At this question Mandy recoiled and the whites of her eyes showed big. “Lawdy, ain’t I tol’ yo?” she quavered, but Luce interrupted sternly :
“Come clean, Mammy; it ain’t like yu to lie to me.” Still she hesitated, pulled two ways by affection for the lad before her and terror of his elder brother; the former triumphed.
“King’ll sho’ly take the hide off’n my back if he knows,” she said huskily. “Dey’s a gal locked up in yo ol’ room. I dunno who she is—they done hustled me outa de way when she was fotched in.”
“It’s Nan Purdie, Mammy,” Luce told her. “God! It makes me ashamed to know I’m a Burdette.”
The deep disgust and anguish in his voice made the old Negress look at him strangely.
This was not the merry lighthearted lad to whom she had been a mother. A sudden decision firmed her face.
“Yo needn’t to be, honey. Yo ain’t a Burdette, an’ yo nevah was one,” she said, and then, as she read his expression, “No, I ain’t out o’ ma haid—I’m tellin’ yo true. Long time back, when we was crossin’ Injun country on de way hyar, Ol’ Man Burdette fin’ yo cryin’ in de brush—yo was ‘bout knee-high to a jackrabbit. Pretty soon we light on a burned cabin an’ two bodies; dey was white an’ dat was all we—but I don’ need to tell yo ‘bout dem red devils. Mis’ Burdette figured dey was yo folks an’ ‘lowed she’d ‘dopt yo. The Ol’ Man say, `Brand an’ throw him in de herd, de damn li’l maverick; he’ll make a Burdette one day.’ But yo nevah did, honey; allus dere was a difference. Now, don’t yo care …”
To the boy the revelation and all it meant to him swept everything else from his mind. He did not doubt the story, and, looking back, found much to confirm it. Father and brothers had always treated him with a sort of good-natured contempt, an attitude he had put down to his age.
Even after the Old Man’s death he had not been admitted to the family’s councils, nor invited to join in those periodic mysterious expeditions from which the men returned weary with riding and sometimes wounded. These things had hurt him, but now he was glad. Nameless and of unknown origin he might be, but he was not a Burdette, and Nan … At the thought of her he drew himself up, his eyes shining.
“Care?” he echoed. “Why, Mammy, it’s the grandest news I ever heard.“Hell, if yu’d on’y told me afore.”
“I was feared o’ grievin’ yo,” the old woman said.
“Shore, yu couldn’t know,” Luce told her. “Now, I gotta get Miss Purdie outa this. If you hear anythin’, warn me.”
He melted into the shadow of the building, stealing along Until he stood beneath the window of his old room. It was nearly ten feet above his head—for the Circle B ranchhouse boasted two storeys—but he was prepared for that. Close by stood a big cottonwood, a stout branch of which passed above the window. Hanging the lariat round his neck, he began to climb the tree, almost smiling as he recalled how often, as a boy, he had done the same thing with no other object than to enter unknown to his father and brothers. Dark as it was, he soon found the familiar hand and footholds, and in a few moments had swung himself along the branch.
Kneeling upon the sill, he thrust up the unlatched sash and whispered :
“Miss Purdie—Nan.”
A muffled mumble was the answer. He struck a match, shielding the light in his cupped hands that it might not show outside. The girl was seated on the bed—his bed once—her hands and feet tied, a handkerchief knotted over the lower part of her face. With great staring eyes she gazed at him, and then an expression of joy drove the fear away. She trembled as he removed the gag.
“Luce—you?” she breathed. “Oh, take me from this dreadful place.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” he assured her, as he severed the bonds. “Yu ain’t—hurt—any?”
His voice shook as he asked the question.
“No,” she whispered. “Only frightened of that, horrible man. Your brother.”
“He ain’t that, an’ I’m not a Burdette, Nan,” Luce told her exultantly. “No time to explain now—we gotta hustle. Do yu reckon yu can walk?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied, stretching her cramped limbs experimentally.
“The door’s locked, so I’ll have to let yu down from the window,” he went on, and slipped the loop of his rope beneath her armpits. “All yu gotta do is sit on the sill an’ slide off.”
All went well. With feet braced against the wall, Luce paid out the rope slowly when he felt the girl’s weight upon it, and soon a whisper from below apprised him that she had landed safely. Then he retraced his way along the branch and in a moment was by her side.
