Sudden: Takes the Trail

by Oliver Strange

  Removing his hat, spectacles, and vest, he stepped into the ring which had been formed. Jake, his rolled-up shirtsleeves displaying hairy, muscular arms, was awaiting him, fists bunched in malignant eagerness. Silence fell on the crowd as the men faced one another.

  For a moment they stood motionless, and then Mullins, unable to restrain his passion, rushed forward and flung a furious blow which might have done real damage had it landed. But Sudden swayed away and before the striker could recover his balance, moved in with a straight left which jolted the other’s head back and should have taught him a lesson. Dominated, however, by his anger, Jake continued his blind charges, only to encounter that stinging left which stopped him like a brick wall.

  The officer, calm, inscrutable, was almost untouched, while Jake was already badly marked, and only exhausting himself with the violence of his efforts to deliver a smashing blow.

  “Stan’ up an’ fight, you white-livered cur,” Jake grated. “Where are you?” His fist hurtled through the air as he spoke, but Sudden saw it coming, moved his head so that the vengeful knuckles merely grazed his cheek, and drove his left, not to the jaw this time, but just above the belt.

  “I’m right here,” he replied grimly.

  Jake was incapable of making any retort; the terrible, paralysing punch had driven all the breath from his body, leaving him doubled up, gasping and grunting with pain. Sudden sprang in, his right drawn back for the blow which should end the battle; he had the fellow at his mercy and there was nothing of that in his hard face. Even as he swung to strike, his foot slipped in the churned-up, loose sand of the roadway, and he lost his balance. Instantly Jake saw his opportunity, leapt for the floundering man, and they went down into the dust together. This swift reversal of the situation was all to the liking of the bully’s supporters; he might be no match for the marshal with his fists, but when it came to wrestling, biting, and gouging, it was another matter. They yelled encouragement.

  “You got him, boy,” cried one. “Throttle the” Sloppy, dancing about in a fever of anxiety, appealed to the saloon-keeper. “That ain’t fair scrappin’, he’s got Jim by the throat,” he protested. “For a busted nickel ”

  “Keep outa this,” Nippert said sternly. “Nobody can’t do nothin’—it’s their affair. Jim was unlucky, damn it.” Sloppy had reason to be fearful, for his benefactor was truly in a parlous position. The impact of Jake’s body had floored him, and before he could prevent it, the claw-like hands had fastened on his neck. Madly he strove to tear them away, to throw off the weight which held him pinned to the ground and wellnigh powerless, but the pitiless thumbs pressing on his windpipe sank deeper and he felt his strength failing. Above him, out of that evil mask, triumphant eyes gloated, and the thin lips were animal-like in their savagery.

  “I’ve got you where I wanted to, Mister Methodis’,” the man panted. “This is yore farewell, you interferin’ houn’.” Sudden’s clouding brain was still functioning; where strength could not avail, craft might. He ceased to resist, his form becoming slack, his hands slipping limply to the earth beside him. With a hideous grin of satisfaction, the man on top bent to peer at his victim, only to receive a handful of fine sand full in the eyes. Blinded and smarting, he instinctively recoiled, lessening the pressure, and immediately Sudden’s right fist shot up from below and landed just over the heart. It was a fell stroke, one which might well have killed a weaker man, and for the moment, Jake was helpless. Sudden thrust him aside and stood up—waiting.

  “Finish him off,” someone urged.

  The marshal smiled lopsidedly—that was not his way. Besides, he had some breathing to make up, and his neck felt as though he had been half-hanged. He watched his antagonist stagger to his feet and rub the grit from his bloodshot eyes. The spectators waited too, silent for the most part; they were witnessing something they had never seen before—a man holding back when he had his enemy almost hopelessly beaten. Few of them could comprehend it.

  “Well, Mister Mullins, shall we continue our li’l argument or have yu had enough?”

  Sudden inquired.

  “Enough? Not by a damn sight—I ain’t started on you yet?” the other growled.

  The onlookers closed in as the combatants moved forward. This time Jake made no swift advance; he had learned his lesson, and the pain of his swollen features—the work of that straight left—was a constant reminder. He knew well that but for a nearly fatal slip, he would have been knocked cold, but the brute in his nature buoyed him up with the hope of a similar mischance, and then … So he held back, letting his foe come to him, tactics which his admirers misunderstood.

