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

by Oliver Strange

  “If he’s in town, I’ll get him,” he promised. “Pity you’ve fell in love with Green; I had a plan ”

  “Then forget it,” Paul ordered. “I hate him, but he must not be touched. He alone knows

  “Where the mine is,” Fagan finished.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Snowy let on that his memory had slipped up again an’ he said the directions in the letter was misleadin’ an’ it was mainly luck that they struck the right trail.” Mentally Lesurge anathematized the prospector for a chattering old idiot, but Fagan’s next remark suggested another aspect.

  “Mebbe he’s stringin’ you.” This produced a thoughtful frown. The secret was a dangerous one, as the puncher had already discovered. Snowy would not be anxious for a similar experience and might be playing for safety. But why should he tell Fagan? With an impatient gesture, he flung a roll of greenbacks on the table and said:

  “When you locate the man I want to see him, but not here.” After the visitor had gone, Lesurge sat pondering over his position. So far, matters had gone well with him. Without unduly thrusting himself into the limelight he had become of importance in the settlement. But his ambition had grown. To merely deprive Snowy and Stark of wealth no longer contented him—he wanted power. The prospect he had dangled as a bait before the greedy eyes of the saloonkeeper now appealed to him as a possibility—for himself. Lavish hospitality was purchasing support for Reuben Stark, but when the moment came, he would be shelved and Lesurge would largely control the destinies of Deadwood.

  To bring this about he must have gold—a great deal of gold. Snowy’s mine would provide this eventually—he was getting together a gang to seize and work it—but his present need was urgent. Putting on his hat, he went to the Monte. The proprietor was in his private room, and his greeting was none too cordial.

  “Damned if I savvy yore play, Paul,” he said irritably. “A piece back you wanted Sudden put outa business, an’ now you snatch his neck out’n the noose.”

  “He saved my sister,” Paul pointed out. “And you can add to that he was an innocent man.”

  “Mebbe, but a hangin’ wouldn’t ‘a’ done any harm,” was the brutal reply. “These murderin’ thieves need a lesson; we’ll be havin’ a treasure coach stopped next.” Paul’s eyes gleamed, but his tone betrayed little interest when he said carelessly, “I suppose it would be worthwhile?”

  “Worthwhile?” Stark echoed. “Well, I’d call a hundred to a hundred an’ fifty thousand, that.”

  “The shipments are well guarded, of course.” Stark shrugged. “What can we do? The express messenger is armed, but to send a big escort is tellin’ everybody what the coach carries.

  An’ where you goin’ to get ‘em? All the fellas you could trust is too busy searchin’ out gold to risk their lives protectin’ other folks’s dust. Secrecy is the best caper—on’y a few knows when the stuff is sent.”

  “Good. Pass me word about the next time,” Paul said. “I’d like to send a small consignment myself.” The saloonkeeper nodded and went on with his grumbling:

  “That Hickok is gettin’ too Gawd Almighty. ‘Pears to think that ‘cause he run one or two tough towns he can have the say-so here. Some o’ the boys ain’t likin’ the way he talked to ‘em.”

  “You needn’t worry about him—he’ll be attended to, and so will Sudden, if my plans work out right. The man who is going to run Deadwood is in this room.” Stark’s ill-humour vanished.

  “You’ve got a brain, Paul,” he complimented, “an’ when I’m on top, you’ll find I ain’t ungrateful to my friends.”

  “I’m relying on you, of course, Reub,” Lesurge told him, and the other did not detect the hidden sneer.

  Fagan, on leaving Lesurge, had hurried back to the shanty where he had left his fellow-rogues. They were still there, and the bottle of whisky he had purchased on his way, insured his welcome.

  “Fagan, yore an angel in disguise,” Hank grinned. “But I’m bound to say the disguise is perfect,” he added, helping himself liberally. “What’s the news?”

  “I’ve just left Paul—he wants to see you.”

  “The hell he does. Why?”

  “I expect he’s achin’ to thank you for lettin’ his sister loose,” Rodd suggested.

  Hank ignored the sarcasm. “He can go to blazes,” he decided.

  “Don’t be seven sorts of a fool,” Fagan snapped. “Would I push you into trouble? He thinks he can use you—it’ll make you one of us. Can’t you see what that means?”

