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Lafe Gunnison had passed the word to the homesteaders – quit stealing cattle or take the consequences! Up in the Mesquites, the nesters reacted the only way they knew: they told Gunnison he was a liar and if he showed up in their neck of the woods he’d wind up with a tombstone over his head.
It was trouble – big trouble – all it needed was one small spark to start a war to the death. Only one man could stop it. One man – backed by his courage and the guns he wore. A man with a past, scouring the West for two killers – a man called – Sudden.
SUDDEN – TROUBLESHOOTER
SUDDEN 5
By Frederick H. Christian
First Published by Transworld Publishers Limited in 1967
Copyright © 1967 by Frederick H Christian
Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: November 2014
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Mike Stotter
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
To a second son, a second book.
Chapter One
‘CAN YU use that gun, or is it jest to stop yu from blowin’ away?’ The words might have been, delivered in another tone of voice, nothing more than jest. In the present circumstances, however, no one could doubt that they were seriously intended. The scene was a typical Western saloon. A long bar, with shelves of shining bottles behind it, extended the length of the left-hand wall, and on the boarded, sanded space in front were tables and chairs for those who preferred to drink sitting down. The building was shaped like an ‘L’, and the shorter arm contained a cleared space for use as a dance hall. A staircase in the center of the building led to an upper storey with a balcony running around the saloon; there, rooms were let to itinerants, and the girls who worked in the saloon lodged in the rest. Hanging kerosene lamps, surrounded by moths, provided light and there were mirrors, pictures of a crude kind, and animal heads mounted on the walls.
The man who had spoken stood in an aggressive stance by the bar. A thickset, beetle-browed individual of well over six feet, dressed in a coarse flannel shirt, homespun pants shoved into the tops of scuffed high boots, slouched hat, and heavy gun belt, his harsh voice left no doubt that the words had no humorous intent.
‘Dancy’s in a bad mood tonight.’ one of the onlookers murmured.
‘Never knowed him have a good ’un,’ returned the listener.
Dancy glowered at the object of his scorn, a youngster – he looked no more than nineteen – dressed in range garb that was notable only because its newness emphasized the wearer’s unfamiliarity with it. The heavy gun belt hung awkwardly on the boy’s slim hips. Those watching, hard-bitten veterans of frontier life had a word for kids like this one: ‘tenderfoot’. But if he was a tenderfoot, the boy was trying as hard as he could to conceal his dismay at being the center of attention.
‘You talkin’ to me?’ The lad strove manfully to keep his voice level, without complete success.
‘Nope.’ Dancy told him. ‘I’m addressin’ that jasper sitting on a camel behind yu.’
He roared with laughter at his feeble joke; one or two of his cronies sniggered and the boy flushed. The bartender moved cautiously along the bar, his hands well in view.
‘C’mon Jim,’ he expostulated. ‘Let the kid alone. Have another drink!’
Dancy whirled, his face twisted angrily, and the bartender quailed. ‘When I want yore rotgut I’ll ask for it, Tyler!’ roared the big man. ‘If Lightnin’ here was needin’ yore aid, he’d be askin’ for it – right, Lightnin’?’ This to the youth, whose eyes were moving from face to face, as if in truth, pleading for help. No one in the room, however, seemed predisposed to step forward. Jim Dancy’s liquor rages were well known to the inhabitants of Yavapai, and were treated like natural disasters. You stayed well out of harm’s way while they were around, and afterwards repaired the damage as best you could, meanwhile thanking the Lord that it hadn’t been any worse. Jim Dancy in a whisky haze was twice as dangerous as Jim Dancy sober, and Dancy sober was known to be a handy man with a six-shooter.
‘I’m not … I ain’t lookin’ for trouble,’ whispered the boy, backing as Dancy took two steps towards him.
‘Well, ain’t that amazin’,’ Dancy sneered. ‘There yu was, not lookin’ for trouble, an’ trouble’s gone an’ come a-lookin’ for yu.’ The whimsy left his voice and his eyes squinted piggily at the boy. ‘I ast yu a question, Lightnin’. Is that shootin’ iron an ornyment, or can yu use it?’
