Sudden Troubleshooter

by Frederick H. Christian

  Tom Appleby, who had brought the news of the killing of Reb Johnstone and Stan Newley to the homesteader, opened his mouth to say something. Before he could speak, the old man continued in the same vein:

  ‘We know he hired that dawg Cameron! Yu know it, an’ I know it, Tom, an’ we’re helpless, we can’t touch him. Two good men under the ground, an’ the killer walks around Yavapai as free as air! I’ve got a good mind’

  ‘If yo’re goin’ to say what I think yo’re goin’ to say, yo’re about to prove yu ain’t,’ snapped Appleby. ‘Jake, I’m as sorry as yu are about those men, but goin’ to Yavapai an’ startin’ a battle in town ain’t goin’ to bring them back!’

  The old man banged his fist on the table, setting crockery to rattling on the shelves.

  ‘I ain’t goin’ to set here an’ do nothin’!’ he bellowed. ‘Yes – yu – are!’ gritted Appleby. ‘Jake, I’m warnin’ yu – don’t come into town, an’ don’t even think about it! If what yu say is true – an’ I, for one, ain’t shore Gunnison is behind this Cameron feller – then yu’ll be playin’ into his hands by tryin’ to take on Cameron. He’s a cold killer, Jake. Yu wouldn’t stand a chance an’ yu know it!’

  ‘Tom, I guess yo’re right,’ admitted Harris wearily. ‘Tho’ it goes ag’in my nature to say it. I want to thank yu for ridin’ up an’ lettin’ me know.’

  ‘Tom, ye’ll let us send someone in for the bodies?’ put in Alex Taylor.

  Appleby pursed his lips, as though weighing the advisability of Taylor’s suggestion. Then he nodded. ‘Yu send in one o’ yore hired men,’ he told them. ‘Mebbe yu can spare yore Swede, Terry?’

  Kitson nodded. ‘Shore,’ he agreed.

  The three homesteaders were still stunned by the news that the Marshal had brought. Subsequent to Green’s visit, Taylor had arrived at the JH, and Kitson had been sent for. They had watched on tenterhooks for the possible return of the gunman, and, as the night progressed, had become more and more perturbed about the two men who had gone into town. Appleby’s arrival had sent them to their posts by the windows, guns ready; Cameron would not find them again unprepared, they had vowed. The single horseman had been covered every inch of the way until he had been identified as the town Marshal. Appleby had been brief and blunt. He told them of the events in Yavapai, and of the fact that there were plenty of witnesses to the gunman’s claim that he had killed in self-defense.

  Now Kitson, Taylor, and Jake Harris sat glumly at the big table, their faces drawn.

  Appleby, uncomfortable in the silence, broke it with a question:

  ‘What will happen to Johnstone an’ Newley’s places?’

  Jake Harris looked at him glumly, uncomprehending.

  ‘Yu aim to file on the land, Jake?’ Appleby persisted.

  Harris shrugged. ‘T’ain’t likely,’ he told the lawman. ‘I can’t use the extra acres without help.’

  Appleby looked around. ‘That reminds me,’ he said lightly. ‘I ain’t seen yore man Green. Where’s he at?’

  ‘He’s out on the range,’ Harris said quickly. Alex Taylor glanced at him, but kept his counsel, although Appleby did not miss the significant puzzlement in the Scot’s eyes. ‘He oughta be back afore long,’ Harris told the Marshal, and Appleby nodded, more or less satisfied by this.

  ‘Jake, I wish I could say how sorry I am,’ he began.

  Harris waved the words aside. ‘Yu done all yu could, an’ I’m thankin’ yu, Tom. I just plain don’t know what to do. We ain’t equipped for this kind o’ fightin’. If it was out in the open we’d fight – an’ gladly! But seem’ yore neighbors cut down, knowin’ they had no more chance than if they’d been bushwhacked … it takes the heart out of a man.’ He rose heavily; the others watched him gloomily. ‘Yu’ll stay an’ take a bite?’ he asked the Marshal.

  ‘Thank yu, Jake, I’ll do that.’

  ‘Susie’ll fix yu somethin’. She’s tendin’ the boy.’

  Appleby looked his interest. ‘How’s he doin’?’

  ‘He’ll be fine. Soon be able to hobble around, I guess. Tom, yu go on into the kitchen, tell Susie to give yu some cawfee.’

