Sudden

by Oliver Strange

The cattleman scowled at him. “What damn business is it o’ yores?” he asked harshly.

  “My name has been used to get yore girl into a trap,” young Burdette replied steadily. “I aim to get her out of it, whether yu agree or not.” The glare he received left him unmoved. “Yo’re overlookin’ the fact that if King holds Miss Purdie he has yu hog-tied. What’s goin’ to happen to her if yu move against him?”

  The rancher’s flushed face paled. “He dasn’t harm her,” he muttered.

  “If yu think that yu don’t know my brother,” was the grim reply. “Yu gotta remember too that he has twenty men—trained fighters—an’ he’ll be expectin’ yu.”

  “He’s talkin’ sense, Purdie,” the foreman added. “While King has Miss Nan all the town can’t help yu, an’ to go up there in force would be just what he’s hopin’ for. Got any plan, Luce?”

  “I know the Circle B,” the young man pointed out. “Mebbe I can find out where she is an’ steal her away. Once she’s clear o’ King’s clutches”—he looked at the rancher—“Yu an’ yore outfit can go ahead.”

  The old man sat thinking, chin sunk in his chest, his lined features drawn and grey; the blow had hit him hard. One hideous fact blotted out everything else—his daughter was at the mercy of one who laughed at the laws of God and man, and whose reputation regarding women was of the worst. Never until this moment had this dour frontier fighter known fear. Presently he looked up.

  “If yu can bring Nan back I’ll be willin’ to believe there can be some good even in a Burdette,” he said.

  The boy’s eyes brightened at this grudging admission. “I’ll do it,” he replied, and to the puncher, “By the way, I found Cal—they had him cached in the pines to the north o’ the Circle B; they got nothin’ out of him.”

  “Where is he now?” Sudden asked.

  “I dunno,” Luce told him. “Said he had a hide-out where he’d be safe.” He smiled wryly.

  “Yu don’t s’pose he’d trust me, do yu?”

  “Yu done a good job,” the foreman said hearteningly, and turned to his employer. “Better keep all this to ourselves; we don’t want anythin’ started that’ll force King’s hand till Luce has had his chance.”

  “I’ll get her or they’ll get me,” young Burdette said firmly, and Sudden saw the rancher regarding the boy curiously; he was evidently getting a new angle on this member of a hated family.

  Riding back to the ranch, the foreman essayed a word of comfort :

  “No need to worry about Miss Nan—yet; she’s King Burdette’s best bet, an’ he knows it.

  ‘Sides, Luce’ll fetch her back; he’s got sand, that boy.”

  But this rubbed a raw place. “Damnation, Jim, do yu fancy I wanta be under any obligation to one o’ that breed?” he snapped, and relapsed into a moody silence.

  Chapter XX

  BREAKFAST in the C P bunkhouse on the following morning was not the usual cheerful function, for the strange disappearance of their young mistress had a depressing effect on the riders. Though they did not know, they guessed shrewdly, and, after the manner of their kind, yearned for action.

  “What’s come to the Old Man?” Curly said querulously. “Ain’t them Burdettes prodded him enough a’ready?”

  “Huh! Reckon its Green holdin’ him off,” Moody surmised. “Odd too, for he don’t seem the long-sufferin’ sort.”

  From the head of the table Yago grinned at the malcontents. “If yu fellas had longer ears it’d be damned hard to tell yu from jackasses, on’y burros has more brains,” he said pleasantly.

  “Solomon was the wisest man ever lived—up to his time,” Flatty informed the company.

  “O’ course, Bill was born later.”

  Yago joined in the laugh. “Awright, yu chumps,” he returned, “Yu’ll get yore bit o’ blood-lettin’ yet.”

  Later, as he and the foreman were riding for the northern rim of the valley, he remarked casually :

  “The boys are spoilin’ for a scrap; they figure the Circle B has run on the rope aplenty.”

  If he was fishing for information the attempt failed dismally; the answer he got was a question : “What yu think o’ the marshal?”

  “Don’t think of him—nasty subject,” Bill grinned. “Sooner occupy my mind with rattlers, centipedes, an’ poison toads.”

  “I reckon yu’d be right at that,” Sudden conceded. “But what part’s he playin’ in this yer game?”

  “He’s Burdette’s dawg, to be petted or kicked at his master’s pleasure,” Yago said contemptuously.

  The foreman’s gesture was one of disagreement. “Slype ain’t no dawg—not even a yaller one,” he said. “He’s a coyote, an’ a cunnin’ one. I’m beginning to have ideas ‘bout that fella.”

  “Is that why we’re pointin’ for his place?”

