Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933)

by Oliver Strange

  “We’ve got yore foreman, Green, hawg-tied upstairs,” he began. “If yu wanta see him again—alive—yu better call this fight off right now. That’s—”

  Somewhere in the scrub a rifle barked, and the slim figure on the verandah staggered as from a blow and fell forward across the rail, sagging limply, head down, arms swinging. A howl of rage came from the ranchhouse, and above it the voice of Chris Purdie rang out:

  “Who fired? By God, I’ll hang the skunk who did that with my own hands!”

  With the spring of a panther, King Burdette leapt through the window, lifted the body of his brother, and shook a furious fist.

  “Purdie, yu’ve signed Green’s death-warrant,” he shouted. “Do yore damnedest, yu dirty coward.”

  Savagely he struck down the white flag and slowly bore his burden back into the building.

  “King, I had nothin’ to do with it,” the cattleman called out. “I’d ‘a’ give my right hand sooner than it should ‘a’ happened.” A jeering laugh was the only answer he received. Turning helplessly to Yago, he said, “What in hell am I to do?”

  The appalling tragedy had produced a paralysing effect on all save two of the spectators.

  One of these was the assassin, and the other, Sudden himself. The fatal shot had been fired but a bare dozen yards from where he was standing. He had seen the sun glinting on the gun-barrel without a suspicion of what was to follow. The foul deed stirred him to instant action, and he hurried towards the spot. A natural hedge of prickly pear, with its shining armour of spines, forced him to circle round, and he arrived only in time to see the killer, a wisp of smoke still curling from the muzzle of his weapon, vanish in the thick brush. Sudden stared.

  “The marshal,” he ejaculated. “What the devil…?”

  He did not pursue the man; it was of more immediate importance to let Purdie know he was at liberty. He hurried along the slope and appeared on the scene just as the rancher asked his despairing question.

  “Burdette is four-flushin’, Purdie,” he said quietly. “The card he thinks he has up his sleeve is here. Yu can call his bluff.”

  The effect of his arrival was ludicrous. Yago slapped his back, swore in sheer delight, and turned triumphantly to his employer.

  “Didn’t I tell yu he’d make it?” he crowed. “Got as many lives as a cat, this fella.”

  Purdie wiped beads of cold sweat from his brow. All he could say was, “Jim, I’m damned glad to see yu,” but his hand-clasp spoke volumes. “An’ Nan?”

  “Safe somewheres with Luce,” the foreman told him.

  The rancher’s face clouded for a moment, and then, as he realized what the news meant, he said grimly, “Then we can finish the job. Bill, tell the boys to give ‘em hell.”

  “So yu fetched the marshal along after all,” Sudden remarked.

  “I certainly did not—gave particular orders to prevent his knowin’.”

  “Somebody’s got a loose tongue; it was Slype who shot Sim Burdette.”

  “Slype?” ejaculated the rancher. “But he’s a Burdette man hisself. If he’d downed me now…”

  “There’s depths to that fella yu ain’t plumbed yet,” Sudden told him. “When we’ve cleaned up here there’s another mess waitin’ in Windy.”

  Purdie was hardly listening; his mind was puzzling over what he had just heard. “Can’t see why he should kill Sim,” he muttered.

  “He wanted the ruckus to go on, an’ he figured it would mean my finish—which it shorely would if I’d waited,” the foreman pointed out. “He don’t like me a lot.”

  “The cowardly coyote,” Purdie growled. “I said I’d hang the cur, an’ I will, star an’ all.”

  Meanwhile, in the Circle B ranchhouse, King was also getting a surprise. Having laid his brother’s body on a form, he strode from the room, his handsome face distorted to that of a devil.

  His men watched him in stern silence. Only when he had vanished did one of them speak:

  “Good-bye, Mister Green,” he said, and added an ugly laugh.

  As King raced up the stairs the firing outside recommenced, a perfect hail of lead spattering the building. He shouted a scornful gibe:

  “Shoot, yu fools; yu won’t save him thataway.”

  On the threshold of the room into which Sudden had been thrown he paused in bewilderment. Then he saw the thongs lying on the floor and snatched them up. One look told him they had been cut, and he guessed the truth.

