At this demand the stranger stiffened, and there was an ominous rasp in his voice as he replied, “Which end would yu like to look at? She’s a Winchester .44 an’ the barrel is foul; I told yu I fired once.”
Ere the marshal could reply to this obvious challenge, a short, fat man, with long, unkempt hair, and a clever if somewhat bloated face, pushed his way unceremoniously through the crowd. He was clearly the worse for liquor, but his speech was careful, precise.
“What do you want now, Slippery?” he asked, and then, as he saw the outstretched figure, “young Purdie, eh? So the Burdettes have downed him?”
The marshal gritted out an oath. “We dunno; yu got no right to say that, Doc.,” he growled.
“I have a right to say just what I damn please, Slippery,” the medico retorted. “If you and your friends the Burdettes don’t like it, suit yourselves. What’s the use of sending for me now? I can’t put life into a dead man.”
The marshal’s mean eyes flashed an ugly look at him. “Ain’t askin’ yu to,” he said sullenly. “Want yu to dig suthin’ out—the bullet; mebbe it’ll give us a pointer.”
Toley turned the corpse so that it lay face downwards, cut away the clothing which covered the wound, and began to probe. With the morbid curiosity of a crowd the world over, the onlookers jostled one another to get a view, and the doctor cursed them when the stamping feet threatened to engulf him. At length the gruesome task was done and he stood up, the bloodstained pellet of lead between his fingers. The marshal examined it.
“Looks like a .38 to me,” he said reluctantly, and the frown on his face was heavier.
“Shore is,” agreed half a dozen of the nearest spectators. “What did I tell yu, Sam?” cried the fellow who had spoken before. “Luce Burdette uses a .38.”
“Yu didn’t tell me nothin’ ‘cept that yore mouth opens too easy, an’ I knowed that afore,” snapped the officer. “Luce ain’t got the on’y .38 in the world, has he?”
“He’s got the on’y one in these parts that I knows of,” was the reply.
“King Burdette’ll be glad to hear o’ yore interest in his family,” sneered Slype. “Hell!
Here comes Ol’ Man Purdie; what cussed luck brought him to town to-day?”
Stepping heavily but swiftly along the sidewalk, with the short, clipped stride of one who has spent much of his life in the saddle, came a sturdily-built, broad-shouldered man of around fifty. His strong, clean-shaven face, which should have expressed good-humour, was now drawn and haggard. Before his advance the crowd opened, and in a moment he was beside the body.
One glance was enough.
“God ! ” he muttered. “It’s true, then.” He dropped on one knee and touched the pallid face. “My lad—my only lad,” he whispered brokenly.
For some moments there was silence; men who had not thought of it before furtively removed their hats. Then the bereaved father heaved himself to his feet, tragedy in every line of his face, his eyes shining wetly in the half-light. But there was no weakness in voice or bearing when he turned to the marshal.
“Who did this?” he asked harshly.
“Yu know near as much as I do, Chris,” Slype replied. “This fella fetched him in”—he jerked a thumb at the cowpuncher. “Claims he saw it happen.”
Purdie turned his misted eyes on the stranger; his look was an invitation. Sudden repeated his story of the shooting.
“Yu didn’t see the skunk?” the old man asked.
“No, I caught the flash of a grey hoss through the brush an’ took a chance,” the puncher told him. “The shell I found was a .38 an’ the bullet bears that out. If I could ‘a’ sat in the game I’d ‘a’ been right pleased.”
“I’m obliged to yu, friend,” Purdie said.
From the outskirts of the crowd a voice rang through the gathering gloom : “He’ll take the Black Burdettes.”
The cattleman’s head jerked up. “Yu said it, whoever yu are,” he grated. “This is their work, shore enough.”
“Hold yore hosses, Purdie,” the marshal broke in. “We got mighty little to justify that.”
“The hoss an’ the gun tally, an’ Luce was seen headin’ that way a bit before it happened,”
Purdie said bitterly. “Yu call that mighty little, huh?”
“It ain’t conclusive,” Slype insisted. “If yu want me to deal with this”
The other whirled fiercely upon him. “I ain’t askin’ yu to, Slype; keep out of it. The C P can fight its own battles an’ pay its own scores. By God! it’ll settle this one in full.”
