Sudden--At Bay (A Sudden Western #2)

by Frederick H. Christian

  ‘Shore wouldn’t pay to make a run for it he told himself. ‘That’s just what they’d like me to do. But if I don’t, I’m a goner anyway.’ They descended a narrow defile, the weather-scoured rock walls of which were bare, relieved only in a few places by scattered clumps of brush clinging precariously where an earth-filled crevice afforded root-hold, huge rocks and thickets of prickly pear making detours inevitable and progress slow.

  From time to time, as they rode along, Green tested his bonds, but they had been expertly tied. Indeed, he reflected, his silent guards were just as professional. Not once had either of them spoken, and yet their moves were as if planned. Neither of them had once come within striking distance, yet neither had ever been more than a few yards away from the prisoner at any time.

  ‘Probably done this enough times to have it off pat he reflected grimly. He glanced at the sun. One o’clock or thereabouts. Sooner or later they were going to act. How would it come? A blasting sound, a tearing pain, blackness? No warning of the fatal moment, or the perhaps worse experience of facing the two men and waiting those eternal seconds as their fingers tightened on the triggers? Despite the heat of the sun a chill entered his veins. How far had they come? Five miles, seven maybe. Despite his iron control, Green felt an instinctive desire to break the menacing, nerve-shattering silence.

  ‘Shore could do with a drink,’ he said aloud.

  ‘Yu’ll get one when we’re ready,’ Norris told him from behind. ‘Keep movin’, cowboy.’

  The stillness of the wide, rolling country wrapped around them again like a shroud. The blazing sun hung in a dome of cloudless blue. Nothing moved. No bird, no lizard darting among the rocks, nothing —-.Nature seemed to have deserted this desolation, leaving a silence like that of the tomb. They rode in this silence for perhaps another mile. Then the one called Dan said:

  ‘This’ll do. Get down, Green.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘Yu stupid fool!’

  The flat, sharp sound of an open-handed slap echoed around the spare room of the house owned by Fred Mott, Sim Cotton’s cousin, the town banker. It was a small room, containing only a table with an oil lamp, a few chairs, a bunk and a roll top desk. Mott, a thin, balding, bespectacled man, used it for a ‘study’, but whenever Sim Cotton needed a bed in town, he utilized this room, snoring on the rough bunk which filled one wall.

  It was against this now that Buck Cotton sprawled, a trickle of blood emerging from the split lip caused by his older brother’s contemptuous blow.

  ‘But Sim…’ he began.

  ‘ “But Sim!” ‘ mimicked the bigger man in a squeaking voice. ‘ “It was all in fun, Sim.” Yu thick-headed oaf! How many times’ve I told yu to steer clear o’ them nesters? How many times? Tell me, yu pup!’

  ‘Yu’ve told me plenty o’ times, Sim,’ confessed Buck Cotton, miserably.

  ‘Yet yu still go an’ raise a ruckus with one o’ their women,’ was the biting retort. ‘I reckon Paw forgot to send for brains when yu was born.’

  He turned to Art Cotton, who was sitting straddling a chair, his arms folded along its back, watching the scene with impassive eyes.

  ‘What did the doctor say, Art?’

  Art Cotton shrugged.

  ‘Said the gal’d had a shock. Nothin’ serious wrong with her. He’d love to’ve spit in my eye. Think he’s smitten hisself. Yu shore picked a wrong ‘un there, Bucky. Next time, yu’d better go down to the ol’ Fort if yo’re hankerin’ after a leetle romancin’.’

  ‘Yu hanker after any more romancin’ an’ I’ll hang yore hide on the livery stable wall for the whole town to see!’ swore Sim Cotton. ‘This is our town. We got it like that.’ He held out his open hand and clenched it like a fist. ‘All we got to do is get them nesters riled up enough to send for the John Laws an’ we’ll have more trouble than the Apaches ever gave Paw in a lifetime

  ‘Hell, Sim, we could take care o’ any Johnny Law that showed his nose in this valley, an’ make it look good,’ protested Art.

