“Drinks are on the house this time, boys,” the saloon keeper told the Circle Dot riders, all of whom he knew, save one. Dover remedied this by introducing the new man.
“Ben, this is Jim Green; he’s goin’ to ride for us.”
“Glad to meetcha,” Bowdyr replied, and with a grin, “I own this joint, though the Circle Dot fellas sometimes act as if they did.”
“If they make trouble, Ben—
“Skittles, I was joshin’. They’re a good crowd. I reckon a cowboy with no devil in him is no more use than a busted bronc. Ain’t that so, Green?”
“It shorely is,” Sudden agreed.
“We’ll take our liquor over there,” Bowdyr suggested, pointing to a table in one corner.
“No need to tell everybody our affairs.” When they were seated, he resumed. “Now, Dan, I’m goin’ to ask a straight question, an’ I want the same kind o’ answer. In Sody’s this mornin’ you practically declared war on the Wagon-wheel. Did you mean that?”
“Every damn word,” the young man replied harshly. “They’re tryin’ to smash the Circle Dot; they shoot down our riders, an’ now they’ve murdered Dad. Mebbe I’m next on the slate, but until they get me, I’m fightin’ back.”
“Good enough,” the saloonkeeper said. “What I can do, I will.”
“Thanks, Ben. They had their alibi all fixed, but it was a mistake to send a liar like Bundy.”
“It’s got me guessin’,” Bowdyr remarked. “The Trentons was allus high-handed an’ disregardful of other folks’ rights, but this ambushin’ ain’t like ‘em.”
“That’s so, but the fella who’s been givin’ the orders at the Wagon-wheel for some time is that Easterner, Chesney Garstone. I figure he’s got Zeb hawg-tied.”
“An Easterner, an’ runnin’ a cattle-range?” Sudden queried. “Oh, Trenton does that; this jasper just runs Trenton,” Dan explained.
“Been around long?”
“Less’n twelve months, but that’s too long. Hell, there he comes. Don’t often favour you, does he, Ben?”
“No, an’ I ain’t regardin’ it thataway neither,” the saloonkeeper replied bluntly.
Chesney Garstone was a big man, physically, and in his own estimation. About midway between thirty and forty, heavily-built, his close-cropped fair hair, blue eyes, and somewhat square head gave him a Teutonic appearance. He was meticulously attired; trousers neatly folded into the tops of his highly-polished riding-boots, a silk shirt, loosely-tied cravat, and soft black hat. Altogether a striking figure in any company. To their surprise, he stepped towards them.
“I came in to see you, Dover,” he began. “I want to say how sorry I am—only heard the news two hours ago, when I rode in from the Bend.”
Dan ignored the outstretched hand. “So you were there, huh?”
Garstone’s eyebrows rose. “Certainly; I rode over yesterday morning and took the train to Washout, where I had business, and spent the night.”
“Havin’ given yore orders before you went.”
“What the devil are you driving at?”
“Just this, Garstone. At the time my father was murdered, you claim to have been in Washout, Bundy says yore entire outfit was ten mile away, an’ I s’pose Zeb has his tale all ready too.”
“Are you suggesting—?”
“Not any—I’m statin’ facts.”
Garstone’s eyes were furious, but he kept his temper. “Look here, Dover, you are talking wild,” he said placatingly. “This must have been a terrible shock to you, and I’m willing to make allowances. My only object in coming here was to express regret, and see if we can come to terms. Listen: you have more water than you need, and we are short. Why not sell us the strip of land which would enable us to use the stream? I’ll give you a fair price.”
“How long have you owned the Wagon-wheel?”
“I don’t, but I’m representing Trenton. What do you say?”
“One thing only: bring me the houn’ who shot my father an’ I’ll talk with you.”
Garstone made an impatient gesture. “You ask the impossible. Dave Dover had enemies, no doubt; he was the type to make them, stubborn, overbearing—” He paused as the young man’s right hand moved threateningly towards his hip. “I’m not armed.”
“No, an’ I ain’t got my back turned on you, have I?” Dan said meaningly. “Take notice, Garstone; if I hear o’ you blackenin’ Dad’s name again, that excuse won’t work; I’ll horsewhip you.”