“That ain’t no way to talk, Chris,” the marshal remonstrated. “I’m here to administer the law”
“Yo’re here to do what the Circle B murderers tell yu,” was the angry retort. “Yu can save yore breath; I ain’t a-goin’ to back down before all the Burdettes that ever was pupped, an’ that goes.”
There was no passion in the challenge—it was the stark defiance of one whose life had been a battle; who had faced indomitably all the difficulties and disasters which the early pioneer in a savage untamed region must expect. Nature in her wildest moods, Indians, rustlers, starvation, thirst—Chris Purdie had fought and beaten them all. And now, in his mellowing years, when Fate had dealt him the bitterest blow of all, he was still unsubdued, still full of fight. There were many such men among the early pioneers; their names are forgotten, but their work survives; they made Western America.
Chapter IV
SUDDEN passed the night at the hotel, and in the morning attended the sorry farce of an inquiry into the death of young Purdie. The verdict that deceased met his end in a gun-fight with a person or persons unknown appeared to satisfy the marshal, though it aroused murmurs in some quarters. None of the Burdettes was present, a citizen informed the puncher, but when that young man suggested that this was perhaps good policy on their part, he was quickly corrected.
“Don’t yu get no wrong ideas about them fellas,” his informant observed. “Ain’t none of ‘em lackin’ sand, an’ if they done it an’ took the notion, they’d be here brazenin’ it out, yu betcha. Bad? Shore they’re bad, but there ain’t a smidgin o’ fear in the whole bilin’, no sir.”
Then came the interment; the puncher followed the procession to the little cemetery less than half a mile to the north of the town. There, on a grassy slope shaded by cottonwoods and birches, in a silence broken only by the gay chirping of the birds and a few remembered fragments of the burial service pronounced by the doctor, the boy was laid to rest. When the two miners who officiated had filled in the grave, the spectators resumed their hats and melted away.
Sudden was the last to leave, save for the sturdy figure with folded arms and bowed head gazing with unseeing eyes at the newly-made mound which held all his hopes. The puncher would have liked to utter a word of comfort, but he did not know what to say, and his cowboy’s inherent dread of emotion in any form kept him tongue-tied. At length he too turned to retrace his steps to Windy. He had not gone far when Purdie caught him up.
“Stranger,” the cattleman said in a deep voice, “I reckon I ain’t thanked yu right for what yu did.”
Sudden gripped the outstretched hand. “Why, there ain’t any need,” he returned. “I wish I could ‘ve …” He paused awkwardly, and the other man nodded his comprehension. “It’s shore tough, but life is like that,” he said, and despite his iron control there was a tremor in his tone.
“Yu see, he was pretty near all I had—I lost his mother when he was no more’n a li’l trick; there’s on’y Nan now.”
He was silent for some moments, and then he straightened up, squaring his shoulders as though making a conscious effort to free them of a burden. “Yu aimin’ to stay around here?” he asked bluntly.
“I ain’t decided,” the other replied. “I’m kind o’ footloose about now. Got tired o’ Texas an’ New Mexico, an’ figured I’d have a look at Arizona; heard there was gold here too.”
The elder man shot a quick look at him. “There is
if a fella knowed where to search,” he said.
They were entering the town when a young man came striding rapidly towards them; it was Luce Burdette. Sudden’s eyes went to his companion, but the ranch-owner’s features had the fixity of stone itself. Burdette did not hesitate; he stopped square in front of them.
“I’ve just struck town, Purdie, an’ heard of yore loss,” he said. “I want yu to know that I’m terrible sorry.”
The cattleman looked at him, his eyes like chilled steel, his lips clamped tightly. “Murder is one o’ the things that bein’ sorry for don’t excuse,” lie said harshly.
Burdette’s eyes opened in bewilderment and then, as understanding came to him, his cheeks flushed redly under the tan.
“Yu tryin’ to tell me I killed yore son?” he cried.
“Nothin’ less,” was the stern reply. “He was found in Echo Valley with a .38 slug through his back, fired by a fella who rode a grey; there’s yore hoss an’ gun, an’ you was seen headin’ that way a bit before. If yu wasn’t a Burdette, or if we had a marshal worth a busted nickel, yu’d be stretchin’ hemp right now.”