  He walked over to the window and looked out blindly, chewing on his old pipe, while Kitson and Taylor stirred uncomfortably. Appleby nodded to them and went through into the kitchen, where Susan was busily stirring something which smelled deliciously in an iron pot. She turned at his footsteps, her pretty face flushed from the heat.

  ‘Oh, Tom,’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ll be in need of some “cawfee”, I should think. Could you manage a piece of fresh-baked pie with it?’ A dimple showed in her cheek as she smiled.

  ‘Reckon I could force one down,’ he told her.

  ‘Coming up,’ she said. ‘Sit down at the table.’

  He watched her as she bustled about the little kitchen, and his eyes travelled over her, weighing the supple slimness of her waist, her rounded form, the youthful spring of her walk. Conscious of his scrutiny Susan turned to face him, a slow flush mounting beneath her skin. To conceal her embarrassment she asked him whether the man, Cameron, was still in Yavapai.

  ‘Shore is,’ Appleby told her. ‘I can’t move him on without a reason.’

  ‘I’d move him on if I were Marshal!’ she exclaimed vehemently.

  ‘Yu got to admit, yore viewpoint’d be a mite biased,’ he told her in a reasonable tone. ‘Susie, yu know my job is keepin’ the peace. That means for everybody, not just for one bunch o’ folks yu happen to prefer. If it was just me, I’d do her – just to make yu smile.’

  ‘Why Tom Appleby,’ she said mockingly, ‘I do believe you’re flirting with me!’

  ‘Might be at that,’ he said, attacking the apple-pie she set before him with gusto. When he had finished he leaned back with a sigh and reached for the makin’s. ‘Girl,’ he told her, ‘yo’re a miracle in these parts.’

  ‘Tom, you’re staring at me in such a funny way …’ she said.

  ‘Am now yu mention it,’ he said unperturbed.

  ‘Well, stop, it makes me uncomfortable,’ she ordered.

  ‘Don’t aim to stop,’ he said, rising to his feet and laying the unfinished cigarette alongside his plate. ‘Susie, I wanted yu the first time I seen yu. Won’t yu think about bein’ my wife?’

  Susan stopped in the middle of the room, her mouth a wide ‘o’ of astonishment. ‘Why, Tom … oh, now stop that teasing!’ she said, thinking he was joking.

  He crossed the kitchen and stood before her, and put his hands upon her shoulders. ‘I mean every word I say, girl.’ His voice was husky. ‘I’m not rich, but one o’ these days …’ He hesitated for a moment, then went on, ‘Well, I’d see yu never wanted. Clothes, a big house, travel – all yu’d ever want, girl! Won’t yu think about it?’

  Susan was nonplussed by his directness, and as she studied him from beneath lowered eyelashes she admitted to herself that probably many women would find Tom Appleby an attractive man. And yet …

  ‘I’m very fond of you, Tom …’ she began.

  ‘But yu don’t love me.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘That for love! Girl, I’d make yu care for me.’

  Despite herself Susan found her pulses pounding. But behind the Marshal’s eyes she divined for the first time the egotism and the ambition that lurked there, and they repelled her. His hands clamped upon her shoulders as she tried to move back. Unconsciously she began to struggle against his grip, but he was relentless. His arms encircled her, and powerless in his grasp she found herself being lifted towards him. His head bent, his thin lips pressed towards her own and a small shrill note of panic sounded in the girl’s mind. Suddenly his grip relaxed and she collapsed, half swooning, in a chair as a familiar voice rasped, ‘Stand back an’ stand still, Marshal!’

  Half turning, Susan saw the tall, saturnine James Green, who had come into the room unnoticed by either of them. A pistol pointed unwaveringly at Appleby, and the puncher’s eyes were like shifting ice under a glacier.

  ‘Looks like I got ba
ck at just the right time,’ he gritted. ‘Yu all right, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, Jim … it’s all right. Just … a … misunderstanding.’

  Appleby faced Sudden’s drawn gun unafraid; his face was dark with anger.

  ‘Green, yo’re interferin’ in somethin’ that don’t concern yu!’ he warned the puncher. ‘I just asked Susan to be my wife.’

  ‘Looked to me like she turned yu down,’ was the cold reply.

  ‘Don’t push yore luck too far, Green,’ said Appleby, an edge on his voice.

  Sudden grinned icily. ‘How far would yu say too far was, Marshal?’ Turning to the girl, who had now recovered from her ordeal and was watching the two men uncertainly, he added, ‘Say the word, ma’am, an’ I’ll toss this coyote out on his ear.’