The boy, hypnotized by the big man, muttered, ‘I … can … I can use it, if I have to. But …’
‘Oho!’ Dancy made an exaggerated leer of terror at this statement, ‘so: a mouse with teeth!’ He took two lurching steps backwards and surveyed the youth from head to foot, like a man appraising a horse he was contemplating buying.
‘How long yu been in this territory, anyways?’ he asked.
‘On’y … a couple o’ weeks,’ offered the youngster. ‘I come from Philadelphia.’ His chin lifted slightly. ‘I’m plannin’ on being a cowboy.’
‘A what?’ Dancy’s scorn was elephantine. ‘Yu – a puncher? If that ain’t—’
The boy’s face set, and he half turned as though to leave.
‘—Wait up, there, Lightnin’!’ growled Dancy. ‘I ain’t through talkin’.’
‘Well, I’m through listening,’ the boy retorted defiantly. ‘Just leave me alone.’
‘An’ if I don’t …? ’ Dancy let the question hang in the air as he dropped all pretence of banter. The appearance of a cold killer dropped upon his shoulders like a mantle, and his hand clawed above the smooth butt of his Colt .45.
The boy regarded him with a mixture of dread and surprise; as though he could not comprehend his danger, and yet at the same time fully realized that he had no choice. He could either turn and run like a scared rabbit or face this bully on his own terms and probably be killed. His face set, and an unholy light kindled in Dancy’s eyes.
‘Damfool kid’s too proud to run,’ whispered one denizen of Tyler’s with awe in his voice. ‘Dancy’ll kill him shore.’
Some customers, sensing the imminence of gunplay, shuffled hastily out of the possible line of fire. Nobody relished the duel; it was a cinch the kid was going to get killed. But nobody relished the idea of interfering with Jim Dancy in this mood, either.
The air grew tense. Dancy glared at the youngster and snapped, ‘Make yore play, Lightnin’: slap leather or eat crow!’
Without warning, a shot rang out, and a faint trickle of blood oozed from Dancy’s left ear. The boy completely forgotten, he wheeled with a screech of pain to face the direction from which the shot had come, his hand flying almost automatically towards his holstered gun.
‘That’d be a mistake.’ A certain steeliness in the quiet voice stopped Dancy’s hand as if it had been frozen solid. The speaker was a tall, lithe man in his late twenties, with a clean-shaven tanned face, icy steel-blue eyes, and a firm chin which spoke of determination and courage. In the faint lines around the eyes and mouth were suggestions that the man possessed a fair share of sense of humor, but no hint of a smile crossed his face. His leather ch
aps, blue shirt, and loose-knotted bandanna, wide-brimmed Stetson and high heeled boots all denoted the cowboy. Only the heavy belt with two guns – one of which, still smoking, was trained unwaveringly upon Dancy’s heart – might mean the gunman. The stranger lounged against one of the upright pillars supporting the staircase, but the indolent posture was none the less wary, and ready for any move that Dancy, his hand clasping his burning ear-lobe, might make. The stranger spoke again, his voice cold and cutting.
‘Was yu born mean, mister, or did yu have to practice?’
Dancy spluttered with rage. ‘Yu got a hell of a nerve! Who are yu, anyway?’
‘Green’s the name,’ snapped the stranger, ‘an yo’re right: I’ve got a hell of a nerve. Yu want to try me?’
Dancy’s angry scowl deepened. ‘Talk’s cheap when yu got the drop,’ he sneered.
The man called Green eased himself away from the upright he had been leaning against, and walked towards Dancy. When he was about three paces away from the big man he holstered his gun in one fluid movement that was not lost on any of the bystanders.
‘Look at Jim Dancy’s eyes,’ grinned one oldster, pleased to see the bully for once being forced to swallow his own medicine. ‘He’s as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful o’ rockin’ chairs.’
Green faced the big man coldly. ‘Like yu said,’ he told Dancy, ‘talk’s cheap. Put yore money where yore mouth is.’
Gone completely was the lightly bantering air. Before Dancy stood a coldly efficient killing machine, and the big man knew it. Dread touched his heart as he realized that if he made a move for his gun he would be a dead man. He backed away.