“It’s a damnable lie,” the young man said hotly. “I never had any grudge against Kit—in fact …” He hesitated and then burst out, “It’s absurd. Why, if things had been different, him an’ me might ‘a’ been good friends. I give yu my word, Purdie, I had nothin’ to do with his death.”
Sudden, watching him closely, believed he was speaking the truth, but the cattleman’s face expressed nothing hut incredulity.
“O’ course yu’d say so,” he sneered. “I wouldn’t take the word of a Burdette at the Throne of Heaven.” His eyes, mad with misery, glared at this lad who had all his own son had lost—youth, vigour, the vista of life—and a savage spate of anger swept away his control. “Pull yore gun, yu cur, an’ we’ll settle it here an’ now,” he cried.
The boy’s face flushed at the insult, but he made no move towards his weapon. His gaze did not waver as he replied :
“If yu want to kill me, Purdie, go ahead; there’s a reason why I can’t draw on yu.”
The elder man’s lips twisted into a furious snarl. “Yu bet there’s a reason—yo’re yellow, like the rest o’ yore scaly, shoot-from-cover family,” he rasped. “Well, yu get away with it for now, but paste this in yore hat: I’m goin’ to find the fella who murdered my boy, an’ when I do—he dies.”
“I’ll help yu,” Luce replied, and walked slowly away. Purdie looked at the puncher.
“What d’yu make o’ that?”
“I don’t think he did it.”
“Yu don’t know the breed—lyin’s as natural as breathin’ with them,” the rancher replied.
“I’m backin’ my judgment, seh,” the puncher persisted.
“Weil, mebbe, but I’m bettin’ it was a Burdette anyways,” the old man said. “What I was goin’ to ask yu when that houn’ showed up was to see me before yu make any plans. Will yu do that?”
“Pleased to,” Sudden said.
It was agreed that he should ride over to the C P on the following morning, and the cattleman departed. Sudden went in search of a meal, his mind full of the encounter he had just witnessed. He liked Purdie, recognized him for a white man, and admired the sturdy pluck with which he was facing a crushing misfortune. Regarding Burdette his mind was in a curious condition. As at their first meeting, he felt attracted to the boy, and found it difficult to conceive him guilty of a cowardly murder. Certainly it was not lack of courage that made him refuse the older man’s challenge, at the risk of being shot down where he stood. If all the Burdettes were like this one…
Meanwhile, the subject of his speculations had gone straight to the marshal’s office.
Slype, lounging in a tilted-back chair, his heels on his desk, chuckled inwardly when he saw the visitor’s pale, furious face.
“‘Lo, Luce, what’s bitin’ yu?” he inquired.
“I’ve just seen Purdie, an’ he’s accusin’ me o’ shootin’ Kit,” the boy blurted out.
The marshal grinned. “Well, didn’t yu?” he asked.
“Yu know damn well I didn’t,” Luce retorted hotly. “An’ yu gotta get busy an’ find out who did; I ain’t goin’ to have a thing like that pinned on me.”
“Orders, huh?” the officer sneered. “Well, I ain’t takin’ ‘em. Ol’ Man Purdie has served notice that him an’ his outfit is goin’ to handle the job, an’ that lets me out. Sabe?”
His little eyes squinted at the youth in malignant enjoyment; he would not have dared to take that tone with any other of the Burdettes.
“Playin’ safe, huh?” Luce said scornfully. “They shore don’t call yù Slippery’ for nothin’,” and stamped out of the office before any adequate reply occurred to its owner.
Getting his horse, he mounted and rode slowly out of town, taking the westerly trail which was the direct line to Old Stormy. Sitting listlessly in the saddle, head down, he had an air of dejection utterly foreign to his nature. In truth, Luce Burdette was in the depths of despair, for the events of the last two days had wrecked the secret cherished hopes of months. How would Nan Purdie regard him now —the reputed slayer of her brother? Despite the dormant enmity between the two families, he had dared to dream, and even after the mysterious taking-off of Old Burdette had nearly provoked an open rupture, had gone on doing so. But this latest killing, so obviously a reprisal, must be the end of everything—for him. And the dream had been so sweet!
Unknown to all others, they had met at intervals—accidentally, as they both pretended—and though no word of love had been uttered, eyes spoke to eyes and told what the lips dared not say.