Even this deadly insult failed to break the other’s control, and he showed no sign of the fire raging within him. He appealed to Bowdyr.
“You are a witness that I tried to make peace,” he said.
“This hot-head boy insists on war, and by God! he shall have it—war to the knife.”
“Meanie’ a stab in the back, o’ course,” Dan retorted. “Meaning the end of the Circle Dot,” Garstone snapped.
As he went out of the saloon, the young rancher’s voice followed him:
“Get yoreself a gun, Easterner; you’ll be needin’ one.” He sat down again, drew a deep breath, and added, “That clears the air some.”
Bowdyr shook his head. “He’s a cunnin’ devil; knowed you’d turn his offer down, but it puts the blame for any trouble on you, an’ there’s those in town will see it thataway.”
“I ain’t carin’,” Dan replied. “What you think of him, Jim?”
“He’s dangerous,” Sudden said. “An’ I wouldn’t gamble too high on his not totin’ a gun.”
“I hope he does,” was the sinister answer. “Time to be movin’, Bill.” This to the foreman, who promptly collected his men.
The ride home was very different to the usual hilarious return from town. Death was no stranger to any of them, but to-day farewell had been said to one they liked and respected, who, but yesterday, had been their leader. Stern-faced, the three cowboys paced behind the buckboard, speaking only rarely and then in lowered tones.
“Young Dan shorely made hisself clear to that dude,” remarked Bob Lister, who was commonly addressed and referred to as “Blister.”
“He did so, an’ I’ll bet he warn’t wide o’ the mark neither,” Tiny—the heftiest of the outfit—replied. “What you think, Noisy?”
“Yeah,” the third man said.
Tiny turned to the first speaker. “Allus the same. Ask that fella a simple question an’ out comes a torrent o’ talk like a river in flood-time. Honest, Noisy, if you don’t hobble that tongue o’ yores you’ll git a bad name.”
“He has that a’ready,” Blister pointed out, and inconsequently, “There’s goin’ to be bustlin’ times in this neck o’ the woods. I’m likin’ the look o’ that new hombre—if he’s on our side.”
“Bill spoke well of him an’ he’s a good judge—he engaged me,” Tiny said modestly.
“Yeah, I heard him apologizin’ to the Ol’ Man,” Blister grinned, and Tiny—having no retort ready—the conversation languished.
The Circle Dot reached, horses unsaddled and turned into the corral, the rancher and Sudden were making for the house when a man emerged from a little shack near the wood-pile and came towards them. He was old, as his dead-white, untrimmed hair and beard bore witness, but in his prime he must have been both tall and powerful. Even yet, the broad but bowed shoulders suggested strength above the average. In one hand he was swinging a heavy axe, the blade of which shone like silver in the rays of the sinking sun. As he drew near, Sudden noted that his eyes were dull, expressionless.
“‘Lo, Hunch,” the young man greeted.
The man stared at him for a moment, and then, with apparent effort, stammered, “What’s—come—o’—Dave?”
In a few sentences, and speaking very slowly, Dover told the tale. The other listened with seeming indifference, swung round without a word, and lurched away to the wood-pile. They saw the axe flash into the air and heard the thud of the blade as the keen edge bit deep into a baulk of timber; the blow was followed by others, each driven home with
savage intensity; it almost seemed as though he were wreaking a vengeance on the tree-trunk.
“Another o’ pore Dad’s pensioners,” Dan explained. “Drifted in ‘bout two years back, sick an’ starvin’. He lives in the hut, an’ keeps us in fuel. 0’ course, he’s kinda lackin’lost his memory.
For months we figured he was dumb, couldn’t get a word from him; even now, it takes somethin’ extra, but he ‘pears to savvy what folks say.”
“There don’t seem to be much wrong with his muscles.”
“He’s as strong as a bullock—packs or hauls in loads you’d take a team for. He can’t remember any name, but the boys called him `Hunch’ on account of his stoop. Just worships that axe. I figure that he’s been a lumberjack; every now and again, he’ll be missin’ for a spell, wanderin’ in the woods.”
“Ever have any trouble with him?”
