Sudden

by Oliver Strange

  “Guess I know now how the meat in a sandwich feels,” he mutttered, and made an heroic attempt to grin. For some moments he clung there, breathless and gasping, while the galloping stream, like a live malignant thing, strove to tear him away. He was now perilously near the danger-spot. Idly he watched the stump of a tree whirl past to vanish in the welter of warring waters, saw it leap into view again, white streaks showing where it had been riven on the rocks, disappear, and emerge once more still further shattered. Sudden knew that it would be spewed out of that deadly maw as splintered fragments. That would be his fate unless …

  Lifting himself a little in the water, he searched again. Twenty yards distant, at the foot of the dank wall on his left, there appeared to be a small ledge, thinly covered by the stream; if he could reach that he would, at least, be no longer in danger of being swept over the fall. He decided to take the risk, and in a moment was again at the mercy of the current. This, fortunately, carried him straight to the spot, and a lucky snatch kept him from going past it. The struggle to climb up took his last ounce of strength.

  Slimy and water-swept, the ledge was heaven itself after the incessant battle with the river, and for a long time

  Sudden lay there like a log, conscious only of one fact—the necessity for violent exertion had, for the time, passed. Spent both in body and mind, he was satisfied with the present, and the point that his prospect of escaping was as minute as ever did not trouble him. Lying full length on the ledge, his eyes closed, the greedy stream clawing feebly at his wracked body, he was content to rest. A flick of something across his face aroused him : he sat up, and for a moment fancied that a snake had fallen from the cliff above. Then he saw a dangling rope with a noose at the end. A slight bulge in the rock-face prevented him from seeing the rim from which it had been dropped.

  “Somebody’s invitin’ me to hang myself,” he reflected.

  Climbing cautiously to his feet, he adjusted the loop under his armpits and shook the rope. In a few moments he was dragged sprawling over the edge of the chasm. At the other end of the taut rope was his own horse, Nigger, and looking down upon him was Yago, whose anxious countenance split into a broad grin when he saw his foreman stand up and throw off the loop.

  “This yer passion for bathin’ is likely to be yore finish one o’ these days,” he remarked.

  “Yu ol’ fool,” Sudden smiled. “How in hell did yu find me?”

  “Just luck,” Bill said offhandedly. “Ran into Cal, who said he’d seen yu, an’ come across Nigger, with the reins hitched round the saddle-horn. Knowed yu wouldn’t leave him thataway, so I scouted round some an’ found a place where it looked like yu’d took a high dive. Then I come down-stream hopin’ to find yore remainders.”

  “It musta’ been a disappointment for yu,” the foreman said gravely.

  “Shucks, yu know what I mean,” Yago replied hastily.

  A listening stranger would have deemed one man ungrateful and the other indifferent, but they understood one another, these two. Sudden knew that his friend had purposely followed him in case of danger, and Bill was well aware that the foreman would give his life for him if occasion demanded, but, for untold gold, neither of them would have admitted this.

  When the rescued man’s clothes had dried somewhat and he had smoked several much-needed cigarettes, they rode along to the end of the Sluice and viewed the fall. With all his nerve, the foreman could not repress a slight shudder as he looked at the narrow gut, with its twisting, tearing, racing torrent of water, fighting its way through to pitch, a sheer forty feet, into a tossing, tormented smother of spume and spray. The rolling roar of the river made speech impossible and it was not until they were some distance away that yago heard the whole of the story. His expressed intentions regarding the unknown assailant were definite and lurid. The foreman listened with a quizzical expression.

  “There was once a lady who wrote a piece ‘bout cookin’ a hare,” he remarked. “It started off with, `First catch yore hare.’ ”

  “Aw, go to hell,” was Bill’s inelegant rejoinder.

  Chapter XV

  HAVING, as he believed, successfully disposed of the rider, Riley turned his attention to the man’s mount, patiently awaiting his master’s return. Reluctantly he knotted the reins and flung them over the saddle-horn; the animal might return to the C P, but being almost a stranger there, it was more likely to drift around.

  “An’ mebbe I’ll `find’ yu later,” the Circle B man muttered. “Just now it wouldn’t be noways safe.”

