Sudden

by Oliver Strange

  “Stand up to him, cowboy; this yer’s a fight, not a perishin’ foot-race,” growled one.

  “Shut yore face, keep back, an’ give ‘em space, or I’ll shoot some toes off,” Yago snapped, and drew a gun.

  “Shucks, they got plenty room to scrap,” was the disgusted rejoinder, and despite Bill’s threat, the ring closed in.

  Partly owing to this, and to the fact that Burdette realized that he could not finish the fight offhand against such a nimble opponent, the character of the contest changed. It was now Mart who held off, and to Yago’s utter disgust and despair, Sudden went after his man, giving blow for blow, taking what punishment came, and hurling his fists with venomous ferocity into the gross body. In a few moments the battle had become one of blind fury.

  The bloodstained, staggering principals, hemmed in by a circle of sweating, brutal faces eager to see every phase of the fight; the dull slap of fist on flesh and the grunt as a blow went home; the swaying lights, half-obscured hy clouds of tobacco smoke and the dust of stamping, struggling feet; lips dripping profanity as the tide of fortune ebbed and flowed, all formed a picture Hogarth alone could have done justice to.

  Sudden knew that he was wrong—that it was sheer madness to disregard his friend’s frenzied entreaty to keep out of Burdette’s reach, but for once, passion had overcome his patience, and he allowed himself to be dominated by the desire to pay the brute before him in his own coin; the urge of the primitive man was upon him, and he lusted to batter those bestial features. Time after time he took a blow he might have avoided, simply to satisfy this craving, and Yago was rapidly swearing himself to a standstill in consequence.

  Then what his friend had feared happened. Sudden’s foot slipped on the sanded floor and in an instant he was caught in a grip like that of a grizzy bear. Vainly he struggled to free himself from the vice-like grasp under the pressure of which his ribs were already bending. The giant, his swollen, evil eyes alight with murderous triumph, teeth bared like those of an animal, the hot breath coming in gasps from his bruised lips, slowly tightened his hold. The puncher realized that he could not break away, and suddenly let his whole body go limp.

  “Yu got him, Mart. Break his blasted back,” croaked a voice from the mist of smoke and dust, and Sudden had a momentary glimpse of the twisted, gloating face of Riley.

  The abrupt downward drag of the relaxed body took Burdette by surprise; he stumbled, and they fell together, a quick turn on the part of the under man saving him from the full weight of the other. The fall loosened Burdette’s grip, and the puncher was able to breathe again.

  Twisting, thrashing on the floor, each striving to pin his enemy down, Sudden was conscious of a hand clawing at his face, the questing thumb seeking for an eyeball; the beast was trying to blind him. In a flame of fury he smashed his fist into the thick neck below the chin. Gasping, choking, the big man sprawled sideways, momentarily helpless, his agonized throat well-nigh paralysed.

  The puncher got up, weak and dizzy, to stand waiting, much to the surprise of the spectators.

  “Now’s yore chance, boy; beat hell out’n him,” cried the blacksmith.

  The advice was fully in accordance with the ethics of the time, but the puncher’s only reply was a lop-sided grin; he did not fight that way. Yago knew this, and though he inwardly cursed his foreman’s ideas of fair play, he said nothing. Mart Burdette soon recovered. The pain of the blow, crippling for the moment, had lessened, and with a rumbled curse he climbed to his feet.

  “Damnation, I’ll tear yu apart for that,” he threatened.

  Sinking his head, he rushed in, his right fist shooting forward with the force of a mule’s kick—a blow which might well have proved fatal. But Sudden was watching. With a lightning snatch he caught the descending wrist, twisted round, bent his back, and dragged the arm forward and down over his shoulder. As though propelled by a catapult, the big man shot up over the curved shoulders to land full length on the floor with a crash which shook the building. For some moments he lay there, supine, only the great heaving chest showing that life was still in him.

  Then the swollen eyes opened, he raised himself on one elbow and turned, glaring dazedly at the now silent spectators. Gradually understanding came to him, he realized that he had been beaten, and by the slim, bloodstained, battered man who now stood waiting for him to do something. A fury of hate flamed through his veins. Fumbling at the belt of his pants, he snatched out and levelled a gun.