  ‘Shore,’ said Sim Cotton, with heavy scorn. ‘That’s smart thinkin’, ain’t it? They send in a John Law an’ yu want to burn him down. What happens then, Brains? What’s the next thing happens? I’ll tell yu: they send in another. And another, or two, or three. An’ then the whole thing is shot. I ain’t about to lose this valley now, not when the whole thing is going to pay off, after all these years. I ain’t goin’ to lose it, yu hear me? Not for some wet-nosed nester’s brat who ain’t even got blood in her veins.’ He looked threateningly at Buck Cotton. ‘If yu ever set foot on Lazy H land again, without my say-so, boy, I’ll make yu regret it.’

  The spaced, evenly measured lack of violence in his words turned Buck Cotton’s face pale, and he nodded.

  ‘Yu got my word, Sim,’ he managed.

  ‘An’ yu got mine, little brother,’ replied Sim. ‘Bite on it.’

  Art Cotton stood up and yawned. He wandered across to the window and looked out down the street. Mott’s house stood next to the bank, at the northern end of the town’s curving street. From this window, the whole street was visible.

  ‘Town’s nice’n quiet,’ remarked Art. ‘Yu reckon that kid’s nester friends’ll try to cause any trouble?’

  ‘Not if they know what’s good for ’em,’ Sim Cotton said. ‘Besides, Helm’ll have him out o’ here tonight.’

  ‘I wish yu’d let me take care o’ that one,’ muttered Buck Cotton.

  ‘I ain’t lettin’ yu, or Art get involved in any o’ this,’ growled Sim Cotton. ‘We’re playin’ for bigger stakes than the satisfaction o’ gettin’ even with some two-bit nester. When that dam goes up at Twin Peaks, this valley is goin’ to be worth more money than yu’ve ever dreamed was printed. This town is goin’ to boom, an’ we’re goin’ to be holdin’ all the aces. We can put our own price on the land, on the buildin’, on everything!’ His eyes gleamed avariciously as he allowed his thoughts to formulate pictures before his eyes. ‘But it ain’t certain until next month. An’ until next month we got to keep the lid tight on this town. Any sign o’ trouble, an’ Chris Helm steps in. Let him. If the John Laws come in, Helm’s the one caused all the trouble. I got a paper showin’ him hired out to Harry Parris as a deppity for the last two years!’ He laughed evilly. ‘We’ll be in the clear. It’ll all be ours! Every inch o’ this rotten fleabag of a town’ll be worth its weight in diamonds.’

  For a long moment, the fever of greed burned in his close-set eyes, then slowly died away, and he turned to Buck Cotton.

  ‘Get out o’ here,’ he said. There was a tone of something as close to affection as Sim Cotton could get. ‘Tell Chris Helm I want to see him.’

  Buck Cotton nodded, and went out, thankful to be released from his brother’s baleful gaze. In a few minutes, a discreet knock at the door which led directly on to the side alley from the room announced the arrival of the tall gunfighter. He ducked under the door lintel and nodded. ‘Sim, Art. Ol’ Martin did a fine job o’ speechifyin’ at the Oasis. I got him out o’ there afore his tongue got stuck in the bottle.’

  Sim Cotton looked up sharply. ‘Drunken ol’ fool,’ he snapped. ‘He give yu any trouble?’

  ‘Shucks, no,’ shrugged Helm. ‘I Just pointed him at his bed, an’ tapped him one behind the ear with this—’ He touched the butt of one of his six-guns. ‘He’ll wake up thinkin’ he swilled too much rotgut.’

  Sim Cotton nodded. He stood up and paced the width of the room three times before turning to face the gunfighter again.

  ‘This kid,’ he began. ‘I want yu to take care o’ things.’

  Helm nodded, his face unperturbed.

  ‘Yu reckon Harry’s boys might botch it? They ain’t yet.’

  ‘I want to be shore on this, Helm. That boy’s a firebrand. If he was to go shootin’ off his mouth, it could do us a lot o’ harm.’

  ‘I reckon was Helm’s uncritical reply. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll see he don’t cause you no trouble, Sim.’

  Cotton nodd
ed. Helm stood to go, then hesitated. Art Cotton looked up at the tall gunfighter.

  ‘That other feller,’ Helm began. ‘Green, he said his name was.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I had the feelin’ I’ve seen him someplace. Can’t put a finger on it. But … aw, hell, probably just imagination.’

  ‘No, wait,’ Sim Cotton held up a hand. ‘Where do yu reckon yu’ve run across this jasper? Is he a lawman?’