  “Git yore paws on him,” one advised. “He can’t stand the rough stuff.”

  “Who’s scrappin’—you or me?” Jake spat over his shoulder.

  “Neither of us,” was the disgusted retort, and the crowd laughed.

  The pair circled the ring, the marshal following his man and driving a fist home whenever he was within reach, which, owing to his opponent’s caution, was seldom.

  “It’s a runnin’ match, an’ Jake’s got the legs of him,” came another sarcastic comment.

  For one second, the taunted man’s gaze went in search of the speaker, and Sudden saw his chance. He flashed in, raining blows with both hands to the body and face in such rapid succession that Jake was forced to stand and fight back, and at once the nature of the contest had again changed. Drenched with perspiration, battered, bruised, and blood-smeared, the two men hammered away with beast-like ferocity, taking what punishment came, and with but one conscious thought—to inflict hurt. Slipping, staggering in the treacherous sand, hemmed in by the swaying ring of enthralled spectators who cheered as fists thudded on flesh or bone, they battled on. But the terrific strain was taking toll.

  “Jake’s weakenin’—his punches ain’t got no power,” Shorty muttered. “He’s outa condition—too much liquor.” It was true, and the marshal sensed it. He himself was in little better case; his frame felt as if it had been stretched on a rack for endless hours, and every movement brought a protest from tired muscles. But the spate of fury which had swept him away was past, and again he fought methodically, dourly determined to end the business at the first opportunity.

  It came soon. Jake, with the same intention, finding his foe seeming to give way, tried one of his former bull-like charges. Sudden broke ground, avoiding the flailing arm, and darting in, sent an uppercut to the jaw. It was a devastating blow, perfectly timed, coming up from the hip with all the power of the moving body behind it. But once more Jake was lucky, it just missed the vital spot, and though flung to the floor as by a giant hand, he retained his senses. For a moment he lay there, murder in his mad eyes, and then slowly raised himself.

  “By God, I’ll git you if I hang for it,” he mumbled thickly.

  Half-crouching, he lurched to where the marshal, again disdaining to follow up his advantage, was standing, and suddenly straightening, leapt, right arm aloft. Swift as the action was, Sudden had glimpsed the gleam of steel, and catching the descending wrist, wrenched the weapon from his grasp, and struck—with the haft of the knife only; the assassin dropped like a pole-axed steer. The fight was over.

  “If you’d put that sticker in his dirty neck it would ‘a’ saved a lot o’ trouble,” was Nippert’s comment.

  “I know it, but killin’ skunks is a stinkin’ job,” the marshal replied. “I reckon he’ll drift.”

  Chapter V

  THE marshal was wrong; the beaten man remained—having other cards to play. For a few days, however, he deemed it wise to stay in his shack, nursing his hurts and what—to those who came to see him—he described as grievances.

  “The game ain’t finished yet,” he told them darkly. “I’m goin’ to make some o’ the smarties in thisyer burg look an’ feel middlin’ sick. you wait—it won’t be long. You can leave that to me; all I want is for you to back my play.” Late one evening, two riders arrived, and having put their horses in the pole corral beh
ind the eating-house, went in by the back door. One was the awaited messenger, known as “Dutch,” who assisted Mullins in the conduct of the business; his eyes widened when they rested on the damaged features of his employer.

  “Hoss throw you?” he asked.

  “None o’ yore damn’ business,” Jake snapped. “You’ve taken long enough; s’pose you got soused on the money I gave you.” Dutch grinned. “Yo’re gittin’ value,” he replied, and waved a hand to his companion. “This is Mister Javert, o’ Pinetown.” Mullins studied the visitor: a medium-sized man, with a blank expressionless face, a mean mouth, and the well-tended hands of a professional gambler.

  A bottle and glasses were produced, and when the contents had been generously sampled, the host looked up expectantly.

  “I met Dutch on the way to Pinetown, learned his errand, an’ saved him the trouble o’ goin’ on by comin’ back with him,” Javert began. “Is yore marshal a tall, well-built gent with blue eyes an’ dark hair, who totes two guns an’ rides a black branded J. G.?”

  “Describes him to a dot.”