  “Makes a difference, o’ course, but why pick on me?” Hank was clearly suspicious.

  “Paul wants a few fellas what ain’t finicky,” Fagan explained. “Mebbe you can pull Lem in too; that’ll fill our hand. Now do you savvy?”

  “It’s good, Hank,” Berg exulted. “It’s damned good. When does he want to see him, Fagan?”

  “Mustn’t be for a day, at least. You see I gotta find Hank first an’ that ain’t goin’ to be too easy; unfortunately, Paul couldn’t give me no description.” A shout of laughter greeted the jest, and they filled their glasses and drank to the man they meant to cheat when the time was ripe.

  Chapter XVI

  Two evenings later Gerry and Jacob were engaged with the chess-beard and Sudden was looking on. The game was nearing the end, and the younger man was jubilant because it appeared that he must win. Then came a reverse. He had early captured his opponent’s Queen, but by seemingly unimportant moves, Jacob had gradually pushed a pawn right across the board and now replaced the more powerful piece.

  “Cuss it, I warn’t noticin’ that no ‘count fella,” Gerry lamented.

  “Always watch the pawns, my friend, both in this and the game of life,” the old man said.

  “They have—potentialities.” He made a move, and went on, “How do you like mining?”

  “It’s mighty monotonous,” Gerry grumbled. “Shovellin’ an’ washin’ dirt allatime. I’d ruther be ropin’ cattle; when one goes on the prod, yu get a change.” Jacob smiled at Sudden.

  “The poor fellow is having a dull time,” he said. “We must try to find him a little excitement.”

  Someone knocked, opened the door, and entered; it was Paul Lesurge. He nodded to the cowboys, sat down, and looked at the gold-buyer.

  “Have you put it to them?” he asked.

  “No, I left that to you.”

  “Right,” Lesurge replied, and turned to the younger men. “Here is the proposition: A coach with a load of gold is going East. It is supposed that it will start to-morrow evening, but actually it goes tonight. This is known only to those who are sending the stuff, like myself and our friend, Jacob. There will be no travellers save the driver and the express messenger—who will learn the starting time when it arrives. Originally, two well-armed riders were to follow the vehicle but some of the consignees think the convoy should be doubled, and Jacob mentioned your names.”

  “I’m afraid I took a liberty,” the old man put in. “But—”

  “Shucks,” Sudden said gently, and waved him to silence.

  “I told Stark that if he only wanted two men, Sudden would fit the bill,” Lesurge smiled, “but he is of very limited intelligence. Personally, I don’t apprehend much danger from roadagents—the secret has been well kept. When you reach Laramie, you can return. Now, what do you say?” The puncher did not reply at once; he was turning the matter over. He looked at Jacob, and received a slight nod. That decided him.

  “We’ll go yu,” he agreed.

  “Good,” Lesurge said. “That means both of you, of course.”

  “I trail along with Jim, every time,” Gerry told him. “Quite a David and Jonathan, eh?

  Well, that’s all settled. Green, J want a private word with you.” When they were outside, Lesurge said, “If the gold gets through this will put you in well with the men who matter in Deadwood.

  On the other hand, if someone has talked unwisely, you may meet with overwhelming odds, and fail. The gold wil
l be lost, it is true, but you will have done your best and I’ll see that you don’t suffer—in any way. Understand?”

  “I get yu,” the puncher said.

  “I made a mistake about you at first, Green,” the oily voice went on. “You’re no fool. A hundred thousand is a lot of money but not worth one’s life, when it belongs to other folk.

  Personally, I’d rather have a tenth of it and go on living.” He laughed meaningly. “Be behind the Monte at ten. Good luck.” He held out a hand, but the cowboy did not appear to notice it; his belt had slipped and required adjustment.

  “We’ll be there,” he said.

  When he returned to the room his face was enigmatical. “Just a few final directions,” he explained.

  “I’m grateful to you boys,” Jacob said. “Practically all I possess will be in that consignment. Where does Lesurge get dust from, Jim?”

  “Yu can search me,” the puncher replied. “Buys it like yu do, grubstake miners as Stark does, or wins it at cards—there’s plenty ways.”

  “Yes, of course,” the other agreed, and, thoughtfully. “He doesn’t like you.”

  “He was apologizin’ just now for havin’ misunderstood me,” Sudden smiled.

