Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942)

by Oliver Strange

  “Tired, but never better,” Malachi smiled. “A few weeks of this and I’ll give up rolling pills to ride for you.”

  “You could do a lot wuss,” Tiny told him. “Plenty o’ fresh air, exercise, an’ four squares a day, when yo’re to home—which ain’t offen. What more does a fella want?”

  “A stated number o’ dollars per month an’ time off to throw ‘em away, I find,” the rancher grinned. “An’ let me tell you, when Tiny does miss a meal, he makes up for it at the next. Pleased to have you, Phil, so long as you don’t give the boys anythin’ to improve their appetites.”

  Soon afterwards, one by one, they rolled up in their blankets; it had been a long and strenuous day, and their surroundings held out no hope for a less arduous one on the morrow.

  Only Sudden remained awake, squatting cross-legged by the fire, his Winchester by his side.

  Though every sense was alert for any sound he could not explain, his mind was on the curious enterprise to which he found himself committed. He fell to considering the men of the other faction. That Trenton was following he had no doubt; the rancher was an astute and unscrupulous man, aggressive and intolerant of opposition. Bundy he dismissed with a gesture of disdain, a common enough rogue, who would commit any crime for sufficient gain. Garstone he had not yet fathomed; one thing seemed certain—he was not the type to serve as jackal to one of the rancher’s calibre. What was the fellow doing so far from the East? He could hit upon no satisfactory answer, and presently, when Tiny—rubbing his eyes—came to relieve him, he sought sleep.

  At a camp some fifteen miles away, much the same procedure had taken place, save that there were two fires—one for the rancher, his niece, and Garstone, the other for the men. Bundy had protested against this arrangement, but had been curtly ordered to do as he was told. The fires were sufficiently far apart to prevent conversation being overheard, and near one of them stood the small tent in which the girl was to sleep. Despite the fact of their slow progress, Trenton was in high spirits.

  “Well, Beth, how does roughing it in the open appeal to you?” he asked.

  “Very much indeed—it’s so thrilling,” she replied. “Do you really think we shall succeed?”

  Neither of the men answered until Rattray—who was acting as cook, and serving them—had retired to his own fire, and then Garstone said:

  “I told Miss Trenton of our main object in coming here; she is very interested.”

  “Indeed I am,” she agreed eagerly. “But very sorry it should be—necessary.”

  “That’s all right, my dear,” Trenton said heartily. “Every man who gets anywhere has to face up to a stiff fight now and then. We’ll make the grade.”

  “To be sure,” Garstone supplemented. “That red-headed rascal, Rufe, is going to put us all on the top of the world.”

  “Had he red hair?” she queried.

  “I really don’t know,” the big man prevaricated. “I presumed it to be the origin of his nickname.”

  “He might have got that as a killer,” Trenton suggested, in a voice which had suddenly lost its geniality. A burst of laughter from the region of the other fire seemed to remind him of something. “Bundy expected to feed with us—he’s been gettin’ uppity lately. I had to remind him that I’m boss.”

  “Quite right,” Garstone concurred. That the foreman and his employer should not be on the best of terms might well further the nebulous schemes beginning to take shape in his brain.

  “He appears to have got over his grouch.”

  “Just as well. People who work for me have to obey, without question.”

  The Easterner did not subscribe to this sentiment quite so entirely, and said nothing; it sounded too much like a hint to himself. And he felt convinced that the foreman had not forgotten.

  In this he was right, for even as the rancher spoke, Bundy was inwardly brooding over what he regarded as an insult, and vowing it should be paid for. Nevertheless, having been driven to “herd with the hands,” as he phrased it, he might as well be comfortable, and so devoted himself first of all to smoothing the ruffled plumage of the newcomer.

  “Well, Lake, I’m allus ready to own up when I’m wrong, an’ I was ‘bout you,” he commenced. “You shore can read sign; that dodge they tried at the bog would ‘a’ razzle-dazzled an Injun.”

  It gave us a lot o’ trouble,” the tracker said modestly.

  “Warn’t yore fault; you tumbled to the trick; it was pickin’ up the trail agin that cost the time.”