“Where do we go now?” she asked.
A mocking laugh answered her. “Yu don’t,” said a hated voice, and a lifted lantern drove away the darkness. King Burdette was standing a few yards in front of them, one thumb hooked in his belt and a jeering grin on his face. Like a flash Luce whipped out his gun and covered him.
“Stand outa the way or I’ll send yu to hell pronto,” the boy rasped.
The threatened man laughed. “Yu couldn’t kill one o’ yore own kin, Luce,” he said.
“Yu ain’t that, thank God,” came the retort.
King laughed again. “Found that out at last, huh?” he sneered. “Well, it shore was funny to see yu swaggerin’ around, puttin’ on frills as one o’ the family when allatime yu was on’y a nameless brat.”
“I’d a thousand times sooner be that than a Black Burdette,” Luce retorted passionately, and, as his finger tightened on the trigger, “I’ve warned yu that there’s nothin’ to prevent me shootin’ yu down…”
The elder man snarled a curse. “Nothin’ to prevent yu?” he repeated. “Why, yu young fool, there’s a dozen guns coverin’ yu right now. Fire, an’ be damned to yu; we’ll go together, an’ instead o’ one admirer Miss Purdie’ll have quite a number.”
The fiendish threat underlying the last words drove the blood from the rescuer’s cheeks.
He looked around and saw dark forms with levelled revolvers step from the shadows into the lamp-light. He was trapped. Doubtless King had been watching for some such attempt—Luce knew Mandy would not betray him—and had enjoyed allowing it to almost succeed; it was in keeping with the cruel humour of the man. With a smothered groan he holstered his weapon. He might have killed King, but he would lose his own life and leave Nan at the mercy of men who did not know the meaning of the word. Once more the hateful laugh rang out.
“Learnin’ sense, huh? Well, I’m a good teacher,” King said. “Unbuckle yore belt an’ let it drop.”
“That’s a trick I taught yu,” Luce reminded him, as he complied with the order.
The gibe sank in; King’s face became a mask of malignity. “Don’t push on yore reins, boy,” he hissed. “I’ll be learnin’ yu aplenty afore I’m through.” He turned to his men. “Tie an’ lock ‘em up—apart, an’ then cut that damn tree down.”
Luce looked at his fellow-prisoner. “I’m sorry, Nan,” he said miserably. “Reckon I’ve on’y made things worse for yu.”
The girl smiled bravely. “No, it was fine of you to come, Luce,” she replied, and her tone was a caress. “I’m not afraid now.”
“Better tell him good-bye; yu won’t be seein’ him again,” King mocked.
The threat did not have the effect he expected—it only roused the girl’s fighting spirit. “I’ll do that,” she said quietly. “Thank you, Luce, and in case this coward means what he
says …” She reached up and kissed the astonished boy full on the lips. “I’ll never forget, dear—never,” she whispered.
To have his taunt flung back in his face was more than Burdette had bargained for, but he repressed his rage and substituted a sneer: “Make the most of it, my fine fella—it’s the on’y one yu’ll get; the rest’ll be mine.” He growled an order to his followers, “Take ‘em away. Sim, I hold yu responsible till I come back.”
“Yu needn’t to worry—they’ll be here,” the younger brothe
r assured him.
King nodded, went to the corral for his horse, and was soon on the way to Windy. He was in an exultant mood, things were going as he had planned—with one exception —the escape of California. Luce must be made to tell where the miner was hiding, and then, if the move he was now about to make proved successful, the game was won.
**
In her own little sitting-room at “The Plaza,” Lu Lavigne listened with growing astonishment while King Burdette outlined the situation. It was a pleasant place, tastefully furnished, gaudily-coloured Navajo blankets and a fine grizzly pelt concealing the bareness of walls and floor; on the centre table stood a great jar of flowers. The daintily-dressed girl, with her trim, shining head and wide, deep eyes, was not the least of the room’s attractions, and the visitor, lounging easily in a chair, was fully aware of the fact. He was speaking softly, persuasively, his bold eyes paying her the homage dear to the heart of every woman, be she princess or peasant. A different man this smiling, low-voiced, handsome fellow to the cynical, ruthless devil she knew he could be, and, strangely enough, this was the King Burdette she feared, for, with all her independence, in this mood he could bend her to his will.