  With a flick of his quirt he started the horse off, mounted his own beast, and set out for the ranch on Battle Butte. He found King Burdette in the living-room, and chuckled inwardly when his entry was received with a black look; his news would soon change all that, and he meant to make the most of it.

  “What the blazes do yu want?” came the surly question.

  The visitor seated himself on the side of the table, rolled a smoke, and swung a nonchalant leg. He still bore the mark of King’s fist on his face, but he was a different man.

  Burdette sensed the change and watched him narrowly.

  “I got news,” Riley began. “They’ll be needin’ a new foreman at the C P.”

  King straightened up with a jerk. “How come?” he asked. “Has Green gone?”

  “Yu could put it that way,” Riley said. “He slipped into the Sluice s’mornin’.”

  “Slipped—into—the Sluice?” the other repeated. “What in the nation was he doin’ there?”

  “Just lookin’—seemed to be admirin’ it,” Riley said casually. “Reckon he turned dizzy, or fancied a bath mebbe.”

  King’s cruel lips curled contemptuously. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Who told yu this fine yarn?”

  “No one didn’t tell me—I saw it,” the rider retorted.

  King Burdette laughed; he knew the Sluice, and he guessed what had happened, but he wanted to be sure. “Mebbe he can swim,” he suggested.

  “Carryin’ too much weight,” Riley said meaningly. “Slugs don’t help a swimmer none whatever.”

  “Better ‘a’ left it to the river,” King commented. “If he’s found with lead in him …”

  “Ever seen them teeth in the gut?” the other asked sneeringly. “Bah! there won’t be enough of him to put a cross over.”

  King nodded. “That’s so. Well, yu done a day’s work, Riley, an’ I ain’t forgettin’ it. Whitey”

  “Was to have had five hundred. I want more’n that.”

  It was a guess, but a good one, and the other man did not trouble to deny it.

  “Shoot,” he said.

  The cowboy was in no hurry. “I’ve got hep to suthin’ big—too big for me to tackle alone, which is why I’m talkin’,” he said, after a pause. “But first, I want yore honest-to-Gawd promise that I share equally with yu, Mart an’ Sim. What’s the word?”

  King did not reply at once; Riley’s air of repressed excitement evidenced tidings of importance, and though he could lose nothing by agreeing to the proposal, he was far too astute to do so immediately; after all, the man was only a tool, and must be kept in his place. At the same time, he was curious.

  “That goes with me, Riley, an’ I can speak for my brothers,” he said at last. “Spill the beans.”

  Whereupon the rider told of the conversation he had overhead between California and the C P foreman, speaking in a low, husky voice which positively shook when he attempted to describe the nugget the prospector had so proudly produced.

  “My Gawd, King, yu never see such rock,” he exclaimed. “Near as big as my fist, an’ more’n half pure gold, I’ll lay a fifty.”

  “Findin’ `float’ don’t mean yu got the mine it come from,” King objected, but it was more for the sake of prompting his informant; his interest was plain enough.

  “Yo’re right, but Cal knows—he was just all swelled up,” Riley said confidently. “He may have let it out to Green; I warn’t there when the pow-wow began.”

 
; “It’s big news, shore enough,” King decided. “An’ yu done right to come to me—I’ll play fair. Allus knowed there was a gold-mine up on Stormy—that’s one reason why I’ve been so hot on gettin’ the C P.” He paused, his eyes glinting with savage satisfaction. “We’ll have ‘em both now; there ain’t nothin’ to stop us. First thing to do is get hold o’ Cal an’ put him where he can’t chatter—‘cept to me.”

  The sun had dropped over the horizon in a glory of red and gold; down in the valley it was already dark, and on the mountain-side the dusk was rapidly deepening. California, busy preparing his evening meal, was oblivious to these natural phenomena. Therefore he did not see those silent shadows stealing from tree to tree until they reached his habitation, and only became aware of their presence when a hoarse voice barked :

  “H’ist ‘em, pronto ! ”

  The old man dropped the skillet he was lifting as though it had burned him and spun round, both hands raised. A tall, masked man stood in the doorway, his gun levelled. He stepped forward, and others followed, dour-looking fellows, slitted kerchiefs across their faces, and armed.“What’s the game?” the prospector shrilled.