  Helm shook his head. ‘No, I don’t reckon so. But I got that hunch.

  ‘I’ve seen him someplace. Texas, mebbe. It’ll come to me.’

  ‘It don’t matter a hell of a lot,’ Art Cotton laughed coldly. ‘He’ll be snakebait by now.’ They joined in his mirthless laughter. Then Sim Cotton pulled out the elegant silver watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘One-thirty,’ he announced. ‘Let’s go an’ eat.’

  Thus callously did the lord of the valley dismiss from his thoughts the murderous deeds which had sprung from his dark plotter’s mind. He had just condemned Billy Hornby to death. In the fate of the other man, Green, he had no further interest. As Art Cotton had said, Green was already snakebait.

  Chapter Five

  ‘This’ll do. Get down, Green.’

  Dan’s command, when it came, was almost a relief after the endless tension of the miles they had ridden from town. Green turned to see the other deputy, Norris, unstrapping from behind his saddle a small folding shovel, such as the United States Cavalry carried on field expeditions.

  ‘Get down, I said!’ The repeated command was emphasized by a gesture with the shotgun. Green shrugged, and lifted his leg over the saddle horn, sliding down to the ground effortlessly despite his bound hands. As he did so, Dan covered him without dismounting, while Norris dismounted, dropped the shovel on the ground, and walking in a wide half-circle, never coming between the two men, sidled up behind Green.

  ‘Stick yore arms out behind yu,’ he ordered, and when Green complied, slashed the puncher’s bonds apart with two deft strokes of the knife. Green stood kneading the cramped muscles of his arms as Norris unhurriedly stepped backwards, away from him, as unhurriedly unhitched the shotgun from where it hung on the saddle horn by a leather loop, and covered Green as Dan dismounted.

  Dan motioned towards the shovel. ‘Start diggin’,’ he told Green.

  ‘My arms is mighty cramped, boys,’ Green remonstrated. ‘Give me a minnit to get ’em workin’ again.’

  ‘Start diggin’,’ snapped Norris. ‘That oughta do it.’ He smiled evilly at his companion, who grinned back.

  Green stretched his arms to their fullest extent. Then he placed his hands on his hips and faced his captors.

  ‘Yu boys aimin’ to kill me in cold blood?’

  ‘Dig!’ Again the gesture with the shotgun.

  ‘I’d as lief not bother,’ snapped Green. ‘If yo’re aimin’ to perforate me, I’m shore as hell not goin’ to dig my own grave.’

  The man called Dan looked at his fellow deputy and put on a resigned expression.

  ‘Why do we allus get the argumentary ones?’ he asked.

  ‘Beats me,’ admitted Norris.

  ‘Yu reckon we can talk him out o’ his bad mood?’

  Norris grinned evilly. ‘We could shore try. What yu wanta do? Shall I hold him, or will yu?’

  Dan grinned. His thick, stubbled chin dropped, revealing broken teeth, and Green realized that the man was one of those bar room toughs who relished nothing more than beating a defenseless man, or a weaker one, into a bloody, whimpering pulp.

  ‘Just keep that cannon pointed at him, an’ move to the side a bit,’ grinned Dan. ‘I’ll see if I can’t talk him out o’ this bad mood he’s in. Make him a mite more co-operative.’

  ‘Yeah, yu do that. On’y leave some for me, Dan. Don’t go breakin’ his leg or nothin’.’

  ‘Shore, Jerry, shore,’ mumbled the deputy. He laid down his shotgun, while Green’s mind raced. The reference that Norris had just made: could it be that this was the man who had crippled the doctor, the one that Billy had told him about? His eyes narrowed; he had no time to think any more about it, for Dan was shambling forward.

  ‘C’mon, cowboy,’ he mouthed. ‘Give me an argyment.’

  ‘Shore,’ Green replied. ‘Let me just get my bearin’s.’ Gauging his distances carefully, the puncher took three rapid steps, bringing himself almost directly between Dan and Norris. With a curse, Norris dropped his indolent pose and skipped hastily to one side, trying to get a clear aim at Green, and yelling ‘Dan! Hit the floor, Dan!’ But even as the words left his lips, Green was moving forward, fast and hard and low, flinging himself directly into the arms of the lumbering Dan, who reacted exactly as Green had figured he would, by wrapping his huge arms about the body of the puncher and exerting a bone-cracking bear hug, designed to snap his enemy’s spine. An evil growl escaped his corded throat, and he was oblivious to his companions’ yells.

