Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 06 - Sudden Gold-Seeker(1937)

by Oliver Strange

  “Say, Mister Green, c’n I have a word with you?” he asked. The man shuffled his feet and cast an oblique glance at a nearby dive. Obviously he did not want to talk in the open, and Sudden therefore determined that he should.

  “I ain’t drinkin’,” he said. “Yu can trail along o’ me an’ sing yore song. I’m shy yore name.”

  “Berg,” the other replied, and then went on with a rush, “You know Bill Hickok? Well, he don’t like you.”

  “No reason why he should, we’ve never met.”

  “Mebbe, but he says he’s goin’ to get you—heard him my own self, an’ so did others.” The cowpuncher cogitated over this amazing statement and then, “What’s he sore about?” he inquired.

  “Sore nothin’,” was the reply. “You know what these big gunmen are. He’s cock o’ the walk around here an’ he ain’t goin’ to let anyone else crow, that’s what.”

  “But why pick on me—I ain’t let out a chirp?”

  “Hell, he’s scared—yo’re Sudden, ain’t you?” The puncher stopped as though one of Wild Bill’s bullets had struck him. Then his iron nerve came to his aid. “Sudden?” he sneered.

  “Where’d yu get that fool notion?”

  “Why, all the town knows,” Berg retorted. “Yore pard told young Ginger when you stopped him baitin’ of Jacob.” This cleared the air somewhat but not entirely; how did Gerry know? Sudden had never breathed a word of his past. He turned to the man who had flung this bombshell at him.

  “My pard was joshin’—he’s a born humorist,” he said.

  Berg smiled sourly. “He’ll be a dead humorist when the boys find out an’ if you owed me money I’d be askin’ for it now,” he said with sinister emphasis.

  Sudden knew it was true; the town would never forgive what it must regard as a deliberate imposture.

  “So yu are here to warn me, just a kindly act, huh?”

  “I came to warn you, yes, an’ give you a chance o’ pickin’ up a nice piece o’ change. There’s big men in Deadwood who got no use for Hickok. Put him outa business—any way you choose—an’ there’ll be a thousand bucks for you an’ no comeback, see?” The cowboy’s fists bunched at this infamous proposal but he controlled his anger and asked coolly, “Who are these big men?”

  “I ain’t sayin’,” was the expected reply. “Put the job over an’ the cash will be ready for you at my shack.” The cowpuncher glanced round; they were clear of the street and had almost reached Jacob’s cabin. With a quick snatch he had the other by the throat.

  “Yu dirty rat,” he rasped, and shook him till the teeth of the wretch rattled in his jaws.

  “So yu take me for a hired killer? I’d twist yore rotten neck if I hadn’t a use for yu. Go back to the cowards that sent yu an’ tell ‘em to come along an’ I’ll kill ‘em one after the other—for nothin’.”

  With a powerful thrust he hurled the almost senseless form into the dust and strode away. His frowning face when he entered the cabin apprised his friend that something was wrong.

  “Been fightin’?” he asked.

  “No,” came the snapped answer. “What possessed yu to tell that fool boy I was

  ‘Sudden’?” Gerry started to grin but changed his mind. “It seemed a good jape to put over on him and mebbe saved a ruckus,” he explained. “I couldn’t know he’d chatter but it’s goin’ to make things easy for us, seemin’ly.”

  “It’s goin’ to make things damned difficult. Why did yu pick on Sudden?”

  “I’d heard of him; he’s a Texas outlaw an’ the least likely to show up, I figured. Yu ain’t tellin’ me he’s here?”

  “I am—just that,” Sudden retorted, grimly gratified at the result the statement produced.

  The boy’s face became a picture of consternation as he realized that his little comedy was likely to have a tragic ending. “My Gawd, Jim, I’m sorry,” he groaned. “By all accounts, he’s reckoned the worst hell-raiser in the south-west, a heartless hound who shoots folk just to see ‘em kick. I guess yu’d better head for the woods an’ let me take the medicine—I got yu in the jam.”

  His perturbed gaze rested on the other. “Yu certain he’s here?”

  “Dead shore,” was the reply, and with a hard smile, “Yo’re lookin’ at him.”