“On’y once. We had a new hand—fella named `Rattray,’ an’ the first half o’ that described him. He was the kind what would tease a kid, an’ he regarded a daft old man as the answer to a bully’s prayer. It didn’t come out just that way. Rattray got the axe an’ started breakin’ stones to blunt the edge. Hunch threw him clear across the bunkhouse, snappin’ a leg, an arm, an’ some ribs. Doc Malachi put him together again, an’ when he was able to ride, Dad told him to. Rattray rode, but on’y as far as the Wagon-wheel, so there’s another who had reason to …”
Sudden switched the subject. “Odd number, that pill-merchant,” he remarked. “What’s he doin’ here?”
“Committin’ slow suicide,” Dan replied. “It’s a pity for he’s a clever chap an’ knows his job. Don’t you pick holes in him; I’ve a notion he’s a friend, an’ we ain’t overburdened with ‘em.”
“Well, there’s one good thing about an enemy—yu know what to expect; friends ain’t allus so dependable,” was the puncher’s cynical comment.
At the door of the ranch-house, Yorky was lounging. He scowled at the rancher.
“So now he’s gone, yer t’rowin’ me out,” he said resentfully.
“Where did you get that idea?” Dan asked curiously.
“Flint said yer wouldn’t be tannin’ a home for hoboes no more.”
“I don’t consult Flint about my actions; you can stay as long as you want,” Dan replied shortly, and went in. Sudden hung back. “Why don’t yu fork a hoss an’ get out in the open, ‘stead o’ stayin’ cooped up in the house, smokin’ them everlastin’ coffin-nails?” he asked quietly.
The boy’s rebellious expression softened. “The Ol’ Man ureter talk that way, but it ain’t no good,” he muttered. “I told yer, I’m a weed an’—I can’t ride, Mister.”
“Weeds can grow big an’ strong,” Sudden smiled. “I’ll teach yu to stay in a saddle. Think it over, an’—I’m Jim—to my friends.”
He went, and Yorky slumped down on the long bench by the door. “Hell! I b’lieve he meant it, but what’s th’ good?”
He reached out a screw of tobacco and papers, only to thrust them back again.
“Awright—Jim—it’s a bet.”
So, on the following morning, when Sudden came to get his horse, he was accompanied by an unhappy-looking youth who stood and gazed doubtfully at the pony Burke had selected for him.
“Too old an’ lazy to buck,” the foreman said. “Been here damn near as long as I have. His name’s `Shuteye.’ Story is that one o’ the boys—years ago—after a long an’ tirin’ day, dozed off in the saddle, figurin’ his hoss would fetch him home. When he woke, hours later, they were in the same place an’ the hoss was asleep too.”
The average cow-horse, sensing that saddling is the prelude to hard work, resents the operation, but Shuteye gave Tiny and Flint no trouble at all. But Sudden was not taking chances; even a mild fit of bucking might result in a fall which would send his pupil back to the ranch-house cured of any desire to ride. He meant to try the animal first.
“Shorely seems unenterprisin’ but mebbe he’s savin’ hisself. If that’s so, he’s due for a surprise.”
It was Sudden who got the surprise, for no sooner was he in the saddle than the pony, with a squeal of rage and pain, dropped its head and leapt into the air, coming down with feet bunched and legs like steel rods. So unprepared was the puncher for this display of temper that he lost his seat and only saved himself from being ignominiously “piled” by a swift grab at the saddle-horn, an act which brought a guffaw and satirical gibe from behind
“Pullin’ leather. Yorky’ll have a good teacher.”
Sudden did not look round—he was busy fighting the maddened beast beneath him—but he noted the voice. Back in the saddle, he gripped with his knees, dragged on the reins, and by sheer strength brought the pony’s head up. Instantly the animal reared and would have fallen on him had not the rider flung himself forward and driven home the spurs. A few more ineffectual efforts, which were deftly foiled, and Shuteye appeared to realize it had met its master; trembling in every limb, the beast stood still.
Sudden got down, dropped the reins to the ground, and stroked the quivering nostrils.
Then he loosened the cinches, raised the saddle, and swore as he saw the source of the trouble: a small section of cactus—the dreaded choya—had been so placed that any weight would drive the cruel, barbed, glistening spikes into the flesh. Well he knew the blinding agony they could cause, and it was not astonishing that the victim should forget its many years of training and relapse into savagery under the torment. With the point of his knife he wrenched the cactus free, and holding it on the palm of his hand, turned to the onlookers. Amid dead silence, he stepped to Flint, upon whose coarse features a half-sneer lingered.