“So that’s how the cards lie, honey,” he concluded, triumphantly. “All we gotta do is lay the hand down an’ rake in the pot.”
“And I’m to help you to the C P ranch and—a wife?” she queried resentfully.
“Shucks, Lu, yu got me all wrong,” King replied. “When Purdie hands over the ranch he gets the girl back, an’ Luce can have her for all I care. Time comes I want a mistress for the C P yu know where I’ll look, don’t yu, sweetness?”
The caressing tone and the ardent look which accompanied the words brought a flush to the girl’s cheeks, and convinced her that he was speaking the truth. As to the morality of what King was attempting, that troubled her not at all; Nan Purdie lived on a different plane and they were not even acquainted. Even in this far-off corner of the earth a woman who ran a saloon could not hope to meet on equal terms the daughter of a big cattleman. Moreover, in those days too often might was right, and Burdette had been at pains to fabricate a grievance against Chris Purdie. The only qualm she experienced was when she thought of the C P foreman, and that she resolutely dismissed from her mind; he had told her plainly that women could have no part in his life, and the fascination King Burdette had for her was still strong. Because of it she consented to do his bidding, though she told herself she was a fool to mix in the affair.
Chapter XXII
WHEN Sudden and Yago returned to the C P in the early afternoon the cook came from the bunkhouse on the run.
“Hey, Jim, the Ol’ Man’s just bin aroun’—said for yu to go see him as soon as yu showed up,” he explained. “I’m bettin’ suthin’ has broke loose—he was lookin’ as mad as a singed cat.”
Turning his horse over to Bill, the foreman strode to the ranchhouse. Tied to the rail of the verandah was the pony Lu Lavigne rode, and on stepping into the living-room he saw the lady herself, seated in a large chair. She greeted him with a cool nod, and then her attention went back to Purdie, who was pacing up and down in an obvious attempt to overcome his passion. He paused as the foreman entered, and growled.
“Glad yu’ve come, Jim.” He waved a hand savagely at his guest. “One o’ Burdette’s creatures; he hadn’t the sand to come himself an’ sends a woman.”
The girl flushed. “That’s not true,” she protested. “I have no part in King Burdette’s business—he is merely a friend. He asked me to bring his message because he expected to be shot on sight if he showed himself here.”
“He was damn right too,” the rancher grimly agreed. “That’s my way o’ treatin’ vermin.”
Lu Lavigne shrugged her slim shoulders. “It would have helped your daughter so much, wouldn’t it?” she retorted.
The foreman judged it was time to put in a word: “Burdette makin’ an offer, Purdie?” he asked.
The cattleman stopped and whirled. “Yeah, the sort yu might expect from such a dirty road-agent,” he replied fiercely. “I’m to sign a paper that woman has fetched, makin’ over my ranch an’ cattle to him for value received, an’ in return, I get my girl back unharmed.”
Sudden did not reply at once; the magnitude and audacity of the demand staggered him.
He looked at the lady, sitting there with a set, wooden face devoid of all expression, and his thoughts went straying.
“An’ if the paper ain’t signed?” he said at last.
“Luce Burdette will die, and your daughter, Mister Purdie, will want to,” the messenger replied tonelessly.
“So Luce failed?”
“King was watching; he let them almost escape.”
Sudden nodded; it was a jest which would appeal to the elder Burdette, and he could picture his unholy glee in thus playing cat and mouse with his captives. Purdie paused again in his perambulation.
“He can kill Luce an’ welcome—it’s on’y a Burdette less in the world an’ all to the good,” he rapped out. “Do yu reckon he’d dare do what he threatens to my daughter?”
“I am quite sure of it,” the visitor said coldly.
The old man glared at her. “An’ yu stand for that?” he asked.
“What is it to do with me?”
“She’s a woman—like yoreself.”
Lu Lavigne smiled bitterly. “No, she is not a woman like myself,” she retorted. “Nan Purdie is a superior being, with a college education, a wealthy father, and far too proud to look at the keeper of a drinking-saloon. Why should I worry what happens to her? How should it concern me if you and King Burdette have a difference and he takes his own way of settling it?”