  ‘Drop him, Danny,’ yelled Norris. ‘Let him go, yu dumb ape! Let me get a shot at him.’

  He danced to one side, the twin hammers of the shotgun fully cocked, as deadly as a barracuda. His shouts penetrated his sidekick’s murder-addled brain, and Dan shook his head angrily, realizing the trick that the puncher, now writhing in his punishing grip, had played on him. He loosened his grasp slightly, confused by Norris’ shouts, unsure of whether he had been tricked or not, and in that moment of loosening pressure, Green acted.

  With every ounce of strength he could muster, he heaved upwards with his right hand cupped, the heel of his palm catching the deputy flush beneath his bearded jaw, racking his head back with a huge jolt, stunning even that great bear of a man and sending him flailing backwards, while Green fell away and sideways out of his grip, nicking Dan’s revolver out of the holster at his side, firing almost beneath Dan’s arm at the menacing figure of Jerry Norris. His shot took the deputy between the eyes, blasting the man backwards dead on his feet as Green hit the ground. Norris’ fingers tightened in muscular spasm on the twin triggers of the shotgun as he fell backwards, and the huge boom! of the twin cartridges was shocking in the silence of the badlands.

  The shot from both barrels took Dan off his feet like a puppet thrown from a train, and he went over sidewards in a tattered heap, smashing into a pile of tumbled rocks and going over them in a welter of arms and legs.

  Green picked himself warily up, the .45 cocked and ready in his hand. A quick glance at Norris showed that the man was dead, and Green moved carefully over to where Dan had tumbled across the rocks. The man lay in a shattered heap where he had fallen. Green shook his head.

  ‘Never thought yu’d fall for that one, boys,’ he managed. He picked up Norris’ shotgun and reloaded it, gathered up the other shotgun, stripped the gun belt from the fallen Norris, and strapped it on his own waist. The second .45 he stuck into his waistband.

  ‘Ain’t quite like havin’ my own guns,’ he said to nobody in particular. ‘But it shore is an improvement over an hour ago.’ He walked over to where the horses stood, eyes still rolling in fear from the explosions, blessing the training which had kept them ground-hitched despite their terror, by the trailing reins. In another moment he was mounted. His gaze fell upon the shovel, lying upon the ground, and then rose to the black, wheeling dots already circling in the sky. The buzzards always knew.

  He hesitated for a long moment. Then he shook his head.

  ‘Yu boys knew what yu was gettin’ into,’ he said aloud. ‘I shore hate to do it, but…’

  With a shrug he caught up the reins of his horse and thundered off without a backward glance, heading north. Behind him the buzzards floated down and settled in a live oak tree to wait in their eternal patience for the silence to return.

  Chapter Six

  The afternoon sun beat down on Cottontown. Along the curve of the street the sidewalks were deserted. A small gray dog lay panting in the shade thrown by the awning of the livery stable, but otherwise no sound nor movement disturbed the stillness.
In appearance, Cottontown was typical of a hundred other Western settlements. Along its single street straggled a variety of squat, unlovely buildings, some of them slightly more imposing than others. They faced each other across a wide strip of wheel-rutted, hoof- pocked dust, the absence of paint remedied by the gray-white alkali dust which covered everything, and the rubble of refuse which hemmed in each habitation forming a sordid substitute for vegetation.

  Looking north along Cottonwood’s street, the largest building on the left was the wide, low-built jail, with the sheriff’s house just to the north of it, and beyond that the frame shack which housed Judge Kilpatrick. Opposite the jail was the livery stable, while the Oasis, with its peeling false front and grimy windows, directly faced the sheriff’s house, a fact which had not escaped the notice of some of Cottonwood’s more daring wits. The banker, Mott, lived on the northern end of the town, between the bank, which stood next to the saloon, and opposite the general store. His bank, in fact, was the most substantial building in the town. Apart from these larger buildings, only a straggle of houses, ’dobes, even one or two dugouts, housed the remainder of Cottontown’s population, while the spaces between were littered with tin cans, bottles, even the odd tumbleweed which had lodged against a building.