  “That black bitch has turned him loose,” he stormed. “I’ll…”

  Mad with rage and disappointment, he sprang down the stairs in search of the Negress, only to find that she too had gone. For a few moments he went berserk, kicking the kitchen furniture to kindling wood and smashing everything within reach; had he laid hands on Mandy then he would have killed her. His violence served its purpose; the fit passed, and he began to remember that if he was beaten now, to-morrow was another day. He had control of himself again when he re-entered the big room. Looking round, he saw that eight men only were left on their legs, and of these, two had slight wounds. With hard, reckless, smoke-grimed faces they waited for their leader’s orders. They knew they were fighting a losing battle. To approach the windows meant death or disablement, for the lynx-eyed marksmen in the brush allowed no movement to escape their attention.

  “Green’s gone, boys, an’ the jig’s up,” King said curtly. “No sense in stayin’ here to be wiped out. We can beat it up the Butte—there’s hosses in the corral at the top an’ some cattle we can take along. They needn’t know we’ve vamoosed till we’re well on our way, an’ I guess they won’t follow. Anybody got other ideas?”

  “Reckon yo’re right, King,” one of them said. “We lose this time, but we can allus come back.”

  “Yo’re shoutin’, Dandy,” Burdette said darkly. “I aim to come back; don’t doubt it.”

  Their preparations did not take long, and soon, one by one, they crossed the cleared space at the rear of the ranchhouse and disappeared in the undergrowth. King was the last to leave, his set face showing no sign of the raging fire which burned within him.

  The shots from the slope became less frequent and presently ceased altogether when the attackers realized that no response was coming from the battered building. Silence ensued for a time, and then Strip Levens, who had been creeping nearer and nearer, suddenly made a dash for the verandah. One look confirmed what he had suspected.

  “Come ahead, fellas,” he yelled. “They’ve skedaddled.”

  The place presented a picture of death and destruction. Glass had disappeared from the windows and the frames hung in fragments. The walls of the living-room were scored and pitted by bullets, and on the floor were the huddled, twisted forms of the fallen. Yago counted them.

  “Five, includin’ Sim, an’ the two outside who dropped at the first rattle,” he said. “Must be some more upstairs.”

  There were four, and one of them, a craggy-faced fellow of over forty, stirred as Yago bent over him and regarded the C P man maliciously.

  “Too late, ol’-timer,” he said.

  “Where’s King an’ the rest?” yago asked.

  “Half-way to Windy by now,” the man lied loyally. “Half-way to hell,” Bill retorted.

  “Same—thing,” the fellow gasped. His head fell back and his lower jaw dropped in what appeared to be a ghastly grin at his last grim joke.

  Yago straightened the body out. “Yu had yore own notions o’ livin’, hombre, but yu shore knowed how to die,” was his comment.

  He joined Purdie and the foreman in front of the ranchhouse and made his report. “Seven or eight, of ‘em musta got away,” he concluded. “Hey, boss, look who’s comin’.”

  His excited cry was drowned in a whoop of delight from other members of the outfit as their young mistress came running across the plateau to fling herself into her father’s arms. She was followed by Luce, and Mandy, whom they had found sitting stolidly where Sudden had left her.

  “Gosh, girl, bu
t it’s good to have yu back, safe an’ sound,” Purdie said, when he had heard her story. “As for yu, Jim, I’ll never be able to pay what I owe yu. If I’d ‘a’ knowed yu was goin’ to hold up that thievin’ devil single-handed …”

  “Shucks! Forget it, Purdie,” the foreman smiled.

  “Not while I got breath in my body,” the rancher returned warmly. His eyes went to Luce.

  “I never thought the day would come when I’d thank a Burdette for anythin’, but I guess I gotta,” he added, slowly putting out a hand.

  From the shelter of her father’s shoulder Nan laughed shyly. “Hurts your pride, daddy mine, doesn’t it?” she whispered. “But it need not—Luce is no more a Burdette than you are.”

  “What do yu mean, girl?” he asked.

  Nan told the news, and Mandy, with many nods, confirmed it. Purdie looked at Luce again, and saw what blind prejudice had prevented him from recognizing before: this redheaded, open-faced boy, who did not in any way resemble the Black Burdettes, could not have treacherously slain his son. Chris Purdie was a white man; his hand came out readily enough now.