  The bearded man was not proof against this fulsome flattery. The foreman, he thought, was after all not such a bad chap. So prone are we humans to approve those who approve us.

  “Thanks, friend,” he said. “But there’s one puzzle ‘bout this trip I can’t find the answer to, an’ mebbe you—as foreman—can tell me.”

  “Give it a name,” Bundy replied, pleased in his turn by the use of his title.

  “What are we after?”

  “Well, I dunno as there’s any need to keep it quiet now,” the foreman said, but lowered his voice. “Treasure, that’s what. Mebbe you’ve heard o’ Red Rufe’s Cache?”

  Lake laughed derisively. “Heard? I’ve looked for it—like a-many other idjuts. Still, I don’t mind wastin’ some more time if I’m well paid.”

  “You didn’t know where to go, seemin’ly.” This from Rattray, a spare-built but wiry cowboy, whose features suggested that the first syllable of his name could not possibly be accidental.

  “Yo’re damn right, I didn’t, or would I be here?” the other retorted. “But is Trenton any wiser? If he is, why are we moseyin’ along on the heels o’ them fellas in front?”

  He got no answer to his question. Flint and Rattray could not give him one, and Bundy was far too cunning to empty his bag—yet. The appearance of knowing a little more than they would give him a hold over them. So all he said was:

  “There’s a good reason for that, an’ you can gamble on it; Zeb ain’t a fool—in some ways.”

  “I take it we all git shares,” the new man said, his eyes agleam with greed.

  “Seein’ as we’re four to two—not countin’ the gal—we’ll be dumb if we don’t,” the foreman replied meaningly.

  Flint and Rattray nodded their agreement with this view. Lake said, “Pardner, I like you more’n more.”

  Bundy was satisfied; if the rancher did not treat him fairly, he had a card up his sleeve.

  Also there was Garstone, who had shown himself quite willing to doublecross his employer in the affair of the train robbery; he provided another card, making three in all, counting Trenton.

  “An’ if you play ‘em properly, Bundy, of scout, yo’re on velvet,” was the conclusion he came to.

  Chapter XVI

  Throughout the greater part of the next day, the Circle Dot men pressed steadily on.

  Though they deemed themselves to be well ahead of possible pursuit, they neglected no opportunity of blinding their trail, and were successful—had they but known it—in straining the vituperative powers of the bearded man to the utmost.

  The scenery on all sides was wild and awe-inspiring. Dense masses of pine which defied the sun, thickets of thorny scrub, clumps of bright-flowering bushes, and, from time to time, enormous chunks of rock weighing thousands of tons, “fragments” which had broken away from the mother mass towering in the distance. The slope was slight but definite, and sometimes they advanced across wide, almost level benches of grass and cactus. They skirted deep, wedge-shaped gorges where the side of the mountain appeared to have split open, treading narrow ledges where a slip would have spelt destruction.

  Game seemed to be plentiful, quail, squirrels, rabbits, and once they came upon a small herd of deer feeding in a patch of lush grass. For a few seconds the dainty beasts stared in amaze at the unwonted intrusion of their domain, and then, in a flash, were gone. Yorky, fingers itching for his rifle, looked longingly after them.

  “Lots o’ time for that,” Sudden consoled. “Bu
siness first, an’ there ain’t no sense in advertisin’ our. whereabouts.”

  The boy sighed. “I wouldn’t know where to aim, anyways.”

  “Just behind the left shoulder—the heart’s there,” the puncher told him.

  As the climb continued, the trees became smaller and less numerous, a sign that a higher altitude was being reached. Then, when the westering sun was rimming the mountain tops with gold they came to a spot entirely at variance with all they had seen.

  It was a shallow basin, perhaps a hundred feet deep at the centre, and less than half a mile in diameter. The sides sloped gently up to the encircling lips of ragged rock. The surface was a grey, powdery sand, and the only vegetation, scattered greasewood and cactus. On all four points of the compass, V-shaped breaks provided openings to the basin. Hunch got down, stepped to Dover’s side, and gestured with one hand.

  “Is this where you came with Dad?” the young man asked, and getting a nod of assent, went on, “Well, boys, this appears to be the scene of operations.”

