted.
“Including the decision it is to come to, I expect. Then why hold the enquiry? God! what a fool you are, Foxy.”
Purple in the face, the sheriff turned on his tormentor. “When I want yore help I’ll ask for it. Yo’re—”
“Fee for a consultation is ten dollars, in advance—from you,” the doctor finished.
“Obstructin’ the course o’ justice.”
“Justice! Why, you couldn’t spell the damn word, much less administer it,” Malachi laughed, and presenting his back, poured another drink.
The sheriff breathed a sigh of relief; he stood no chance in a verbal contest with that man.
In an effort to regain his self-respect, he glared round the room.
‘You got anythin’ to say, Dover?”
“Plenty,” the young fellow replied, and told of the message his father had received. “It did not come from me—it was a trap, an’ it’s an easy guess who set it.”
“Guessin’ won’t git us nowhere; the Law demands proof,” Foxwell said unctuously.
“The Law here squats on its rump an’ does nothin’,” Dan sneered. “This ain’t the first time a man has been done to death by a yellow-livered sneak afraid to show hisself. Well, I ain’t askin’ yore help, Sheriff; the Circle Dot can handle it.”
The officer scowled, and then, “What is it, Bundy’?” as a lumpy cowboy in his early thirties, whose craggy face seemed to be endowed with a permanent sneer, stepped forward.
“All I wanta say is that yestiddy afternoon the en-tire Wagon-wheel outfit was workin’ ten mile from where the shootin’ took place.”
“Methinks the witness doth protest too much,” came a comment from the bar.
The sheriff swore. But evidently the statement was what he had been waiting for. “We ain’t gittin’ no forader,” he said testily, and turned to the men standing behind him. Then, “The jury finds that deceased died from a gun-shot wound, but there ain’t no evidence to show who done it.”
“Had any existed, there would have been no enquiry,” Malachi added. “Foxy, when my commodious abode needs white-washing, the job is yours.”
“Who was it spoke for the Wagon-wheel?” Sudden asked.
“The foreman, as nasty a piece o’ work as the Lord ever put breath into,” Dan replied.
“Sent a-purpose, an’ the sheriff knew it.”
“That sawbones ain’t much respect for the Law.”
“Devilin’ Foxy is just pie to him, but it’s a dangerous game. He’s a queer cuss, but I like him.”
Chapter IV
That afternoon another oblong heap of heavy stones was added to the little cemetery, a scant half-mile from the town. It was a pretty place, a tiny plateau of short grass, sprinkled with gay-coloured flowers, and ringed in with shrubs and trees through which the sun sent flickering shadows. Rainbow did not possess a parson, so there was no-ceremony. The men present stood around, hats off, watching silently. When all was done, Dan, looking down upon the pitiful pile through misty eyes and gripping the brim of his Stetson with te
nse fingers, registered a vow:
“They shan’t beat us, Dad,” he muttered, and turned away. As the empty buckboard, with its escort of stern-faced riders moved slowly towards the town, a stout, ruddy-cheeked horseman slowed up to allow the young cattleman to join him.
“I’m powerful sorry, boy,” he began. “I’ve knowed the Ol’ Man since you were knee-high to a sage-hen, an’ knowed him well. He was hard-shelled, but inside he was the pure quill. He never let down a friend, or let up on a foe, an’ for anybody in distress, he was a safe bet. Losin’ yore mother shook him terrible, but if the preachers is right, mebbe they’re together agin.” He was silent for a moment. “What I wanted to say was, if there’s anythin’ I can do, any time, come to me.”
“That’s mighty nice o’ you, Bowdyr,” Dan replied. “I’ll not forget. Guess I’ll be needin’ friends.”
“Yore new hand looks a likely proposition. What do you know about him?”
“Not a thing; I took a chance.”
“Fella has to—times,” Bowdyr agreed. He studied the puncher—who was riding on the other side of the buckboard —for a while. “I’d ‘a’ done the same—with him.”
When they reached Rainbow, Bowdyr drew rein at the Parlour Saloon, of which he was the proprietor, and voiced an invitation.
“I don’t feel like drinkin’, Ben,” Dover said.
“A livener won’t do us any harm, son,” Bowdyr argued. “Frettin’ ain’t goin’ to fetch the of boy back, an’ I want a word with you.”
The Parlour was very similar to Sody’s but rather smaller. It had a long, highly-polished bar—the pride of its owner—facing the swing-doors. In front of it were tables and chairs. A roulette wheel, and other forms of gambling were to be found on the right side, while to the left was space for dancing, and a piano. Mirrors, and brightly-coloured Navajo blankets served to relieve the bareness of the wooden walls.
Sudden: Makes War Page 3