The foreman was watching her, and under the steady scrutiny of those grey-blue eyes her own dropped. Then he spoke, quietly :
“Possibly yu have a right to think like that, but yu—don’t,” he said. “Is there any way yu can help us, ma’am?”
She shook her head. “I can do nothing. King Burdette holds all the cards.”
The cattleman’s harsh voice cut in: “Yo’re a particular friend o’ his, ain’t yu?”
The girl’s manner was instantly hostile again. “Has that anything to do with it?” she said icily.
“I figure it might have,” the rancher replied. “Yo’re one o’ the cards he don’t hold at the moment; s’pose we keep yu here?”
Mrs. Lavigne’s laugh was genuine. “Do you really imagine King would let that interfere with his plans?” she asked. “You should study your enemies better, sir.” Her voice took on a touch of acid. “And what would the town think? A most respectable citizen entertaining a dance-hall drab at his most respectable ranch in the absence of his most respectable daughter.
Why, Mister Purdie, even your most respectable foreman will tell you that it wouldn’t do at all.”
The gibing, scornful tirade ended; the speaker was watching Sudden, who appeared to be searching for something. Noting her interested gaze, he explained.
“I’m lookin’ for that foreman yu was mentionin’,” he said quizzically. The disarming grin, which brought tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes, drove the ill-humour from the girl’s face and brought a look of contrition instead.
“I’m a nasty little spitfire,” she murmured. “I take it all back.”
“Which means we ain’t respectable,” Sudden smiled. “Ma’am, I’m thankin’ yu.” Then he added gravely, “But this ain’t helpin’ us.”
Purdie, who had thrown himself into a chair, glaring moodily at the ground, now looked up. His face, grey and haggard, was set with resolve.
“I’ve gotta sign, Jim,” he said slowly. “As Mrs. Lavigne” —it was the first time he had used her name, and it brought the ghost of a smile to her lips—“says, he holds the cards. It’ll mean startin’ life all over again—for everythin’ I got is in the ranch—but sooner that than hurt should come to Nan. It won’t be the first time I’ve been set afoot.”
For a space
no one spoke. The girl’s eyes were downcast, and the foreman appeared to be concerned only in the construction of a cigarette.
“Shore looks thataway, Purdie,” he said presently, “but there’s a kink in the rope that has to be straightened out first. The C P is another card Burdette don’t hold—yet; sign that paper an’ yu fill his hand. Who’s to guarantee he’ll keep his word? Me, I ain’t trustin’ him as far as I could throw a steer.”
“How’d yu propose to get around it?” the rancher asked dully.
“That’s what we gotta figure out, an’ it’ll need sleepin’ on,” Sudden told him. He turned to the messenger. “Yu can tell Burdette he’ll have his answer in the mornin’, an’ that’s final,” he said, and opened the door leading to the verandah.
Lu Lavigne went without a word and the foreman followed her. Not until she was standing beside her pony did she venture a protest.
“You are taking a big risk,” she said.
“I’m used to it,” he grinned. “Takin’ risks is the salt o’ life—for a man.” Then, with apparent irrelevance, “Yu are too nice a woman to be mixed up in a mess o’ this sort.”
With a gesture of impatience, she disdained his proffered help and swung into her saddle.
Always this sardonic, gravely-smiling man baffled her.
“But where’s the sense in it? At the first sign of attack on the Circle B the girl—pays,” she urged. “You know Purdie will have to sign in the morning—there is no other way.”
“I reckon yo’re right—mebbe,” he agreed.
With a little shrug of despair, she sent her pony clattering down the trail. Sudden watched till she rounded the bend, before turning to re-enter the ranchhouse.
“I said `mebbe,’ Mrs. Lavigne,” he smiled.
He found Purdie hunched up at the table, gloomily fingering the document which would take away practically all he possessed and rob him of the result of his life’s work. This, following the loss of his son and the peril in which his daughter was placed, had brought him, tough as he was, near to breaking-point. But Chris Purdie had lived a life full of hard lessons and had learned to “take his medicine” without whining. So that it was a fighting face which greeted the foreman, grief-lined but determined, with narrowed eyes and clamped jaw, the face of one who could be crushed but never heaten while breath was in his body.
Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) Page 21