  “Then I’ll bet a blue stack he’s aimin’ to play yu a shabby trick.” This from Gerry.

  “An’ he wished me good luck.”

  “Which makes it a certainty. Jim, we’d better renig on that job.”

  “Shore, if yo’re scared.—Awright, yu curly-headed calamity. I on’y said ‘if.’ Don’t forget our friend here is relyin’ on us.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to run into danger on my account,” Jacob said earnestly, “I’d sooner lose the gold.”

  “Easy, or-timer,” Sudden grinned. A point occurred to him. “Yu didn’t see the jaspers who are to ride with us?”

  “No, but Lesurge referred to one as `Hank’.”

  “There yu are,” Gerry chimed in triumphantly.

  Sudden carefully inspected himself. “So I am,” he said gravely. “Friend Paul ain’t likely to be usin’ the man who smouched his sister, an’ if yu took a census o’ this beeyutiful city yu’d probably round up fifty Hanks. Ever heard o’ mares’ nests, Gerry?”

  “Yeah, an’ I’ve heard o’ damn idjuts who squinted down the barrel of a gun an’ pulled the trigger to see if it was loaded,” the young man retorted.

  “Well, we’ll hope it ain’t—tonight,” his friend said. He looked at the clock and spoke to Jacob. “We needn’t to start yet. I’ve been watchin’ this chess caper an’ I’d like to try her out.” The old man, who was an enthusiast, readily agreed, and they sat down, with Mason an interested spectator. The battle lasted for nearly an hour and then the cowboy made a move and said quietly, “I guess I got yu corralled, seh.” His opponent studied the board for a moment and then smilingly admitted defeat.

  “I rather pride myself on the brand of chess I can produce,” he said, “and here I am, beaten by a beginner. My wits must be wandering this evening.” He pondered for a while, recalling the stages of the game. “Why, hang it all, you were jockeying me into that position right along and I failed to see it. Young man, I feel more hopeful about my dust.”

  “Time we started,” Sudden said. “Fetch the horses, Gerry, an’ we’ll need our rifles.” When the boy had gone, he added quietly, “I’m afraid he’s right—there’s somethin’ brewin’, but it’s too late to do anythin’. We’ve no proof—gotta go through with it. Tell Hickok, an’ watch out for yorself.” He smiled. “We won’t be here to look after yu.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Jacob told me. “All I have to lose now will be with you.” Behind the Monte they found the coach, the body of which, slung on its leather supports, contained only a pile of packages covered with a canvas sheet. Injun Joe, the rugged-faced old driver, was examining every strap and buckle of the harness of his team of six horses. The express messenger, a shotgun between his knees, was already on the box, and a couple of horsemen, whose turned-down hat-brims partly concealed their faces, were waiting. Reuben Stark was giving instructions.

  “Slide outa town at a walkin’ pace,” he said to the driver,who, satisfied that all was in order, now climbed to his seat. “The escort’!! catch you up.”

  “Don’t hold ‘em too long,” Injun Joe warned. “Once I’m clear, I’ll be travellin’. Sabe?”

  Creaking and rocking over the rough ground, the cumberous vehicle rolled away and was blotted out in the darkness. Sudden moved noiselessly to where the other men sat in their saddles and struck a match to light his cigarette. The tiny flare showed him a red wheal running up the cheek of the nearest rider.

  “That’s an ugly scar yu got, friend,” he remarked. “Looks like yore bronc had piled yu into a cactus.”

  “Nothin’ o’ the sort,” the man growled. “If it’s any o’ yore damn business, a Greasex slung a knife at me.” Sudden flipped the match into the air, but not before he had caught the malevolent gleam in the fellow’s eyes. He was a poor liar; the wound was ragged; a knife-blade would have made a clean cut.

  “Wonder what he’d do if I called him ‘Lem’?” he reflected.

  Stark’s voice, bidding them to be on their way, put an end to his meditations. The two strangers hung back, evidently intending that the other pair should precede them, but the puncher had different views.

  “Go ahead,” he said sharply. “We don’t know the road.” Muttering, they obeyed, and the cowboys followed. When out of the town, they quickened pace and soon caught up the coach. It was moving at a fair pace, considering the surface over which it had to pass—a mere trampled trail made by the heavy wheels of innumerable freight-wagons, but the driver knew it, and even in the darkness, could pick out familiar landmarks. They had climbed out of the gulch and the keen night air bit their faces and fingers. The all-embracing silence was broken only by the drum of horses’ hoofs, the rattle of harness, and, at intervals, the long weird howl of a wolf, prowling somewhere behind the funereal walls of foliage which fenced them in.