‘I got no quarrel with yu,’ he mumbled.
‘No,’ sneered Green. ‘Kids is more yore line. Well, let me give yu cause,’ Picking up Dancy’s shotglass of whisky from the bar, he tossed its contents full into the man’s face. Spluttering and cursing, the big man pawed the fiery liquid from his eyes. Green followed him as he reeled backwards. His open hand slapped the man’s face: right, left, and right again, bending Dancy backwards across the bar.
‘Well …’ he gritted. ‘Where’s that big tough feller I seen here a minnit ago?’
Dancy, his face purple with shame at being treated in this humiliating fashion before the whole town, sobbed in rage. Damn the man! His fingers itched to reach for his gun, longed to kill this ruthless intruder who had so disgraced him. But he could not do it.
‘Like I thought,’ said Green. ‘Plain yeller, through an’ through.’
He half turned away, as though in disgust, and in that split second Dancy acted. His hand clawed for his gun, the dark visage distorted with killing hatred. Even as he moved, Green whirled, and with every ounce of his wiry frame behind it, his clenched fist caught the would-be murderer flush on the point of his meaty jaw. The blow made a sound like an ax hitting a butcher’s slab, and Dancy went backwards in a windmill of arms and legs, crashing into an upright and caroming off it to fall headlong against a wall. He slid down the wall to the floor senseless, and Green stepped across and relieved him of his gun. He presented it butt first to the bartender, who accepted it open-mouthed. A perfect hubbub of noise and conversation started up as every man in the bar discussed with his neighbor what had just been enacted before their eyes.
‘Mr. Green,’ said the bartender. ‘I’m thankin’ yu from the bottom o’ my heart. Dancy would have killed this youngster shore as my name’s Tom Tyler.’
The young man who had been the object of Dancy’s initial attention pushed forward. ‘I’d like to thank yu, too, Mr. Green,’ he said. ‘I’m proud to know any man who can throw a punch like that.’
Green turned to face the young man.
‘What’s yore name, kid?’ he asked.
‘Henry, sir. Henry Sloane.’
‘Is that right, yu aim to be a cowboy?’ The kid nodded. ‘Ain’t much of an ambition,’ Green told him. ‘Yu could just as easy get someone to kick yore brains out here in town. Quicker, too.’
Henry joined in the general laughter at Green’s wry description of cowboy life.
‘I came all the way from Philadelphia to find a job as a cowboy,’ he told Tyler. ‘My old man was a cowboy down Prescott way.’ The old bartender nodded sagely, while Green listened with interest. ‘I spent all my money buying this rig.’ The kid turned to Green. ‘Is it … is something wrong with it, Mr. Green?’
Green smiled. ‘Nothin’ that two days in the saddle won’t cure,’ he told the youngster. ‘An’ listen: Jim’s a sight easier than all this misterin’ yo’re doin’. Out here we don’t reckon to call nobody mister less’n we’ got to. Besides, yu make a man feel right ancient.’
The boy smiled. This drawling stranger who had saved his life was a totally different kind of man to the scowling bully who had been his first real contact with the West.
‘Well, that’s all about me,’ he said. ‘Now, where are yu from?’
Tyler shook his head and laughed when Green replied, ‘I’m from over yonder, kid.’ He tapped the youngster on the shoulder and told him, ‘That’s somethin’ yu better learn not to ask in these parts, kid. It ain’t considered perlite – or healthy – to ask a man where he’s from or why he’s travelin’.’
‘Yu see,’ enjoined a friendly onlooker, ‘he might have trouble on his tail an’ not want to talk about …’ His voice tailed off as he realized that the stranger who had treated Dancy so cavalierly might well misconstrue what he had said, and take the words personally. But the tall cowboy smiled.
‘No offence, old-timer,’ he told the man. ‘I ain’t on the dodge.’
‘Glad to hear that,’ interposed a cold voice, and Green turned to face a slim, fair-haired man with keen eyes, and a wary smile. On his shirt pocket was pinned a five-pointed star which bore the legend ‘Marshal’.