  “Quit it, Jim, this ain’t no time for foolin’,”

  “I am givin’ it to yu straight,” was the harsh answer. “I am the man they call ‘Sudden,’ outlawed in Texas, an’ lied about everywhere else.” He waited for the expected look of repulsion, but Gerry’s face expressed only astonishment, admiration and relief.

  “Then it’s all right,” he cried, and grinned widely. “No call for yu to run away from yoreself.”

  “That’s what I was tryin’ to do when I came here,” Sudden said moodily. “‘Pears it can’t be done. No, Gerry, it ain’t all right, it’s all wrong—for yu.” He hesitated a moment. “We will have to tread different trails.”

  “Not on yore life,” Mason said instantly. “We’re pards, an’ I’m stick in’ to yu like a tick on a cow, that’s whatever.” Sudden shook his head, but he saw the boy was in earnest and made no further protest. That he could count on one friend dispelled some of the gloom which had enveloped him when he learned his evil reputation had, by a mere chance, dogged him even to far-off Deadwood.

  “Then it’s on’y fair yu should know who yo’re hookin’ up with,” he replied, and proceeded to give a brief recital of how Fate had foisted his infamous notoriety upon him.’ Mason listened in stupefied silence to the story of a promise to a dying man, the blind search for two villains it entailed, and the false accusation of murder which sent a youth no older than himself wandering in the West with a price on his head, and every man’s hand against him.

  The relation of his interview with Berg evoked a long whistle of dismay. “The swine!”

  Gerry exploded. “I hope yu bruk his neck.”

  “I made myself plain,” Sudden said, with a wintry smile. “The fellas who sent him won’t like it.”

  “D’yu reckon Hickok is really after yore scalp?”

  “Dunno, but he ain’t the breed o’ gunman who goes around with a chip on his shoulder.

  I’ve heard that he never draws till his hand is forced, but he’s probably been told I’m here to get him. That’s why I’m callin’ on him in the mornin’.” Mason sprang to his feet. “Are yu plumb crazy?” he inquired. “Why, he’ll down yu on sight; I’m goin’ along.”

  “Yu’ll stay here,” was the definite reply. “If I don’t show up in a coupla hours, yu can make arrangements for the buryin’.”

  “An’ there’ll be two holes needed,” Gerry said savagely. “Wild Bill may be a wizard with a six-shooter but a load o’ buckshot fired from behind..”

  “Shucks, there’ll be no battle,” Sudden interrupted. “He’s white, I tell yu.” But Gerry was not so confident, and it was with a glum face that he watched his partner set out in the morning.

  Jacob found him idly smoking in the doorway.

  “Taking a holiday?” he asked.

  “Jim has business in town,” Gerry explained, and then, unable to keep silent. “He’s gone to meet Hickok.” The old man’s face showed his concern. “That’s bad,” he said. “No man has ever beaten Wild Bill to the draw, and I doubt if even Sudden—”

  “Yu know?” Gerry broke in.

  “All Deadwood knows,” was the reply. “I found it very hard to believe—he doesn’t look like a desperado.”

  “He ain’t,” Gerry said eagerly, and told something of what he had learned the night before.

  The elder man nodded his comprehension. “Fate plays fantastic tricks with some of us,” he said. “Don’t worry; despite his terrible toll of human life, Hickok is not a butcher. All will be well; they are both sane men.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  An unpretentious log-hut erected apart from the others and owned by a miner, served as a lodging for the famous gunman. Sudden found him seated at the door, poli
shing one of his pistols with a silk handkerchief. Hickok paid particular attention to his weapons, which was hardly to be wondered at, for his life might at any moment depend on their being in order. He looked up as the man on the black horse dismounted, threw the reins, and walked unhurriedly towards him.

  “Mornin’, seh,” the visitor said. “I’ve had word yu wanted to see me.” Hickok gathered the import of the greeting, noted the brown nervous fingers hanging loosely over the gun-butts, the effortless, panther-like motion of a body ready to become instinct with action at a second’s notice. He gave his gun a final rub, looked at it critically, slipped it into the holster, and stood up.

  “Mister Green, I have always held courage to be the greatest of human virtues,” he began, “because, in this ill-contrived world of ours, it is shorely the most needed. I am pleased to meet yu.” Then he added gravely, “I could have killed yu five times while yu were addressin’ me.”