  “Shut yore trap, come quiet, an’ yu won’t be hurt none,” the man with the gun told him.

  “If we have to reason with yu…”

  The implied threat was unnecessary—Cal had no thought of resistance. Blindfolded, his hands tied behind, he was hustled out and lifted on to a horse. The leader then searched the cabin, found what he was looking for—the piece of “float”—and joined his companions. At a word the party set out for the valley, taking a line, however, which would enable them to keep clear of the town. At the end of what seemed to him an interminable ride, California was yanked from the saddle, the handkerchief over his eyes removed, and he was thrust into a small log shack.

  “Talk to yu later,” he was gruffly told, and then came the creak of a turning key.

  The prisoner’s reply took the form of a stream of curses, blistering, vitriolic, the cream of all he had gathered in the many mining-camps and tough towns he had known. It was an impartial, comprehensive cursing, for, starting with his unknown captors, it went on to include Windy and its inhabitants, and finished with a whole-hearted condemnation of himself and the foreman of the C P.

  “No fool like an old ‘un, they say, an’ of all the old fools I’m the daddy,” he wheezed when his breath and memory were beginning to fail. “I’d oughta be split in two with a hatchet for openin’ my face to that slick-eared, double-faced cowpunch, burn his soul. O’ course he yaps to Purdie, an’ here I am, boxed up on the C P. Got no more sense than a burro, Cal, yu ain’t, but from now on yo’re dumb, whatever play they make.”

  Outside the door a tall man listened and laughed silently.

  “Mouthy old bird,” he muttered. “But that’s a sound idea ‘bout Green—we’ll have to let him go on believin’ that. Yu’ll be good an’ hungry in the mornin’, friend, an’ mebbe not so dumb as yu think; an empty belly is a powerful persuader.”

  **

  It was not until the second evening after his adventure in the Sluice that Sudden visited town again. He had told no one of this further attempt on his life, and had sworn Yago to secrecy. His appearance at “The Plaza” evoked no surprise; several of those present gave him friendly nods; others watched him indifferently as he stepped to the bar and greeted the proprietress. Evidently his supposed demise was not yet generally known. Lu Lavigne welcomed him with a smile, but there was a shadow in her eyes.

  “I’m guessin’ yu ain’t pleased to see me,” he said bluntly.

  “You know that isn’t true,” she replied. “But why come looking for trouble?”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled up. “An’ I came to see yu,” he reproved.

  She shrugged impatient shoulders. “I ride towards Old Stormy nearly every morning,” she told him.

  “I’ll shore remember,” he grinned. “Mebbe yore bronc will get away from yu again, an’ li’l Miss Tenderfoot’ll want help.”

  She had to laugh, but her face quickly sobered, the muttered “Oh, damn,” accenting the change. Usually her mild expletives had a whimsical unreality—they might have been uttered by a child—but this time she meant it. Sudden did not move, but the mirror behind the bar enabled him to see that King Burdette had thrust open the swing-door and was strolling towards them.

  The puncher, head hunched, waited until the newcomer was near and then straightened up and turned round.

  “God!”

  King Burdette, taken off his guard, had recoiled, staring with wide eyes at the man he believed to be drifting, a shapeless mass, in the depths of Thunder River. Almost instantly, however, he got over the shock, and an expression of sneering rage replaced his amazement. He glared at the girl.

  “What’s this fella doin’ here?” he asked.

  There was nothing mirthful in the cowpuncher’s smile. He had learned what he wished to know: Burdette was aware of, and perhaps concerned in, the effort to send him to a horrible death in the Sluice.

  “Why don’t yu ask me?” he suggested.

  Burdette’s gaze was fixed on Lu Lavigne, and it was she who replied. “This is a public place; he has as much right to be here as you have.”

  Her defiance spurred his rage. “So that’s it?” he sneered. “Got a new playthin’, huh?” He laughed hideously. “But yu ain’t finished with me yet, yu”

  A cold, rasping voice cut in; Sudden was bending slightly forward, his hands hanging at his sides, death in his eyes.