‘I’m Appleby, town marshal,’ he introduced himself. ‘I heard about the fracas. Yo’re new in town, I take it. Passin’ through?’
‘Seein’ the country,’ Green told him disarmingly, ‘but I had given some thought to lookin’ for work in these parts. My belly’s been thinkin’ someone slit my throat.’
Appleby frowned.
‘Yu’ve shore gone the wrong way about findin’ work in these parts,’ he told the cowboy. ‘Jim Dancy happens to ramrod the Saber ranch. I ain’t shore he’d recommend yu to his boss after yu knocked his teeth out.’
The befuddled Dancy was struggling to his feet now, aided by the none-too-gentle hands of one or two of the saloon’s regulars.
‘Get yore damn’ hands off me,’ he snarled. ‘I can manage.’
He stood, rocking slightly on his feet and glaring at Green as Appleby walked across to him.
‘Yo’re lucky yu ain’t bein’ patted in the face with a spade on Boot Hill,’ the Marshal told him coldly. ‘Get on yore horse an’ get out o’ town.’
For a moment Dancy’s eyes locked with those of the fair-haired lawman, then they fell.
‘Okay, Marshal, okay,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m goin’.’ He shuffled out of the saloon, and Appleby turned back towards Green, who was talking to the bartender, Tyler.
‘Yu say there’s only a couple o’ small spreads up in the hills?’ he was asking the drink dispenser.
‘Yep,’ said that worthy. ‘Up in the Mesquites, about three hours from town. Biggest is Jake Harris; the others are on the “one-o’-these-days” side.’
Green nodded. Smaller spreads were often so called because of the number of times their owners would tell anyone who cared to listen that ‘one o’ these days’ he was going to be the biggest rancher in these parts.
‘Yu know if they need men?’
‘They’ll be mighty pleased to see yu,’ Tyler told him. ‘They can on’y offer yu grub, a place to sleep, an’ workin’ pay, against Saber’s top wages, free cart’idges, good grub.’
‘If that scum is a sample o’ their crew I’d say Saber’d pay to avoid,’ Green remarked.
‘They ain’t over-popular,�
�� Tyler told him, ‘but …’
‘Tyler, yo’re just gossipin’,’ Appleby cut in. ‘No use in givin’ anyone any wrong notions.’
‘What do yu mean, seh?’ asked the cowboy.
Young Sloane pushed closer to hear.
‘We got the makin’s o’ some trouble in these parts,’ the Marshal told them. ‘We’ve had smaller outfits movin’ in over the last few years, an’ homesteadin’ in the Mesquites. A few of ’em ain’t no better than they oughta be. Gunnison – he owns the Saber – claims he’s been losin’ beef, an’ that the homesteaders are responsible. He’s added a few hard cases like Dancy to his payroll an’ he keeps on threatenin’ to ride up there one o’ these days an’ clear out Harris, who’s the leadin’ light o’ the hill ranchers, an’ all his friends.’
‘What do Harris an’ his people say about all this?’
‘They claim Gunnison is just plain greedy, an’ wants all the range for hisself. They call him a damn’ liar an’ swear they never touch any o’ his beef. If they do, I ain’t been able to find any sign of it.’
‘But the Saber is still losin’ stock, huh?’
‘Gunnison’s got the figgers to prove it,’ the Sheriff told him. ‘It ain’t really any o’ my business: my job’s to keep the town in order, but with the nearest law down in Tucson, somebody’s got to poke around.’
‘Sounds like a bad situation,’ Green said reflectively.
‘One o’ these days the whole shebang is a-goin’ to boil over,’ Tyler said somberly. ‘When that day comes, I’d as lief be in Montana.’
‘Well, I’m thankin’ yu gents for tellin’ us how the land lies. It don’t look like we got much choice: I got a feelin’ the Saber wouldn’t take to us any more’n their ramrod did.’
He turned to young Henry Sloane.
‘What yu say, Philadelphia? Yu care to ride up to the Mesquites with me?’
The kid nodded, his eyes shining with something already close to devotion. ‘Shore, Jim,’ he said, trying to imitate Green’s drawl.
Sudden--Troubleshooter (A Sudden Western) #5 Page 1