“Why did yu put this under the saddle?” he asked sternly.
For a moment the man hesitated, and then, with an air of bravado, replied, “Just a joke; wanted to see if anythin’ would wake the of skinful o’ bones.”
“An’ it didn’t matter if the boy took a tumble, which—sick as he is—would possibly kill him?”
“Oh, I figured you’d sample the hoss first,” came the jaunty lie.
“Well, that makes it my affair. Any idea what the choya can do to man or beast?”
“No, allus avoid ‘em m’self,” Flint grinned.
Sudden dropped the torturing thing. “Yo’re goin’ to learn,” he said, and with a lightning movement clutched the fellow by the throat, swung him off his feet, and sat him down on the cactus. With a howl of anguish Flint scrambled up and snatched out his gun, only to have it struck from his grasp and find himself sprawling on the ground from a flat-handed blow on the cheek. Frantically he tore at the cause of his suffering, and got more of the devilish spines in his fingers. A stinging, burning pain in every part of his body possessed him.
“Damn you all, git this cursed thing off,” he shrieked.
The men looked at Sudden, who nodded. “Guess he knows what the choya can do now,” he said, and turned away.
One by one, the terrible little thorns had to be ripped out by main force, and by the time the operation was completed, the patient appeared to be thoroughly cowed. Limping, he picked up his gun, made to thrust it into his belt, but instead, swung about and presented it full at the broad back of the man who had punished him.
“Freeze—all o’ you,” he rasped, and his face was a mask of murder.
“Pull, an’ we hang you,” Dan warned.
“This is atween him an’ me,” Flint retorted. “He gits his chance. You can face an’ flash yore gun, Green.” He would fire the instant the other was round, before he could draw. That was what he meant to do: what he actually did was gape with wide eyes at the muzzle of a six-shooter, levelled almost alongside his own, and pointed at his heart. The turn and draw had been one movement, executed at lightning speed. Behind the weapon, eyes of arctic coolness bored into his.
“Shoot, an’ we’ll go to hell together,” said a mocking voice.
That was the position, and Flint knew it. If the thumb holding back the
hammer—Sudden had no use for triggers—was released, even in the act of dying, he too was doomed. It was the acid test. One crook of his own finger, and … Those watching saw his hand sink slowly; the price of vengeance was too high.
“I can wait,” he muttered thickly, and bent a malignant look upon his employer.
“I’m quittin’,” he snarled.
“I fired you fifteen minutes ago,” the rancher replied. Flint’s face took on a savage sneer.
“Well, that suits me fine. Who wants to b’long to a pussy-cat outfit anyway? He slouched towards his horse and was about to mount when Dan spoke again, brazen-voiced:
“That bronc bears my brand. When my father picked you out o’ the dirt, you’d spent the last dime o’ what yore saddle fetched.”
The ruffian whirled on him. “You sendin’ me off afoot?”
“You leave as you came,” the young man retorted. “I don’t even lend horses to folk who misuse ‘em.”
“I’ll make you sweat blood for this, Dover,” was the fellow’s parting threat, as he set out on the long tramp to town.
“I reckon I’ve lost you a hand, Dan,” Sudden said.
“Take it you’ve done me a service,” was the reply. “We can do without vermin around here.”
Chapter V
Flint’s departure was the signal for the outfit to get busy, and Yorky began to sidle towards the house. But Sudden was watching.
“Ain’t yu ridin’ with me?” he asked.
“Aw, Jim, I don’t feel so good this mornin’,” the boy said. “Can’t we put off th’ outin’ fer a spell?”
The puncher saw the apprehensive glance at the pony, now standing head down, limp and dejected. He smiled as he replied: It’s now or never, son. This is yore best chance. I doubt if even another dose o’ cactus medicine would rouse a kick in that animile. Up with yu.”
With obvious reluctance, Yorky climbed clumsily to the saddle; Sudden adjusted the heavy wooden stirrups so that the rider was almost standing in them, and gave him the reins.
Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942) Page 4
