Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 07 - Sudden Rides Again(1938)

by Oliver Strange

  “Just the rottenest luck things had to break the way they did,” he muttered. “O’ course he’ll be mad, but I gotta find out whether he’s mean as well; he shore ‘pears to be, but that ain’t nothin’ to go on—the good in lots o’ men is limited to their looks. Here he comes; keep still, yu black rascal.” This to his horse, which instantly froze into an ebony statue.

  Moving with the clipped, clumsy step of one who spends most of his time in a saddle, Lagley came stumbling along the trail. The range-rider’s boots, with their high heels, are not fashioned for walking, and the unwonted effort had not improved the foreman’s already-frayed temper. His lips dripped profanity.

  “He certainly can cuss,” the watcher murmured. “Bet m’self a dollar he lams the hoss. Damnation, I’d ruther ‘a’ lost.”

  For Lagley’s first act on reaching his pony was to kick it in the ribs, and when the animal squealed and tried to bite him, he snatched his quirt from the saddle and lashed it unmercifully.

  “That’ll larn yu to run out on me,” he gasped, surveying the now cowed and trembling beast with savage satisfaction. “An’ now I’ll deal with the smarty what fetched yu here.” He buckled on his belt, examined both pistol and rifle, and finding they had not been unloaded, laughed grimly. “Ain’t so smart, after all,” he commented. “If he takes the trail I told him he’ll have found out that Dead Tree is a blind canyon an’ be comin’ back ‘bout the time I arrive. `I’ll be seeing’ yu,’ he sez. He won’t, but he’ll be hearin’ from me.”

  The threatened man watched him ride away and his expression was not pretty. His ruse had been more than justified, and he never could forgive one who maltreated horses.

  “If it warn’t so early in the game, fella, yu an’ me would be settlin’ our difference right now,” he told himself. “Anyways, I’ve shorely got yore measure.”

  He too mounted, but he did not follow the other. Instead, he turned abruptly to the right, picking a path for himself through thorny thickets, along shallow arroyos and across little savannahs where his mount waded belly-deep in lush grass. Presently, as he had hoped, he emerged on some sort of a road, deeply rutted by the heavy wheels of freight-wagons and scored with innumerable hoofprints. Rounding a sharp bend, he almost cannoned into a horseman travelling in the opposite direction. Both backed a little, and sat, each studying the other. Sudden noted the wide mouth and nose with a tendency to turn up which were the salient features of a plain but not unpleasing face. The newcomer was the first to speak:

  “The world is shore a small place,” he offered.

  “I’m right distressed,” Sudden answered, “but not bein’ cock-eyed I can’t see round corners.”

  “Me too,” the other said. “Nature does play favourites, don’t she? The fella with the squint has all the luck.” He grinned expansively. “Yu don’t happen to be lost, do yu?”

  “I am unless this is the right way to the thrivin’ an’ populous city o’ Dugout.”

  “Shore is. Might yu be plannin’ to spend the night there?”

  “Yeah, if I can find a ho-tel to take me in.”

  The stranger chortled. “They’ll all do that, but I’d try Black Sam’s—he’s liable to take yu in less’n the others; barrin’ his hide, he’s white, an’ that wife o’ his can certainly cook. Gosh! ain’t it hot?”

  He removed his hat and fanned himself, watching slyly. Sudden stared in amazement, for though he could not be much over twenty, his hair was grey-white, that of an old man.

  “I’m obliged to yu—Frosty,” Sudden said.

  It was the other’s turn for surprise. “How in hell did yu know that?” he asked.

  “I didn’t, but yore ha’r …”

  The youngster laughed. “Well, yu guess pretty good. I s’pose I’ll have to tell yu ‘bout that. Injuns done it, raided our cabin way back an’ scalped my parents before my eyes. Then a brave grabs my golden locks an’ flourishes his knife, but when they turns white in his hand—which they does from fright, yu understand—he yells an’ drops everythin’, figurin’ I’m a sort o’ spirit. I snatches the weapon an’ drives it into his heart. I’m five years old at the time.”

  “An’ I expect they were the on’y parents yu ever had,” Sudden said solemnly.

  The white-head grinned with delight and shoved out a paw. “Stranger, I like yu more every minute,” he cried. “If yu aim to infest these parts a-tall, I’m hopin’ we’ll be friends.”