  Susan Harris laid a hand on his forearm.

  ‘No, Jim. It was a … misunderstanding. Truly. I think Tom made a mistake.’

  ‘He better not make it again,’ rapped the puncher.

  Appleby made a good effort of pretending not to hear Sudden’s words. He turned to Susan Harris. ‘I won’t give up, Susan. I meant every word I said.’

  ‘I hope that is not true,’ she said gravely, and turned away.

  ‘I meant every word said, too, Marshal,’ interrupted Green, as the lawman took a step forward. ‘Yu better have a damn good reason for showin’ yore face in these parts again!’

  The Marshal wheeled about, a snarl disfiguring his handsome face. ‘I won’t forget this!’ he threatened. Gone was the friendly smile; in its place was the expression of a killer wolf.

  If it frightened Sudden he gave no indication of it, but said, ‘Yu better not! Fade!’

  Appleby turned on his heel without a word and rushed out of the house, his face like thunder. The men inside watched him go in astonishment, turning towards Sudden, who brought Susan in from the kitchen with him. As Appleby’s horse thundered off up the trail he told them with a smile, ‘Miss Susan just turned down the Marshal’s marriage offer. He’s so peeved about it I’d misdoubt he’ll be around for a while.’ He shook his head when they bombarded him with further questions, and taking the girl by the arm, he led her back into the kitchen.

  ‘Yu look like yu need yore mind takin’ off yore own troubles,’ he told her. A faint smile broke through her troubled, expression and Sudden smiled in response. ‘I brung an ol’ pack-rat back here with me who ain’t et nothin’ but beans an’ bacon for so long he’s plain slaverin’ at the smells comin’ out o’ this kitchen. Ol’ Doc Green’s goin’ to prescribe a course o’ feedin’ an’ fattenin’ for him, an’ a course o’ lookin’ after lost sheep for yu. By the way, how’s yore patient?’

  With a startled ‘Oh!’ Susan remembered her charge in the small bedroom, and ran eagerly towards it.

  ‘Looks like he’s no worse,’ Sudden told himself, with a smile. Then his expression hardened as he looked through the window to where the faint haze of dust raised by Appleby’s horse still sparkled brightly in the sunlight.

  Chapter Fifteen

  LAFE GUNNISON was in a foul mood. Dancy, who had seen the storm brewing, had wisely found something requiring his attention elsewhere. The rest of the hands were out about their daily chores. The cook, who poked his head around the door to find out if the boss wanted any more coffee, was stampeded back to his kitchen by a blistering round of invective.

  ‘Dang me if workin’ here don’t git more like bein’ in the Army every day,’ muttered that worthy. ‘If yu don’t do it yu gets chewed out, an’ when yu offer to do it yu gets chewed out. Dang me if the Army ain’t better, come to think of it!’ Continuing his complaints under his breath, the panhandler rattled angrily amid his cluttered pots and pans.

  The old man inside did not hear him, any more than he watched the clouds drifting across the cerulean sky through the grimy windows of the ranch house. His mind was circling like a fox in a foot-trap, trying to pin down some small thing that he had heard, somewhere, some hint that remained in his mind and gnawed away, spoiling his sleep, his digestion, and his peace of mind.

  Silently he catalogued his worries: the constant loss of cattle reported by Dancy, and Randy’s continued harping upon them, and his insistence that the homesteaders would eventually steal the Saber from under his, Lafe Gunnison’s, nose, while he sat and vacillated. Against this he had to set the visit of the cool-talking cowboy from the Mesquites, who had so contemptuously dismissed the danger inherent in riding on to Saber land, and who had claimed that the attempted assassination of Susan Harris and the boy – what was it he called himself? Philadelphia – might have been carried out by someone on Saber. Gunnison felt now as he had felt when he first talked to the man called Green. Something told him, assured him, convinced him, that Green was more than just another drifting cowboy and anything but a liar. And that boy … the amazing resemblance had shaken him more than he cared to admit. While every fiber of him cried out to believe, he denied himself the luxury of sentimentality. It was coincidence, no more. Impossible! His mind was still revolving around the same thoughts when his son came into the room and sprawled into a chair near the window. Lafe Gunnison eyed his offspring with distaste.

  ‘Decided to honor us with yore presence again, eh?’ he growled. ‘When I was yore age I was chousing cows at daybreak, ’stead o’ lollin’ in bed until mid-mornin’.’