  Right ahead, seeming to loom over them, although many miles distant, was Old Cloudy.

  Sudden, studying the mountain, saw that the round knobbed top, and wide sloping flanks might well suggest the head, shoulders, and dropping arms of a sitting man, and that viewed from where he stood the basin might—with no great stretch of imagination—be described as a bowl on the knees of this Gargantuan figure behind which the sky was now turning to a blood-red. “What d’you think of it, Jim?” Dover asked.

  “Seems to fit. What’s the next move?”

  “We gotta settle which way to go—this is no place to camp.” He tilted his hat back and scratched his head reflectively. “West is north,” he repeated. “Well, that gap in front of us is west.”

  “We gotta reckon it as north,” Sudden said. “An’ north is noon, that is, twelve o’clock. We were told on reaching here, to watch out. Now that might be a warnin’, but I figure it’s a pointer.”

  His gaze swept round the almost perfect circle of the basin. “S’pose we’re lookin’ at a mammoth watch-face, with that western break as twelve. Then the one we came in by must be the half after the hour which would be too soon. That means our way is by the opening on the left, which would be three-quarters past.”

  “Holy cats! I believe you’ve hit on it, Jim,” the rancher cried. “Can we stop ‘em followin’ us, in case they get so far?”

  “I’ll ‘tend to that. Yu take the boys an’ ride in single file till yo’re clear o’ the basin.”

  Starting from where the trampled sand plainly showed that a group of horses had paused there, he galloped straight for the gap to the right. Reaching it, he found it to be a little pass with a stony surface which would show no tracks. Returning to the basin, he backed his mount along the line by which he had approached. Repeating this operation twice resulted in a trail apparently made by six riders, the hoof-marks all pointing in the same direction. He then followed his companions, dragging a rolled blanket attached to his rope, and thus obliterated the traces of them all.

  Passing out of the basin, he found himself in another narrow gorge, the floor of which consisted of rock detritus, with frequent patches of cactus and coarse grass. The wall on the right was much higher than that on the left, and along the foot of both were bushes; above these, they were bare and inhospitable. Half a mile from the basin, under an overhanging shelf of cliff, camp was being established. There was sufficient feed for the animals, and a few yards away, a rock pool, fed by a trickle from the height above.

  During the meal, the puncher explained what he had done. “It may keep ‘em outa here fora spell, but I guess they’ll try all the outlets in turn, an’ we don’t have to waste time.”

  “How about playin’ their game—lettin’ ‘em find the stuff, an’ takin’ it away from ‘em?”

  Tiny suggested.

  “That would mean a fight, an’ I’d ruttier avoid that, if possible,” Dover replied. “But the money is mine, an’ I intend to have it, one way or another.”

  “We’ve no actual evidence that anyone is dogging us,” the doctor pointed out.

  “Shore, but I know Trenton,” Dan said grimly. “Dad’s death, the searchin’ o’ the Circle Dot, an’ the attempt to scotch our drive to the Bend happened for a purpose. Zeb is comin’, an’ he’ll have some o’ the Wagon-wheel scum along.”

  Therefore they kept watch, and in the early morning, Sudden—relieving the doctor—caught him in the act of re-corking a bottle, which he had been holding near his lips.

  “Cure for headache, Doc?” he asked superciliously.

  Malachi looked rather shame-faced, and with an effort at bravado, replied, “More often the cause of one, Jim.” And then, “God! What weak creatures we are—some of us.”

  He opened his hand, disclosing a small medicine phial, quite full, as the puncher guessed, of whisky. “You know why I came here,” he went on bitterly. “Well, it seemed to me that I was running away from temptation, so I brought temptation with me. I fancied myself strong enough to have the odour of it in my nostrils and resist. I was wrong—it makes me mad for the taste.”

  “Is that all yu fetched?”

  “Yes, and had you not come, it would have gone, and at dawn I should have been sneaking off for Rainbow—to get more.”

  “No, to lose yoreself an’ die in despair,” Sudden told him. “Yu never could make it; yu gotta stay.”

  “You don’t realize what it means,” Malachi cried. “Have you ever had to combat a craving which, like a devouring flame, possessed your body and mind so utterly that all else in life became of no importance?”