  “That goes for me, too,” Sudden rejoined, as their hands met. “I reckon the Double K ain’t so fur away.” He had already noted the brand on the other’s pony.

  “On’y ten mile. Ask for Rud Homer—that’s me—though Frosty will do just as well.”

  “My name is Jim, but I add Green to it when I go a’visitin’. Black Sam’s, I think yu said?”

  “Yeah,” Frosty replied, and looked uncomfortable. “See here, I was stringin’ yu; that’s the on’y ho-tel—there ain’t no more. Dugout is rightly named, a mud-hole, nothin’ else. I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it,” Sudden grinned. “Losin’ yore parents thataway—”

  But Frosty threw up his hands, spurred his pony, and vanished round the bend in a whirl of dust. The rider of the black went on. He had made an enemy, but that was far too common an occurrence in his turbulent life to give him any concern; he had also, he believed, made a friend, and this was a source of satisfaction.

  “Lagley is bad medicine,” he mused. “I’ll have trouble there. As for Frosty, I’ll make him wish them parents had been scalped before he was born.” He laughed as he recalled the gay, impudent face of the youth who had tried to foist that amazing fabrication upon him. “I’ll bet he keeps his outfit guessin’.” A new thought came. “Wonder what either of em would ‘a’ said if I’d asked the way to Hell City?”

  Chapter III

  Emerging from the canopied shadow of a pine forest, Sudden saw an open stretch of plain and in the midst of it, buildings, dotted about on either side of the wagon-road to form some sort of a street. They were primitive in character, constructed of hewn timber, ‘dobe, and mere earth-roofed shacks. He saw no one, but as he splashed through a little creek and rode into the place, he had a feeling that he was watched.

  He passed a store, a smithy, and then found what he was seeking. It was the largest of the buildings, two-storied, and formed of stout logs, with a raised and roofed verandah in front which was reached by steps. A board over the entrance bore the words, “Black Sam’s Saloon.” A pony with the Double K brand was hitched outside. Sudden dismounted and entered.

  After the glare of the sun, he found the comparative darkness refreshing. It was a typical Western saloon. A long bar, with shelves of shining bottles, extended almost across the back, and on the boarded, sanded space in front were tables and stools. Hanging kerosene lamps provided light and there were mirrors and pictures of a crude description on the walls. The place was empty save for a big negro, whose face expanded in a broad grin at the sight of a customer.

  “Howdy, sah, I suah am pleased to welcome yo’ to Dugout,” he boomed.

  The traveller returned the smile and put down a dollar. “Whisky,” he said. “Good whisky.”

  “Yo’ don’ git nuthin’ else heah, sah,” the darkie replied.

  “Good licker, grub, beds, an’ civil’ty, dat’s in.:, Black Sam.”

  Sudden sampled his drink and found that it was indeed superior to the rotgut so frequently retailed in the West. “I heard as much from Rud Homer,” he said, his keen eyes on the other.

  Black Sam’s grin was again in evidence. “Ah, dat Frosty,” he replied. “For onct he tell de trufe.”

  “Well, I’m lookin’ for all them things yu mentioned, an’ one other—a corral.”

  “Behin’ de house, sah. I tak yo hoss—”

  “I’m thankin’ yu, but mebbe yore wife wouldn’t feel equal to cookin’ me a meal if she was a widow,” Sudden said whimsically. “I can find it.”

  He returned presently bearing his
saddle, rifle and blanket, which, preceded by the host, he carried up to his room. He had no more than put the things down when the sound of a shot from below sent both of them racing downstairs again. They found four men lined up at the bar, one with a smoking pistol in his hand. He greeted the negro with a scowl.

  “What’s the idea, you black scum, keepin’ us waitin’?” he growled. “I’ve a mind to blow you apart.”

  Black Sam quivered, but whether with fear or rage, Sudden could not determine. He mumbled something about showing the newcomer his room, and produced a bottle and glasses. The puncher sat down and occupied himself with the construction of a cigarette, while covertly observing his company. The type was common enough: swaggering, hard-faced ruffians, driven by their own misdeeds to dwell in a land where the law was not, and ready to slit a throat for a few dollars. Their garb was that of the country, a coarse flannel shirt, homespun pants tucked into the tops of high boots, slouched hat, and a belt from which protruded the butt of a heavy revolver. On the breast of each, fashioned from leatherstained blood-red, was a small presentment of a devil, complete with horns and tail. A ghost of a smile passed over Sudden’s lips when he saw it.