  ‘Father, please don’t start all that again,’ Randy protested. ‘My head’s aching.’

  ‘If yu can’t handle yore likker, stay away from Tyler’s,’ growled the old man. He rumbled on about Randy’s constant habit of leaving without saying where he was going, staying away without giving anyone any notion of when he would be back Randy Gunnison sat and listened sullenly to the tirade. His father was a dull old fool, Randy felt, who had nothing in his head except cattle. There was plenty of money, but his father could think of nothing to do with it except spend it on more improvements to Saber. Even the yearly trips to St. Louis or Phoenix were long, boring rounds of whisky-drinking with other cattlemen, buyers, drovers, full of dreary reminiscences about tawdry cattle towns and long-dead companions.

  ‘The sooner the old fool dies the better,’ Randy thought viciously. But he knew his father was as tough as rawhide; it would be years. Randy Gunnison sat wishing for some act of providence, some accident to strike the old man down. ‘If I had the ranch,’ he thought, ‘it would change things!’ As he thought it, however, a cold sense of dread closed in on him and he imagined what this hugely powerful man who was his father might do if he had any inkling of the things in which his son was involved. At least, Randy told himself, it was going to mean money now, instead of in ten or twenty years’ time when the old fool cashed in his checks.

  ‘He’ll never die,’ Randy whispered to himself. ‘Never.’ In his half-hearing, the diatribe continued as Lafe Gunnison paced the floor. Same old story, Randy thought wearily, I’ve heard it so many times … maybe it was because I never had a mother … how much he wished she’d left Hank and taken Randy instead … how hard he had worked to make something of himself … started off as a thirty a month cowboy and built this ranch from nothing with these hands … Randy turned off his hearing again as his father ranted on. With some difficulty he recalled what had started this off, and then remembered that he had some news which would at least stem the avalanche of words.

  ‘If you’ll let me speak,’ he told his father coldly, ‘I’ll tell you some news which will make you very glad I went to Yavapai.’

  ‘Yu waster, what could yu tell me to make me glad except the news yu’d had yore head changed?’

  ‘Father, stop yelling and listen to me. Two men were killed in Yavapai yesterday. Their names were Johnstone and Newley. Aren’t you interested?’

  The old man had stopped in mid-stride, thunderstruck.

  ‘What’s that yu say? Killed? Who killed them? Who?’ He crossed the room in two strides and stood towering over his son. ‘If yu had anythin’ to do with it …’

  ‘Oh, don
’t be so stupid, Father!’ snapped the younger man. ‘If you’ll be quiet for a minute I’ll tell you. Shouting at the top of your voice isn’t going to help.’

  The old man nodded, swallowed deeply, and retreated. He sat down heavily on the arm of an old chair.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he ordered.

  Randy Gunnison proceeded to describe the events of the preceding day in vivid detail, relishing the look on his father’s face. He described how the two homesteaders had come into the saloon in Yavapai, their mild quarrel with the gunman Cameron, and the violent events which had ensued in the street. He omitted only that he had seen the whole affair from the vantage point of a bedroom window over Tyler’s, in a room occupied by one of the girls employed there. A faint sneer crossed Randy’s face. Maybe I ought to tell him just to see what he’d do, he thought. The old fool’d probably have a stroke. With an effort he put these thoughts aside and paid attention to the question his father was repeating, impatiently this time.

  ‘I asked yu – is his name Wes Cameron?’ When Randy indicated that this was so, the old man asked, ‘How long has he been in town?’

  ‘I don’t know. A day or two. Not long.’

  ‘Appleby allowin’ a killer like that to stay in town ain’t my idea o’ good town-Marshalin’,’ growled Gunnison.

  ‘I heard they had a run-in of sorts,’ Randy said. ‘Appleby agreed to some kind of truce as long as Cameron didn’t get involved in any trouble. He braced Cameron after the fight and Cameron backed him down.’

  ‘Tom Appleby backed down?’ The old man frowned. ‘That ain’t like him.’

  ‘It was a clear case of self-defense. There were dozens of witnesses. Nothing Tom could have done.’

  ‘So he’s still in town?’

  ‘Cameron? Yes, and I can’t see anyone making him leave until he’s good and ready. The man’s a born killer.’

  ‘Nobody’s a born killer, boy,’ the old man told him. ‘Yu got to learn it.’