  “I’m right glad, Luce,” he said simply, and meant it. “I’ve had some hard thoughts about yu, but I’m hopin’ yu’ll forget it.”

  The boy gripped the extended hand. “That’s done a’ready,” he said. “The way things looked, I couldn’t blame yu.”

  Purdie gazed round. “Seems I gotta thank Mandy too,” he went on. “An’ that of scamp, Cal, an’ all the boys. Reckon I’ll have to sell the C P to meet my obligations.”

  He grinned hugely; the recovery of his daughter and the paying of an old score had put him in great good humour. “I’m bettin’ we’ve seen the last o’ King Burdette.”

  “Yu’d lose, Purdie,” Sudden said quietly.

  A little later, Yago called the foreman aside. “Thought yu’d like to know I found a .38 rifle an’ fodder cached in a cupboard in King’s bedroom,” he said. “Sorta bears out Ramon’s story, don’t it?”

  “Shore does,” Sudden agreed. “Don’t tell nobody else; we got trouble enough ahead without gettin’ Purdie on the rampage again.”

  “What d’yu reckon King’ll come back for?” yago asked.

  “To do yu a good turn, Bill,” Sudden said, and smiled at his friend’s puzzled expression.

  “Yeah, he’s goin’ to try an’ make yu foreman o’ the C P.”

  The little man understood, and his comment was vivid.

  Chapter XXV

  SAM SLYPE sat in his office, teeth clamped on a black cigar, brows knitted in thought. It was a blazing afternoon and the street outside was deserted. Two days had passed since the fight at Battle Butte and the excitement had to some extent died down. Save to the more lawless element, the crushing of the Circle B had brought satisfaction—Windy had long resented the arrogance and domination of the Burdettes and their riders. The marshal’s own position had been delicate, but he flattered himself that he had adopted the right attitude. While, in deference to his office, he deprecated Purdie’s appeal to force, he was careful to also make it clear that, in abducting the girl, King had placed himself outside the pale.

  He smiled sourly as he remembered that these sentiments had met with general approval as being those of a fair-minded man who held a public position. But the marshal was by no means satisfied. The Burdettes were shattered, and this he had longed and schemed for, but Green remained. For he both hated and feared this capable young man who, drifting casually into the town, had at once began to make his presence felt. When, following an overheard remark, he had trailed the attackers to the Circle B, it had been in the hope of a furtive shot which would pass unnoticed. It might have been King, Green, or Purdie; it chanced to be Sim, who died because he was a Burdette, and, as the slayer had argued, his death would infallibly bring about that of the C P foreman. It was this disappointment over which he was brooding.

  “Cuss the crooked luck,” he muttered aloud.

  “Conscience troublin’ yu, Slippery?” asked a cool, amused voice.

  It was King Burdette, and the marshal was aware of an inner icy chill which nearly stopped the beating of his heart. So absorbed had he been in his meditations that he had not heard the door open. Before his bulging eyes pale phantoms of the Burdettes he had so foully murdered seemed to stand beside this one and gibber at him. One thought obsessed him—had King learned the truth? He was smiling, but he was of the type who smiled as they strike.

  “Anybody’d think yu weren’t pleased to see me,” the visitor went on, leaning lazily against the closed door.

  The marshal collected his scattered wits. “I was thinkin’ o’ yu right when yu walked in, King,” he stammered.

  “Grievin’, huh? The town don’t appear to be mournin’ none.”

  “Yore friends is sorry.”

  “But bein’ in the minority an’ wise men—as my friends would be—they’re doin’ the Br’er Rabbit act an’ layin’ low; oughtn’t to blame ‘em for that, I s’pose. What action yu takin’, Sam?”

  The unexpected question gave the officer a nasty jar. “Me?” he cried, and his amazement was real enough. “What can I do?”

  Burdette surveyed him with very evident disgust. “Yo’re the marshal,” he reminded. “See here, Purdie rounds up an army—there was townsfolk in it—shoots me up, killin’ eleven o’ my men an’ damagin’ my property. Yu goin’ to tell me that’s accordin’ to law?”