  “That’ll be all from yu, Burdette,” he said, and waited.

  King turned his malevolent gaze on the interrupter. “I’ve on’y got one thing to say to yu, an’ that is, don’t crowd yore luck too close,” he warned. “It’s saved yu twice”

  “Three times,” the puncher corrected, “An’ that’s my limit.” He noted King’s momentary start of surprise, and went on, “If yo’re honin’ to make it a fourth, why, I’m waitin’.”

  King Burdette hesitated. He had plenty of pluck, and he was consumed with a desire to shoot down this man with the cold eyes and voice which stung like acid, but a demon of doubt assailed him. Whitey had failed and paid the penalty. King had no wish to follow him, especially now, when things were breaking right and a prospect of almost unlimited wealth was opening out. But it was a direct challenge and must be met. The sardonic voice of the C P foreman lashed him.

  “Take yore time, Burdette; yu got all eternity ahead o’ yu.”

  With a snarl of fury the baited man turned on the speaker, ready to snap out the word which would set guns spouting flame and hot lead. But another voice intervened.

  “There’ll be no gun-play here, gents; I’ll down the first fella what pulls.”

  Slype, who during the conversation had apparently been intent on a card game, was now standing near, his gun out. Sudden saw the swift look of relief in Burdette’s face and laughed aloud.

  “Pretty neat, marshal,” he said. “Yu figure I’d beat him to the draw, so I’d get yore pill. Well, I ain’t obligin’. Wasn’t yu a leetle late gettin’ into the game?”

  “No call for me to interfere because two fellas quarrel over this yer woman,” Slype said insolently.

  The puncher’s eyes grew chilly. “`Lady,’ yu meant to say, didn’t yu, marshal?” he suggested, and there was an ominous purr in his tone. “Yu ain’t denyin’ that Mrs. Lavigne is a lady, are yu?”

  The officer shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable. The “lady” saved him the embarrassment of replying.

  “Thank you, Mister Green, but I don’t care a hoot what that dirty little pack-rat thinks I am,” she said. “His good opinion would be an insult.”

  “Bully for yu, Lu,” shouted one of the company, and most of the rest laughed approvingly.

  The marshal saw that he had blundered. “I warn’t meanin’ no offence,” he said, but his look at the lady was poisonous. “As law officer of this yer town it’s my duty to stop a ruckus.
”

  “An’ yore boss is no doubt much obliged to yu,” Sudden cut in. He turned to Burdette.

  “I’m servin’ notice that yu’ve reached yore limit,” he warned.

  “I make my own limits an’ for yu the roof’s off,” King retorted, and calling for a drink, presented his back to the puncher. Outwardly calm again, he was a volcano within. For the first time in his life he had lost self-confidence. Why had he backed down before this stranger of whom nothing was known save that he possessed a deadly speed with a six-shooter? By what wizardry had the fellow escaped from the Sluice? Riley’s shots must have missed, of course, but King knew the place, with its slimy, vertical walls and exit over the fall which spelt certain death. Had Riley pushed the wrong man in? No, he could not have made such a mistake in broad daylight, and Green had said, “Three times.”

  He was aware that the subject of his thoughts had gone out without replying to his last remark; aware too that he had lost prestige with the men present. Most of them had resumed their amusements, but there were nods and muttered comments. Even the marshal—his creature—was regarding him doubtfully. Burdette turned a frosty eye upon him.

  “Wonderin’ why I didn’t take that fella up, Sam?” he asked. “Well, I ain’t mixin’ it with every stray gun-fighter who comes glory-huntin’, an’ there’s other reasons to that.” He spoke loud enough for the room to hear, and then dropped his voice. “I wanta find out what fetched him to Windy—he didn’t drift in just by chance, I’ll bet a stack. Hello, what’s come o’ Lu?”

  The bar-tender, to whom he put a question, informed him that Mrs. Lavigne had retired to her room, on the plea of a headache. King swore under his breath and turned again to hear the marshal saying.