  Sudden’s eyes twinkled. “Once would ‘a’ been a-plenty,” he replied. “I had to take the chance.”

  “The sun is fierce,” Hickok observed. “It is cooler inside—an’ more private.” Seated on stools in the rudely furnished living-room of the hut, these two men who carried death in their hands faced one another.

  “I was told that yu had come to Deadwood to kill me,” Wild Bill said.

  “Berg has been busy,” Sudden suggested.

  “Yes, it was Berg,” the gunman admitted. “I’m guessin’ he brought yu the same story about me?” He saw that his surmise was correct, and went on, “What’s his game?”

  “Obeyin’ orders,” the puncher stated. “He offered me a thousand dollars to get yu.”

  “One—thousand—dollars,” Hickok repeated softly. “Not very flatterin’ to either of us, Mister Green; I should have said the job was worth more. Yore refusal made him sore, I expect?”

  Sudden smiled. “It certainly did,” he confessed. “Berg was all shook up.” Hickok smiled too, and then his expression became thoughtful again. “That vermin is of no account—he’s on’y bein’ used,” he said. “I must find out who is behind him.”

  “In the meantime, yu’ll need eyes in the back o’ yore head, seh,” the puncher warned. “I was told that however it was done there would be no trouble—after.”

  “I’ll be careful,” the big man promised, hesitated for a moment and, with a smile, said,

  “I’ve heard surprising statements about yore speed in gettin’ yore gun workin’. Now that’s my best suit an’ I’ve yet to meet the man who is faster. Call it vanity if you like but—I’m curious.”

  “Shucks, I expect yu can give me a start,” the puncher replied. “I’m willin’ to try.”

  “Good,” Hickok said.

  Standing face to face, a few paces apart, Hickok gave the word. With a speed which baffled sight, the guns flashed to the men’s hips and the snap of the falling hammers sounded like one. With something like a sigh, Wild Bill thrust his weapon back into its holster.

  “Lucky it was on’y play or we’d have crossed the Divide together,” he said. “I’ve never seen a quicker draw. Mister Green, if the town knew of this …” He paused in embarrassment, conscious that he, Wild Bill, was almost asking a favour. “Forget I said that,” he finished.

  “I don’t advertise,” Sudden replied. “Anyways, I was fortunate, four times outa five yu’d get the edge on me.” Hickok shook his head. “If I can help yu, don’t hesitate to ask,” he said.

  “Yu’ll find me here or at Bizet’s—he’s a good fella, that Frenchy; yu can trust him.” He watched the black horse and its rider turn into the street.

  “An’ it wasn’t that I’m gettin’ old an’ slow,” he muttered, his mind still on the astonishing fact that he had found a man as fast as himself.

  Some days later, Paul Lesurge and Reuben Stark foregathered in the latter’s private room at the Monte.

  “So Berg’s plan failed, as I feared it would,” Lesurge remarked. “Hickok is too old a hand to tumble into such a trap, and this fellow, Green appears to have intelligence; they will now both be against us—a dangerous pair to draw to.”

  “Bah! they don’t know about us, an’ anyway, Bill is past his best,” Stark said. “The other fella can be—attended to. What’s his interest in the game?”

  “I’ve no idea, except that his partner, Mason, has the infernal impudence to admire my ward, Miss Ducane,” Paul replied.

  “I expect he ain’t alone in that,” Stark laughed, and as a rap sounded on the door, “Come in.” It was Berg who entered, or rather, crept into the room, his evil, ferrety face more malignant than usual. He slid into a chair, and, at a nod from the host, helped himself from the bottle on the table.

  “It’s the man I thought,” he began. “Calls hisself `Rogan’ but he’s ‘Lefty’ Logan, the Californy killer, shore enough.”

  “Never heard of him,” Stark said. “Is he fast?”

  “He’s here because he ain’t knowed in these parts,” Berg pointed out. “Yeah, he’s fast a-plenty, but he fools ‘em—uses the hand they ain’t watchin’, which is usually the left; that’s how he come by his name.”

  “We don’t care how he does it. Will he tackle the job?”

  “He won’t take on Hickok, though he’s workin’ for day wages.”

  “Afraid of him, like the rest o’ you,” Stark sneered.

  For once the rat showed his teeth. “Like the rest of us,” he snapped. “He’s willin’ to tangle up with Green for a thousand.”