  Presently the obscuring clouds slid aside and the pale light of the moon enabled them to get a glimpse of the grandeur through which they were passing.

  The cowboys, riding easily, were not concerned with the scenery; their eyes were on the bobbing backs of the pair in front and the jerking, bumping blob which was the coach, less than fifty yards ahead. They had met no one save two teamsters with a load of lumber, a few miles out of Deadwood. Sudden had stopped for a moment.

  “Ain’t seed a soul ‘cept a party o’ four fellas, headed for Laramie,” one of them told him.

  “No, I didn’t reckernize any of ‘em, but one was a short, chunky sort o’ chap.”

  “Which might describe friend Fagan,” Sudden commented, when they had resumed their way.

  “Lesurge wouldn’t send a man knowed to be his,” Gerry objected.

  “Why not, if there’s nobody left to spill the beans? He’s figurin’ we’re on his side.”

  “Any use warnin’ them two on the coach?”

  “What can we tell ‘em?—we’ve on’y got suspicions. They’re watchin’ for trouble a’ready—that’s their job.” At the foot of a long gradual slant, the sides of which were masked by dense brush, the driver pulled his team to a steady job-trot, and cursed fretfully:

  “Blast this moon; makes fair targets of us.”

  “What you scared of?” the messenger asked, shifting his shotgun so that it lay handily across his thighs.

  “Ain’t scared o’ nothin’,” Injun Joe snapped, “but I don’t like the trip, an’ I’d be a damn sight more pleased if them hombres behind was ridin’ the other way.”

  “Pull up an’ make ‘em ride in front,” the messenger suggested.

  Before the other could reply, two spits of flame jetted from the shadows on either side of the trail and the leading horses went down, checking the coach with a jerk which almost overturned it. With a full-throated curse, the driver slammed his brake on, and the iron-sh
od wheels squealed like tortured souls; it was his last conscious act. A couple of sharp cracks and Injun Joe slipped limply to the footboard, while the express-man leaned forward to pitch headlong to the ground, his gun dropping beside him. An instant later, Sudden’s Colt roared and the fellow with the scarred face gasped and fell from his saddle. His companion, with a blasphemous imprecation, spurred his mount and crashed into the undergrowth. The puncher sent a bullet after him.

  “Hell, Jim, them jaspers are s’posed to be helpin’ us,” Gerry cried.

  “Didn’t yu see?” Sudden asked savagely. “Those skunks downed Joe an’ the messenger, an’ they’d ‘a’ got us if we’d been ahead. C’mon.” Stooping in his saddle, he dashed for the coach, and Gerry followed. On the right and left pistols exploded in the brush and bullets whined past their ears.

  Just as they approached the conveyance, a tall man on foot appeared, running towards it from the front. Sudden fired, and the fellow staggered, spun round, and collapsed in an untidy heap.

  “‘Then there were four’,” the cowboy quoted grimly. Anchored by the braked coach and the carcasses of the leaders, the other horses had overcome their frenzied fear and now stood, trembling, but comparatively quiet. Sudden had his plan ready.

  “Shuck the harness off’n them dead broncs an’ put our’n in their places,” he directed. “I’ll stand these devils off if they try to rush us.” But the roadagents had apparently no such intention. Satisfied that the vehicle could not be moved, they were content to stay under cover and pot the cowboys at their ease. A friendly cloud had blanketed the moon and with his back to the dark blur of the coach, Sudden made a poor mark; also it was difficult for the hold-ups to see what Gerry was about. One glance told that young man the messenger was dead—a bullet had gone through the back of his head. Injun Joe was still breathing, and, with Sudden’s help, he was placed inside the coach, room being found too for the body of the guard.

  Spasmodic shots interrupted these operations; lead zipped past or thudded into the woodwork, but neither man was hit. Sudden replied, firing at the flashes, and a string of oaths told him that one of his bullets had found a billet. By the time the moon peeped out again, the new leaders were in position; the big black was restive and disposed to be rebellious but a word from his master brought submission.