  Sudden laughed harshly. “Listen,” he said. “Once I was left, tied hand an’ foot, in the middle of a desert, by a Mexican guerilla chief, the most inhuman devil I ever met. After usin’ nearly all my strength to free myself, I set out to walk endless miles of sand in search o’ water.

  My tongue was swollen-I couldn’t close my mouth, I was near blind with the glare, my body was dried an’ scorched till it felt like a red-hot coal, an’ if ever a man suffered like a tormented soul in hell, I did. My limbs were lead, an’ every movement—agony. What I had to beat, Malachi, warn’t thirst, but the desire to lie down, an’ die.’ That’s yore case, man; yu have to fight, not the want o’ liquor, but the urge to give in. Now, drop that bottle an’ put yore foot on it.”

  “I can’t, Jim; don’t ask me,” the doctor pleaded.

  “Then drink an’ be damned,” the puncher said roughly, and turned away.

  The brutal contemptuous tone had its effect; he had moved. but a yard when there was the tinkle of glass on stone, and the grind of a heel. The doctor had won a victory.

  In the early morning, the search of the gorge was begun, any feature which might suggest a hiding-place being carefully examined. The only discovery of any value was a cave, and as it was dry, and large enough to conceal the horses if necessary, they moved the camp there. It proved to be more spacious than they had imagined, with a high vaulted roof from which hung hundreds of stalactites, flashing like spearheads in the leaping flames of the logs. Seated round the fire after a tiring and fruitless day, the adventurers looked about them with some misgiving; in the darkness, the cavern appeared to have no limits.

  “If this is Red Rufe’s bank he’s shore given us a job to tie into,” Tiny informed the company, and thereby expressed the thoughts of all.

  “We’ll give the outside another look-over before we tackle this,” Dan replied.

  “Looks a likely spot, till yu get inside, an’ then it don’t,” was Sudden’s contribution.

  Malachi took no part in the conversation and ate almost nothing. He seemed to be ill and depressed, evidently suffering from the lack of his customary stimulant. There had been no sign of other visitors in the vicinity.

  “Either they ain’t come or you’ve fooled ‘em, Jim,” the big cowboy decided.

  “Yu can bet on both them reasons an’ still lose,” Sudden told him. In th
e afternoon, Malachi, alone, sick and oppressed by the intense heat, and not conscious of where he was going, wandered out into the basin, and suddenly saw the world go black. When he recovered his senses there was a familiar taste in his mouth, and a voice he knew was speaking:

  “That’s better, Doc. Burn my soul, but I thought you was cold meat. Take another sup o’ corpse-reviver.”

  A flask was held to his lips and tilted. He took a big gulp, and the fiery spirit steadied his shattered nerves and cleared his vision. He was in the basin, sitting with his back against a small boulder, and Bundy was kneeling beside him.

  “Stupid of me—must have fainted—touch of the sun,” he muttered.

  “Shore, might happen to anyone,” the foreman agreed. “But what in hell are you doin’ up here? Thought I was dreamin’ when I clapped eyes on you.”

  The liquor, working on an empty stomach, was muddling the medico’s mind, but he had a hazy idea that he must not tell the truth. “Just taking a little vacation, Bundy,” he replied. A happy thought occurred to him. “I’ve always wanted to shoot a big-horn.” He pushed away the proffered flask.

  “Oh, come, Doc, it ain’t like you to refuse good liquor, an’ this is good—some o’ Ben’s best of bourbon—not a headache in it. You know the stuff.”

  Malachi did—too well. He heard the swish of it against the glass, the pungent smell assailed him as the foreman removed the cork, and his whole being thirsted for it. His hand, trembling, came out.

  “Just—one small sip.”

  “Drink hearty,” Bundy replied generously, and whether the doctor heard or not, he obeyed.

  This further dose completed the job, the drunkard’s eyes glazed a little, and his voice thickened as he said, “Thanksh, Bundy, but what bringsh you to Ol’ Cloudy?”

  “Same as yoreself—takin’ a holiday,” Bundy grinned. “Trenton wanted his niece to see the country, an’ I had to come along.”