  “Then he’s the fella l’m lookin’ for.” This with deep satisfaction. “Listen: I left Pinetown a piece ago as one of a posse hot on this houn’s heels. He’d shot a man in cold blood, givin’ him no chance; if we’d catched him, he’d ‘a’ swung shore, but he diddled us. The rest went back, but I ain’t so easy, an’ I started searchin’ the settlements around; that’s how I run into Dutch.”

  “I guess we got him,” Jake said. “An’ some folks about here hey a jolt comin’.” On the following morning, the proprietor of the Red Light, surveying the town from the vantage-point of his doorway, observed a considerable body of the inhabitants apparently making for his establishment. This, in itself, was not alarming, but when he noted that the gathering was headed by Mullins, and included the scum of the community, it was a relief to see that reputable citizens like Gowdy, Rapper, and the banker, Morley, were among them. Nevertheless, as a matter of precaution, he stepped inside and made sure that his gun was in working order. When they entered he was behind the bar, and his affectation of surprise appeared genuine.

  “This place is lookin’ up,” was his genial greeting. “Wakin’ up, you mean,” Mullins corrected. “Where’s that marshal?”

  “In his office, I expect,” Nippers replied, adding slyly, “You know the way—better go get him.”

  “We’ll do that awright,” was the retort. “When you app’inted him you didn’t know he was wanted for murder, huh?”

  “I don’t know it now.”

  “I’m tellin’ you.”

  “An’ I still don’t know it.”

  “Bluffin’ won’t buy you nothin’, Nippert,” Jake said. “Here’s the fella can put you wise, Mister Javert, o’ Pinetown.” Without waiting for any further invitation, the stranger stepped forward and told his story, concluding modestly, “O’ course, I ain’t sayin’ it is the same man, but the description goes mighty close.” As he finished, Sloppy slid unnoticed from the saloon and hurried to the marshal’s quarters. “Climb yore bronc an’ beat it, Jim,” he cried. “At the Red Light they’re shapin’ up to hang you.” Sudden regarded him amusedly. “Thought yu’d quit redeye,” he replied.

  “I ain’t drunk nor loco,” the little man protested, and blurted his news. The marshal’s face did not change, but he rose and put on his hat. “Will I get Nigger?” Sloppy asked eagerly.

  “I’m thankin’ yu, but I figure I can walk to the saloon,” was the answer. “Runnin’ away from trouble is poor policy, ol’-timer; I did it afore, an’ I was wrong.” His arrival at the Red Light stilled every tongue, and the crowd fell apart to allow him to pass. He nodded to Nippert. “Yu ‘pear to be right busy, Ned,” he said coolly.

  “Thanks to you,” was the reply. “Jim, d’you know this fella?” Sudden surveyed the newcomer indifferently. “Yeah, some months back he obliged me by makin’ it clear I was not one of his friends.”

  “He claims you are James Green, late marshal o’ Pinetown, that you shot down a man you had no quarrel with, an’ left with a posse chasin’ you.”

  “Put thataway I gotta allow it sounds pretty bad,” Sudden admitted. “This is what happened.” He told of the message, his errand, and the shots from the dark, his grim gaze on his accuser. “I fired back at the flashes, an’ yu ‘pear to have been lucky, Javert; when I last saw yu, both yore ears were in good shape.” The man scowled; the lobe of his left ear had been torn away and the wound was newly-healed. “Lyin’ won’t save yore neck,” he said.

  “An’ all these folk can’t save yore life if I decide to take it,” the marshal reminded sternly, and went on to explain how, expecting a third assailant, he had slain his friend. “I figure he had a message too, an’ was comin’ to help me. It was a frame-up; this fella an’ the two rats who run with him meant to hive the pair of us. That’s a debt I’m not forgettin’, Javert.” The threatened man laughed. “You’ll have to pay in the next world, I guess; yo’re mighty near through with this one,” he said, and looked round. “Well, gents, what we waitin’ for? All we need is a rope an’ a tree.” A low growl of assent from a portion of the audience greeted this sinister suggestion. The saloon-keeper rapped on the bar.

  “Hold yore hosses, Mister. This town ain’t in the habit o’ allowin’ strangers to tell it what to do. I’d like to know how you come to be in this?”