  “Play-actin’,” he murmured scornfully.

  The man who had bullied the saloon-keeper, apparently their leader, was a particularly repulsive specimen. Snaky black hair framed a bloated face, the left side deeply seamed from chin to brow by a knife-wound, which, in healing, had drawn his mouth awry. The others addressed him as “Scar.”

  They filled their glasses, drank and filled again, lolling on the bar, and sending contemptuous glances in his direction. He noticed that they did not offer to pay.

  “Well, nigger, what’s the news?” Scar asked.

  “Ain’t no news, sah. Town’s pow’ful quiet.”

  The man grinned at his companions. “Want’s livenin’ up, huh? We shore oughta come in off’ener, boys.”

  “Yo’re whistlin’, Scar,” one agreed. “Sam here’d be glad to entertain us, eh?”

  He shot the question at the saloon-keeper and got the stammered reply, “Allus pleased to see trade, sah.”

  This produced a burst of laughter, and the fellow who had put the query slapped Scar on the back, and cried, “Hark to him. Trade ! He calls us trade. We must have one on that. No, it’s my turn not to pay.”

  He grabbed the bottle and slopped liquor into the glasses, careless whether he spilled it. They drank, and the leader turned again to Black Sam.

  “So you got nothin’ to tell us? Well, I ain’t agreein’. Who’s this stranger stayin’ here an’ what’s he after?”

  The four bullies had their eyes on the victim, enjoying his obvious embarrassment. Then a shot rang out and Scar clapped a hand to the back of his neck and spun round.

  “What th’ hell?” he shouted.

  The man about whom he was enquiring had tilted his chair against the wall and was sitting, long legs dangling, a mocking smile on his lips. From the gun levelled at his hip the smoke curled lazily upward.

  “There was a yellow-jacket on yore neck,” he explained. “I don’t like ‘em m’self—they got red-hot tails. Sufferin’ cats, there’s a spider, too.” Without any movement the gun spoke again and the amazed spectators saw a smear of red and bits of limbs where the bullet embedded itself in the wall. “Say, mister,” the marksman called to his landlord, “yore shebang seems pretty well fixed for vermin.”

  He was looking at the four as he spoke, but they chose not to notice the fact. The other three had not seen the yellow-jacket on their companion, but a man who, seated and without apparent aim, could smash spiders at ten paces, was not to be doubted—by sane people. Scar contented himself with a frown.

  “That was a fool trick, stranger,” he said. “You might ‘a’ killed me.”

  “Shore I might, if I’d wanted to,” Sudden replied. “Did I hear yu bein’ curious ‘bout me?”

  “Naw, I ain’t interested in you none whatever,” the bully lied.

  “I’m obliged to yu,” came the instant retort.

  Scar addressed his next remark to the saloon-keeper, who had watched the scene with bulging eyes. “Where’s the rider that Double K pony outside?”

  Before the question could be answered, the door at the end of the bar opened and a girl appeared. At the sight of the company she hesitated a mere moment, and then, with a lift of her head, came forward.

  “I must be going now, Sam,” she said. “Daddy Ken will he worrying—you know how he is.”

  “Suah do, Miss Joan,” he replied. “De Kunnel am debestest worrier in de worl’ bout yo’self. I’se mighty grateful to yo’ for comin’ to see Mandy.”

  “Nonsense, her cake alone is worth riding ten miles for,” she smiled, and stepped towards the exit.

  She wanted to get away. Though she did not know the men, she recognized the badge, and was uneasy. They had been silent since her entrance, but their bold eyes told their admiration plain—too plainly, even for her unsophisticated mind.

  There was every excuse, for she was indeed good to gaze upon. Not yet twenty, of medium height, her slim, straight body, with its ease of movement, had the lissom grace of a fawn. Her neat shirt-waist, riding-skirt, and spurred boots suited her youthful figure admirably, while, from beneath the wide-hrimmed felt hat, peeped curls of pale gold. Deep blue eyes, a short nose, and well-shaped mouth completed a picture most men would find more than attractive. The scar-faced rogue was no exception, and she had only taken one pace when he stepped in front of her.