  “Yu stole his gal, King,” Slype protested.

  “Stole nothin’—she come of her own free will,” came the easy lie. “When it got out, we pretended she was a prisoner to save her good name. I sent word to Purdie that I’d marry her an’ end the trouble between the two families. Yu know what his answer was.”

  “Sounds fair to me, King, but her tale don’t tally.”

  “O’ course not; did yu think it would?”

  The marshal had not thought so; he knew the story was an invention to hit Purdie through his daughter, but that did not concern him. What he wanted to know was why Burdette had come to him, for the pretext of appealing to the law did not deceive him for an instant; he knew the Burdette nature better than that. Summoning his nerve, he put the question.

  “I want justice,” King told him sternly, and Slype’s face turned to a sickly yellow. It was coming now; this savage devil would shoot him down without mercy unless … Fear was driving him to snatch at his own gun in sheer desperation when the visitor spoke again. “Purdie must make good the damage he an’ his men have done.”

  The marshal’s suspended breath expelled itself in a gasp of relief, and, satisfied that his hide was not in danger, his cunning brain got busy. He could not fathom Burdette’s attitude, but an inspiration came to him.

  “Purdie figures yu’ve gone for good,” he said. “I hear he’s givin’ the Circle B to Green.”

  King straightened up, his careless, cynical expression changing to one of fierce surprise. “An’ Green don’t aim to be lonely up there on the Butte—he’s bin at `The Plaza’ most all day,” Slype supplemented. “Betcha he’s there now.”

  The poisoned shaft bit deep. Burdette was cruel, heartless, incapable of real affection, but he had his pride. The muscles of his jaw tightened, his lips curled back to uncover the clenched teeth, one hand went to his gun as he leaned forward.

  “Yu lie,” he hissed.

  The marshal’s puny soul shrivelled within him; he saw death itself staring out of those narrowed, flaming eyes. One moment of weakness would be the end—for him. His statement regarding the Circle B and Green was a deliberate invention, made to inflame the visitor, and despite the latter’s fierce denial, Slype knew it had succeeded. He fought down his fears and answered steadily:

  “I’m givin’ yu the straight goods. Actin’ friendly to yu don’t buy a fella much, King.”

  The other ignored the reproach, but relaxed the tenseness of his attitude. The marshal’s heart skipped a beat when King pulled out a gun, spun the cylinder, and replaced it car
efully in the holster. He ventured a question.

  “Yu didn’t come in alone, King, did yu?”

  The tall man looked down at him disdainfully. “Yeah, why not?” he retorted. “Do yu s’pose I’m scared o’ this rabbit-warren? If anybody wants to argue with me I’ll he right pleased, but I got a little business to ‘tend to first.”

  “What yu aim to do?”

  “I’m goin’ to make shore that Mister Green don’t get what belongs to me,” was the reply.

  “See yu later.”

  Slype tried hard to keep the exultation out of his voice. “Well, a fella has a right to protect his own property, I reckon,” he said. “Good huntin’.” And when he was sure his visitor had gone, added venomously, “I hope yu get him an’ that he gets yu, blast yu both.”

  Sitting slackly in his chair, he waited hopefully for the sound he wanted to hear—the crack of exploding cartridges. With these two men out of the way his path would be easy.

  Burdette’s return was going to prove a godsend after all, though he was still trembling with the fright it had given him.

  “Mebbe yu ain’t so plucky as some, Sam,” he told himself, “but yu got the savvy to plan big, an’ the guts to put it through. If Riley has searched out Cal’s secret, there’ll on’y be Purdie to deal with… .”

  Had Burdette heard the conclusion of the marshal’s valediction it would probably have aroused only amused contempt; to him the fellow was a mere tool, and he would have ridiculed the suggestion that he might be dangerous. At the moment he had forgotten Slype entirely. Full of his fell purpose, he paced slowly down the street, sitting carelessly in the saddle, head thrown back, and insolent eyes challenging the curious glances of the few men he met. No one accosted him, and the sneer on his tight lips grew more pronounced as he proceeded. Rabbits! They believed he had run away, and that was one reason why he had returned to ride, unconcerned and unattended, in broad daylight, through the town. He had dared them, and they had done—nothing.