  “I’m plumb fortunate,” Javert explained. “When the posse gives up, I don’t. Then I runs into Dutch, who tells me ‘bout yore new marshal, an’ I figure I’ve found my man.” Nippert pondered for a moment, and then, “We’ve heard yore account, makin’ it plain murder, an’ his, claimin’ it was an accident.” He looked at the accused. “I reckon we’ll have to throw you into the calaboose, Jim, till we git more evidence from Pinetown.” The proposal aroused a storm of protest, in which Jake’s voice was prominent. “What more do you want?” he shouted. “He’s owned up to the killin’.”

  “He’s owned up to shootin’ in self-defence.”

  “Which means you ain’t believin’ me,” Javert put in.

  “We think yo’re mebbe a mite biased,” the saloon-keeper said satirically. “Speakin’ personal, I wouldn’t trust you for the price of a drink.” The other shrugged off the insult. “Does it mean anythin’ to you that this man is an outlaw knowed as `Sudden,’ wanted in Texas for robbery an’ murder?” he demanded.

  This time he produced a real effect on his listeners. Many of them had heard the name, and the evil reputation which went with it. Remembering the shooting contest, they regarded with new interest this grave man who, for a short while, had dwelt amongst them, and who, on every occasion, had forborne to make use of his uncanny skill with a gun. He stood now, leaning lazily against the bar, unperturbed, while the issue of life and death hung in the balance.

  Nippert, though he could see that his further charge had brought a look of doubt into the faces of men he was depending upon, stood his ground.

  “Not a thing,” he replied. “Texas warrants don’t run in Arizona”—he smiled a little—“if they did, some o’ you wouldn’t be here.” The sly dig produced a laugh. “Texas sheriffs can do their own work, an’ the same goes for Pinetown; if she wants to hang this fella, let her come an’ fetch him.” This eminently fair proposition met with a mixed reception; Javert condemned it, briefly but luridly. The maker of it listened with twinkling eyes.

  “O’ course, there’s another way out,” he said, “You”—pointing to Javert—“have been searchin’ for the marshal. Well, you can take him; we ain’t helpin’ nor stoppin’ you.” The generous offer did not seem to appeal to the Pinetown representative—his expression was a mixture of consternation and disgust; bringing Sudden to justice single-handed was a task for which he had no stomach. Despite the gravity of the occasion, the saloon-keeper’s friends were smiling at the adroit manner in which he had “passed the buck” to this objectionable interloper.

  Jake came to the aid of his witness
.

  “Talk sense, Nippert,” he said. “You know damn’ well yo’re askin’ the impossible.”

  “Jim ‘pears to have learned you somethin’,” was the biting reply. “If man to man ain’t good enough for this fella, we’ll let you help him; that makes the odds two to one. How about it, marshal?”

  “Suits me,” was the nonchalant answer.

  But it did not suit the other two concerned. “What’s the matter with this burg?” Mullins cried contemptuously. “Here’s a confessed killer an’ yo’re tryin’ to turn him loose.”

  “That ain’t so,” Rapper retorted. “He’ll be held till we hear from Pinetown.”

  “Mebbe,” the other sneered. “We’ll deal with him now.” Nippert looked at the accused.

  “Jim, yo’re still marshal,” he said. “I’m tellin’ you to down any man who goes for a gun ” The harsh order stilled the clamour. Though the turbulent faction had a majority, the saloon-keeper was not alone, and that lounging figure at the bar had not given an exhibition of his prowess without effect.

  So they stood sullenly back and allowed the captive to be conducted to the calaboose.

  Nippert stepped inside.

  “I’ll have to take yore hardware now, Jim,” he said. “I’m hopin’ things ain’t as bad as they look.” Sudden handed over his belt. “I’ve given yu the straight of it,” he replied. “I took Dave’s life, an’ I’d ‘a’ cut a hand off sooner than hurt him. It’s made me shy o’ gun-play, as yu may have noticed. I could ‘a’ got away—Sloppy warned me —but I’m tired o’ runnin’ an’ yu’ll find me here when I’m wanted.”

  “I’m takin’ yore word,” Nippert said.

  As he emerged on the street again, a rider dashed past, taking the westerly trail; it was Dutch. He pondered over this as he secured the door.

  “So that’s the game, huh?” he murmured. “Well, there’s an answer to that.” He turned into the marshal’s quarters, where he found Sloppy slumped disconsolately in a chair.