And now, in the faint hope that he would see her, and be able to deny this damnable thing that was being said of him, he was going to a spot where he had already seen her several times, a sheltered little glade on the lower slopes of Old Stormy.
It was an ideal place for a lovers’ tryst—a tiny circle of grass, mosaiced with flowers, almost entirely walled in by scrub-oak and other trees, with an undergrowth of catclaw, prickly pear, and smaller shrubs. Burdette’s face fell when he found that the glade was empty, though he had expected to find it so. Dismounting, he trailed the reins and dropped on a prostrate tree-trunk which had served them as a seat on happier occasions. With bowed head he sat there, wondering.
Would she come, and if she did, would she believe him? He asked himself over and over again. It did not seem possible; she would take her father’s view, and he had to admit that Purdie was justified—the evidence was damning.
A whinny from his horse apprised him that someone was approaching, and he looked up to see the girl he was waiting for. At the sight of him she checked her pony for a moment and then came slowly on. Despite the very evident signs of grief, she made a picture to fill the eye of a man. She rode astride, with the long stirrup of the Arizona cowboy, and her mount—a mettlesome mustang—knew better than to try any tricks. A dark shirt-waist, and divided skirt which reached to the tops of her trim riding-boots, showed the curves of her slim figure, and her honey-coloured hair, cut short almost like a boy’s, curled crisply beneath the black wide-brimmed hat. Burdette saw the shadows under the deep blue eyes which had always smiled at him, and choked down a curse. Hat in hand, he rose to his feet.
“I was hopin’ to see yu,” he said.
“I didn’t expect ” the girl began, and then, “I couldn’t stay in the house; I had to come out—just to convince myself that the world isn’t all ugly and wicked.”
The poignant note of misery made him writhe. “Nan!” he cried, and his heart was in his voice, “Yu don’t believe I did it, do yu?”
The tear-laden eyes met his bravely. “If I thought that I wouldn’t even look at you,” their owner said.
The boy’s face lighted for a moment. “Then I don’t care who does think it,” he said impulsively.
“It makes no difference,” she told him. “you are a Burdette, I am a Purdie; no good can come of our—mee
ting.”
“But if yu don’t believe the Burdettes did this thing,” he protested.
“I didn’t say that, Luce,” she reminded him, and though she spoke softly there was an underlying bitterness which told him only too plainly what she did believe. Hopelessness again claimed him.
“I’ll find the skunk,” he gritted. “If my people had anythin’ to do with it, I’ll disown the lot of ‘em.”
He meant it—the savage intensity of his voice showed that—but the girl shook her head.
“It is no use, Luce,” she said sadly. “That would only mean more trouble. We belong in different camps, and this must be the end of our—friendship. We both have to be loyal to our own kin.”
The finality with which she spoke silenced him. Miserably he watched as she wheeled her pony and rode away, the proud little head bent, and—though he did not know this—the blue eyes well-nigh blind with unshed tears. When the trees had hidden her, a bitter laugh broke from his lips.
“Loyal to our own kin,” he repeated harshly. “If the Burdettes shoot men in the back they’re no kin o’ mine, an’ that’s somethin’ they’ve gotta learn mighty soon.”
With a grim look on his young face he stepped into his saddle and loped off in the direction of the Circle B ranch.
No sooner was he out of sight than a man rose from behind a clump of undergrowth on the outskirts of the glade. He was tall, nearing the middle thirties in age, with broad shoulders and a powerful frame. His black hair, eyes, and moustache, added to perfectly-formed features, produced a face at which most women would look more than once. Even his own sex had to admit that Kingley Burdette was ‘a handsome devil,’ and this Mephistophelian attractiveness was accompanied by a haughty, insolent bearing which made his first name singularly appropriate. Just now his thin lips were set in a saturnine sneer.
“So that’s the way of it, huh?” he almost hissed. “Ready to round on his own folk for the sake of a skirt, but mebbe he won’t get the chance.” His dark eyes narrowed. “Damn him! He’s got ahead o’ me. Who’d ‘a’ thought ‘o him shinin’ up to that Purdie gal?—not that she ain’t worth it.” He pondered for a moment, and then an ugly smile lit his lowering face. “I reckon that’ll fix yu, my friend, fix yu good an’ plenty,” he muttered.
Sudden Page 3