  “I’ll git yu anyways, yu” he snarled.

  Even as he pulled the trigger, however, Sudden flung himself forward and struck up the barrel; the bullet buried itself in the roof, and an instant later the weapon was wrenched from the assassin’s grasp and turned upon him.

  “Yu cowardly, white-livered cur,” the puncher rasped. “So yu had a gun hid out on me?”

  Facing those blazing eyes, with the gleaming steel barrel at his head, and the knowledge that the slightest movement of the finger nudging the trigger would send him into eternity, the bully’s courage broke. There would be a jarring thud, a searing pain, and then—what? He shrank back.

  “Don’t—shoot,” he gasped weakly, and held up his trembling hands.

  The puncher hesitated for a few seconds, and then thrust the weapon behind his waist-band. “Get,” he said tersely. “Outa the country, or I’ll send yu out—in a box.”

  With an effort the beaten man stood up, collected his belongings, and staggered out, the onlookers parting to let him pass. He dared not raise his eyes, for he knew that there would not be a friendly face. Rough, unscrupulous, hard-shelled as these men were, they had a code of their own, and he had outraged it. To have lost meant little had he fought fairly, but … His reeling brain was conscious of only one thing—he must get away, and far, since wherever the story followed he would be a figure for scorn. Moreover, that damned puncher was not bluffing. He must see King, though the prospect of the elder brother’s anger and contempt was hard to face.

  Wearily he dragged himself into the saddle and headed into the darkness.

  Back in the saloon the victor was receiving the congratulations of most of those present.

  He had put up a straight and clean fight, and moreover, had dealt a crushing blow to the supremacy of the Burdettes, a fact certain citizens appreciated. These well-wishers, however, did not include the marshal, who had slipped away immediately after Mart’s discomfiture.

  “Sorry Slype’s gone, I wanted him to hear the truth about my visit to Cal’s shack,” Sudden said. “S’pose yu tell the boys, Bill, while I clean up some.”

  So Yago told the story of that day’s events, and the eyes of his hearers bulged, profane exclamations of amazement punctuating the narrative; all these men knew the Sluice.

  “So, yu see, Green couldn’t ‘a’ chucked Cal in, ‘cause I saw him potterin’ round his place later,” Bill concluded, having said nothing of the old man’s reputed discovery.

  “Who the hell tumbled Green in?” asked Weldon.

  “Mister Riley oughta he able to tell us,” Bill replied.

  But the Circle B man, like the marshal, was, as one of the company phrased it, “plenty absent”. He too had got away unobserved in the excitement of Mart’s downfall. When Sudden returned, having removed such marks of the conflict as could immediately be dealt with, he was not surprised to learn of Riley’s retreat.

  “Did yu expect he’d wait?” he asked sardonically, and then, “I’m feelin’ some used up—like I’d had a busy day. What ‘bout headin’ for home?”

  Yago surveyed the cut and bruised features critically. “Yu look better’n yu did a piece back, but I wouldn’t say it was the time to have yore picture took,” he replied. “Yu trail along an’ I’ll foller—got a li’l matter to see to.”

  The foreman achieved a painful grin. “Yu idjut,” he said. “I wouldn’t leave yu, but I know yu won’t find him.”

  Outside the saloon he made a discovery—his horse was missing. Had Mart turned it loose from s
pite, or had he himself tied it insecurely? In either case he did not think Nigger would stray far, and set out on the search. It proved a longer job than he expected, for it was nearly an hour before he located the truant. The reins were twisted round the saddle-horn. This was clear proof that the animal had been set free, for had the reins been trailing, Nigger, a well-trained cow-horse, would not have drifted. Attributing it to petty malice on the part of his fate antagonist, the foreman mounted and rode slowly back to the ranch.

  Chapter XVII

  HE was awakened on the following morning by Moody, who brought a message that the Old Man wanted him. There was undisguised admiration in the cowboy’s expression as he noted the decorations the foreman’s face had acquired over-night.

  “Gosh! He ain’t marked yu so awful much,” he commented. “It musta bin a dandy scrap though; I’d ‘a’ give a month’s pay to seen it.”

  “I’d ‘a’ paid twice that to ‘a’ been in the audience my own self,” Sudden grinned. “Fightin’ is one o’ the games where the looker-on gets most o’ the fun.”