  “Wait a minute,” he growled, and stood, hands on hips, surveying her from head to foot with bloodshot, leering eyes. “So yo’re Ken Keith’s gal, huh? I’ve heard o’ you.”

  Though her heart was beating faster than usual, her cold look and steady voice did not betray the fact.

  “Then you have the advantage of me, sir,” she replied.

  “Mebbe, but we can put that right. My name’s Roden, an’ if I’d knowed there was anythin’ like you to be found in this one-eyed burg, I’d ‘a’ spent more time in it. C’mon, le’s have a drink an’ git acquainted.”

  The girl’s cheeks flushed, but she kept her temper. “I have no desire to know you,” she said. “Kindly allow me to pass.” He did not move, and to her dismay, she saw his companions . close in behind him. “If any of our riders were here they would give you a lesson in manners.” she added.

  “But as they ain’t, yo’re havin’ one instead,” he responded. “To start with, yo’re goin’ to give me a li’l kiss.”

  For the first time fear showed in her eyes as she realized that the brute meant what he said. Inflamed by liquor and the passion her beauty had aroused in him, he leant towards her, a bestial grin on his contorted lips. Desperately she sent an appealing look to Black Sam, but the negro was palsied by terror; he knew that he would be shot without hesitation if he interfered. Scar’s claw-like fingers were about to close on the shrinking girl’s shoulders when a quiet voice intervened:

  “I—just—wouldn’t,” it drawled. “Men is bigger’n spiders, an’ I could lay out the four o’ yu in as many seconds. Trouble is, skunks stink just as bad when they’re dead.”

  The stranger, whose presence they had forgotten, was still sitting in his tilted chair, a gun levelled over his knees. Scar, who had an unpleasant conviction that it was aimed at himself, drew back his hands, whereupon the interrupter remarked meaningly:

  “Just in time, hombre. Any other move an’ yu’d ‘a’ been missin’ from our midst a whole lot.”

  “What you hornin’ in for?” Scar snarled. “It’s none o’ yore business.”

  “Shore it’s none o’ my business—it’s a pleasure,” Sudden replied, and to the girl, “Go ahead, ma’am; if anyone gets in yore way yu’ll on’y have to step over him.”

  The cutting edge on the last three words procured a clear path for her, and with a smile of thanks to her champion, she walked to the door. Black Sam went with her, mumbling excuses. When he returned, the
stranger’s weapon was still dominating the situation. Scar had a bright idea; the girl could not have got far away.

  “Now the bird has flown I s’pose we can git goin’?” he asked.

  The black-haired man in the chair chuckled. “yu must figure i’m dumb,” he said. “Besides, yu ain’t settled for yore liquor.”

  “Pay—Black—Sam?” Scar gasped. “Well, I’m—”

  “It go on de slate, sah,” the saloon-keeper said anxiously. “This is one time it don’t do no such thing,” Sudden told him. “Four rounds at twenty-five a throw is four dollars. Ante up.”

  “Twenty-five? Whisky is fifteen,” one protested. “This is good stuff—twenty-five goes for yu.”

  “We ain’t got a cent anyways—Sam’ll have to trust us, as usual,” Scar contributed.

  “Suah, sah—” the negro began.

  “Like hell he will—not,” Sudden said brusquely. “Yu can hock yore hardware.”

  This astounding proposition hit them like a blow. “Four guns for four measly dollars?” a cross-eyed fellow named “Squint” exploded. “You got a nerve.”

  “I got a gun, too,” the puncher reminded. “An’ it ain’t a matter o’ four dollars neither; it’ll cost yu ten apiece—I’m bettin’ there’s some back payments. Get busy, Sam.”

  Little as he liked the task of depriving his customers of their weapons, the saloon-keeper obeyed; he was beginning to realize that this saturnine guest was not to be argued with. Sullenly the victims submitted, and then their leader offered a comment:

  “Fella with the drop can allus call the tune,” he sneered. “If you didn’t have—”

  The front legs of the lounger’s seat thudded on the floor. In three seconds he was at the bar, handing over his own guns. His smooth-shaven, tanned face was hard, his eyes threatening.