  “A thousand bucks?” the saloonkeeper cried. “Tell him to go to hell.”

  “No, tell him to send Green there,” Lesurge interposed, and turning to Stark, “If he succeeds it will be worth the coin; if he fails—” he shrugged his shoulders—“it will cost you nothing. I feel in my bones that the puncher is going to be—awkward.” The other assented, but with an ill grace; he had an insatiable lust for wealth, and all it would bring, and it was upon this passion that Paul was playing.

  “Very well,” Stark told his go-between, “but you tell this friend o’ yores”—there was an insulting emphasis on the three last words—“that we don’t want no raw work. It’s to be done at Bizet’s, an’ I ain’t needin’ to see him before or after, savvy? You’ll pay him, keepin’ a rake-off for yoreself, I s’pose. That’s all.” Without a word, Berg shuffled out. Lesurge refilled his own glass, his dark eyes rather contemptuously studying the bloated figure before him.

  “The town seems all stirred up over the latest robbery,” he remarked. “Something ought to be done.”

  “Yeah,” Stark said irritably. “Have to hang someone, I s’pose.”

  “Having first caught your hare, of course,” Paul reminded. “Someone, I said,” Stark replied. “It don’t much matter—Gosh! That’s an idea.” Lesurge smiled superciliously. “You are not, by any chance, thinking of making Wild Bill the culprit, are you?”

  “Why not?” the saloonkeeper demanded.

  “My dear fellow, I have no more use than yourself for James Butler Hickok, but even his worst enemy would not believe him capable of putting a knife in a miner’s throat to steal his dust.

  You would be laughed at, my friend, and ridicule kills. We shall find a better way.” Stark grunted. He could not fathom this polished, satirical person, who, through his handsome sister, had so quickly gained an ascendancy over him, and who—though apparently deferring to him—always contrived to get his own way.

  “Why did you come to Deadwood, Paul?” he asked.

  “To mind my own business, Reuben,” came the cool retort. “And, incidentally, to double your fortune.”

  “Up to now I done nothin’ but pay out,” the other grumbled.

  “You can’t expect to reap unless you sow,” was all the comfort he received. “The harvest will be heavy. Listen. Sooner or later, the Government must recognize the settlement. If it finds Deadwood an organized, well-equipped city, under efficient leadership, it will leave the man who has brought it about in charg
e, may even give him a governor ship. You have to be that man. Get control of the place, hold all the strings, but to do that you must be firm, implacable, prepared to crush opposition of any kind.” Stark’s eyes glowed at the alluring prospect, for next to gold, he loved power, and was a bully by nature. But he was not entirely a fool.

  “An’ where do you come in, Paul?” he inquired.

  “You’ll need me,” was the smiling answer. “And you’ll have so much to give away—offices, town-sites, mining rights, plenty of pickings for the friends who have helped you, believe me.”

  “You shall have whatever you want, Paul, if we can put it over,” Stark said—promises were cheap unless one kept them. “We’ll make this a place to be proud of.” The boast recurred to Lesurge as he made his way home. “And that damned fool swallowed it like his mother’s milk,” he told the darkness.

  For he did not, as yet, at all believe In the flne picture he had painted for Reuben Stark’s edification, and had no intention of helping him to make it a reality. Once he had obtained what he wanted, Deadwood might rot for all he cared. He had come there with the primary object of stealing Ducane’s mine; the place had revealed other possibilities and he selected Stark. His agile, crooked mind quickly evolved the bait which would enable him to use, and at the same time, fleece the ambitious, grasping saloonkeeper. There would be obstacles, of course, but Stark would remove them at his own expense.

  He found Lora waiting up for him.

  “When are you going to find the mine and finish with that drunken lunatic and the girl?” she asked. “I’m weary of being cooped up in this damned shack, talking high-toned, and having no amusement.” Paul looked at her beautiful, petulant face, and nodded.

  “I know it must be slow for you, but it is only for a time,” he said. “It isn’t just a matter of a mine, which may turn out to be a madman’s myth after all. Deadwood is full of mines and Reuben Stark is one of them—perhaps the richest from our point of view. This time it will be a clean-up, and it means a million, so be patient.”

  “Tell me the old, old story,” she hummed, and laughed at the black look he gave her.