  He made a hasty toilet and went to the ranchhouse. On the verandah was Chris Purdie, and facing him—still in their saddles—were Slype and Riley. At the sight of the latter the foreman’s eyes narrowed. The Circle B man evidently observed the look, for he unobtrusively contrived to move his unbuttoned vest, thereby bringing into view the badge of a deputy.

  “Yu wantin’ me?” Sudden asked his boss.

  “I’m wantin’ yu, Green,” the marshal cut in harshly.

  “Perseverin’ fella, ain’t yu, Slype?” the foreman gibed. “Yu was wanting’ me last night an’ ran away. Changed yore mind again, or have yu fished Cal’s body out’n the river?”

  “I ain’t,” replied the officer shortly. “What time yu git back to the C P las’ night?”

  “Well, I dunno as it’s any concern o’ yores, but I should say it was around twelve.”

  “An’ yu left `The Lucky Chance’ soon after nine; it don’t take all that time to ride up here.”

  “I had to find my hoss—someone had unhitched him; took me near an hour.”

  Slype smiled evilly. “Tell me yu broke a leg,” he suggested sarcastically. “Mebbe I’ll believe yu.” At which Riley emitted a derisive cackle. “Someone saw yu climb yore bronc outside the saloon an’ ride hell-bent on the Circle B trail.”

  The foreman looked at Riley and laughed. “Yo’re good at seem’ things, ain’t yu?”

  The marshal chanced a lie. “It warn’t him—I saw yu myself,” he said.

  Sudden regarded the pair grimly. “I’m tellin’ yu just what happened,” he replied quietly.

  “An’ here’s somethin’ yu wanta remember, them tin stars yo’re wearin’ won’t begin to stop a bullet. Now, come clean, marshal; what’s worryin’ the thing yu call yore mind?”

  “I ain’t worryin’ none whatever—that’s yore part,” Slype retorted. “Mebbe yu’ll say it’s news to yu that Mart Burdette was shot from behind—bushwhacked—‘bout a coupla miles outa Windy las’ night?”

  Like those of a rat, his beady little eyes watched the cowpuncher to note the effect of this announcement, but Sudden’s surprise semed genuine enough.

  “Mart Burdette—shot?” he cried, and in a flash realized why his horse had been missing.

  “Yu accusin’ me?”

  The marshal nodded to his deputy. “I told yu this fella had brains,” he said.

  “Pity yo’re shy of ‘em,” the foreman said. “If I wanted to put Mart outa business why didn’t I do it in the saloon, where I had every right to?”

  “Grand-standin’?” Slype sneered. “Lenin’ him go thataway shore made a hit with the boys.”

  “Which is the way yu’d have played it yoreself, I s’pose,” Sudden said scornfully. “Well, what yu aim to do about it?”

  “I’m takin’ yu in,” the marshal answered, with an evident effort to speak confidently.

  “Is—that—so?” the foreman said, and laughed unpleasantly. “Any idea ‘bout how yo’re goin’ to do it?”

  The marshal had not, and his attitude betrayed the fact. He realized now that to come to the C P on such an errand with one man only, expecting that the puncher would tamely surrender, had been a futile proceeding. But he doubted if he could have raised a posse—most of the citizens would take Green’s view of the matter. His visit was largely a bluff, but he made another attempt to carry it off.

  “Resistance to the law on’y proves guilt,” he remarked sententiously.

  “My gracious! Have I resisted yu?” the foreman queried. “Why, yu ain’t done nothin’?

  Don’t happen to be tied to that saddle, do yu?”

  Apparently the marshal was, for he made no attempt to get down. A glance at his newly-made assistant was met by an emphatic shake of the head; Mister Riley was willing enough to use the law as a shield, but his enthusiasm went no further. The cold-eyed, confident young man leaning carelessly against one of the supports of the verandah, thumbs hooked in his belt, did not strike him as even a reasonable risk. In desperation Slype appealed to the rancher:

  “Purdie, as a law-abidin’ citizen, I call on yu”

  “I’ve noticed it, an’ I’m telling yu plain that if yu do it again I’ll have yu rid off the ranch on a rail,” the cattleman interrupted harshly. “Roll yore tail, yu runt, an’ take that shifty-eyed son of awith yu.”

  The marshal’s pasty face turned livid. “I’ll remember this, Purdie,” he threatened.

  “I’m advisin’ yu to,” the old man retorted. “Scratch gravel, yu scum.”

  Without another word the visitors whirled their mounts and set off down the trail. Sudden watched them for a moment and then turned to his employer.

  “I’m thankin’ yu, seh,” he said.

  “Shucks, it ain’t worth speakin’ of, Jim,” the rancher returned. “O’ course I know yu didn’t wipe out Mart, an’ that marshal fella knows it too. It was me they were aimin’ at, an’ King Burdette is behind it; he owns Slype.”

  “I guess things is liable to liven up any moment now,” the foreman offered.

  Purdie looked at him in astonishment. “Yu ain’t complainin’ of a dull time, are yu?” he asked.

  The puncher grinned widely. “I ain’t noticed it,” he admitted. “Allasame, King will lay the loss of his brother to our account, an’ there’ll be doin’s.”

  Something of the same thought was in the mind of the marshal as he rode away from the C P. Incensed as he was at the humiliation he had met with, there was a certain satisfaction which he took care not to impart to his companion. Riley had no such feeling. He had surmised that Green must suspect him of the attempted drowning and had accepted the offer of a deputyship in the hope that it would protect him from the puncher’s vengeance, but the latter’s attitude had shattered his belief in the majesty of the law. For reasons of his own, he proceeded, after riding in silence for a while, to inflame his chief’s anger.

  “I take it Purdie ain’t friendly to yu,” he remarked.

  The marshal looked at him suspiciously. “How ever did yu discover that?” he sneered.

  “Yu must be awful cute at readin’ sign—good as an Injun.”

  “I was askin’ a question,” Riley replied. “I’ll take it he ain’t, an’ that yu wouldn’t be terrible grieved if somethin’ happened to him.”

  The marshal exploded. “Yo’re damn right, I wouldn’t,” he said fiercely. “Yu can burn his ranch an’ wipe out every rat in it an’ I won’t stir a finger, blast his soul! Fly at it.”

  “Didn’t say I was aimin’ to do anythin’—just wanted to know how yu felt ‘bout it,” the deputy explained. “Goin’ to see King now?”

  The marshal nodded sullenly, and for the rest of the ride had nothing to say. They found the boss of the Circle B awaiting them in the big front room; the scowl on his face deepened as he listened to Slype’s account of their visit to the C P.

  “So yu went to all that trouble to make a damn foo
l o’ yoreself?” was his comment. “Did yu reckon Green would follow when yu whistled?”

  “He’s put hisself on the wrong side o’ the law by resistin’, an’ so has Chris,” the marshal protested.

  King’s gesture was one of impatience. “Who the hell cares about yu or yore law in Windy?” He tapped his gun-butt. “This is the on’y law that goes in these parts. If yu’d took a dozen men…”

  “An’ where was I to find ‘em?” Slype asked angrily. “After las’ night’s play the town’s mighty near solid for him.”

  “Yu could ‘a’ found ‘em here,” Burdette replied. “No matter; I’m takin’ hold from now on.

  All yu gotta do is not interfere whatever happens. Yu sabe?”

  The marshal hesitated. “Yo’re askin’ a lot, King,” he demurred.

  “Damnation! I ain’t askin’ a thing—I’m givin’ yu orders,” King roared, his voice vibrant with menace. “Yu’ll obey ‘em too, or I’ll tear that star off an’ cram it down yore throat.”

  Either from anger or fear Slype’s face paled at the threat. “That’s no way to talk to yore friends, King,” he ventured. “O’ course, I know yu must be feelin’ sore about Mart…”

  “Mart was a fool an’ paid for it—as fools usually do,” the other cut in brutally. “Friends? I ain’t got none. I’m King Burdette—a lone wolf, but my teeth are sharp, Slype, damned sharp, an’ I’m goin’ to bite.”

  He snarled out the last words as though he were indeed the animal he had named himself, poured a liberal drink from the bottle on the table, swallowed it at a gulp, and flung down into a chair. The marshal changed the subject.

  “I was figurin’ to hold the inquiry on Mart to-morrow mornin’; that suit yu?”