  “Yu’ve ringed the bell first rattle.”

  “If yo’re wantin’ to see him it’s odds yu won’t; he ain’t there much.”

  “Which is why we’re goin’,” his foreman told him, and held up a hand to enjoin silence as a clink of iron against stone reached them.

  Curious to know who it could be, Sudden slid to the ground and stepped to the brush-fringed rim of the ravine along the side of which they were riding. Thirty feet below, in the bed of the gully, the man they had been speaking of was jog-trotting in the direction of his ranch.

  A perfectly natural proceeding, but the fact that the marshal, like they themselves, had selected a roundabout route, seemed suspicious.

  “We’ll keep an eye on that jigger,” the foreman decided. “Mebbe he’s meetin’ somebody.”

  The guess proved a good one, for after less than a mile had been covered they heard the marshal utter a surly, “Howdy.”

  Promptly they dismounted, dropped the reins, and crawled to the edge of the ravine.

  Squatting cross-legged on the ground, a cigarette drooping from his thin lips, was the Mexican half-breed, Ramon. The marshal descended from his saddle, tied his mount, and sat down facing the man who had evidently been awaiting him.

  “What’s yore notion, draggin’ me out here?” he growled. “Too lazy to ride in huh?”

  “Walls have ears, senor,” Ramon replied. “What I weesh to say is ver’ private, yu sabe?”

  Slype pulled out a black cigar, lit up, and said tersely, “Shoot.”

  The Mexican appeared to be in no hurry; his dark, cunning eyes were studying the diminutive, hunched form of the man before him. Apparently the scrutiny pleased, for a sly smile flickered across his face.

  “Yu know California, ze miner, he vanish, senor?” he began.

  The marshal glared at him. “Yeah, an’ George Washington’s dead they tell me,” he said with savage sarcasm. “Yu bin asleep the last two-three weeks?”

  Ramon was unperturbed. “Yu know where he go?” he went on.

  “King Burdette collared him an’ somebody snaked him away,” Slype retorted; and with a sneer, “P’raps yu can tell me where he is?”

  Ramon shook his head; he was a little surprised to find that some of his news was not news, but he replied confidently enough, “I don’t know—yet, but I shall. Yu know King Burdette have keednap Miss Purdie, huh?”

  This time he scored a bull; the marshal sat up with a jolt, staring unbelievingly. His informant nodded.

  “It ees true; she is at ze Circle B now,” he said.

  “Hell’s bells!” the marshal exploded. “What does King expect to git by that?”

  “He get ze girl, ze C P ranch, an’ mebbe ze gol’-mine California deescover,” Ramon pointed out.

  “There’s Purdie an’ his outfit to be reckoned with first,” Slype argued.

  “King holds ze girl,” the other said softly, with an expression which gave the words an ugly significance.

  The marshal sat silent, brooding over the astounding information. He recognized that by this daring move Burdette had made himself master of the situation; with Nan in his power he could dictate what terms he chose, and hi
s crew of cut-throats was strong enough to protect him.

  The owner of the two big ranches would practically rule the town, and he, Slype, would remain the nonentity he had always been. The sudden crumbling of his own cherished scheme brought a bitter curse to his lips. The Mexican watched him narrowly, a little smile of satisfaction on his sinister features; this was a man he could mould, evil, but lacking the usual dominant quality of the “Gringo.”

  “King Burdette play ze beeg game, but Meester Slype play a beeger one, huh?” he asked slyly.

  “What the hell yu drivin’ at?” the marshal snapped.

  “I tell one leetle story,” Ramon replied. “Once I see two mountain lion fight over ze carcase of a deer. It was one great battle, senor, an’ when it was feenish both ze lion was dead. Si, zey keel each other, yu sabe. An’ zen a coyote sleenk outa ze brush, where he been watchin’, an’ he get ze meat.”

  The little parable produced an almost audible chuckle from the unsuspected listeners on the rock-rim above.

  “Take a peep at what Slippery calls his face,” whispered Yago. “I’m damned if he don’t look like a coyote, an’ a poor specimen at that.”

  In fact, the officer’s snarling lips and savage little eyes were sufficiently animal-like to justify the companion.

  “Yu tryin’ to be funny?” he growled. “Talk straight, yu yeller dawg.”

  The Mexican raised his shoulders. “I t’ink I make it ver’ plain,” he said quietly, though his eyes had gleamed wickedly at the epithet. “Ze Circle B an’ ze C P are ze lion an’”

  “I’m the coyote, huh?” rasped the marshal. “Yu dirty”

  Ramon lifted a hand, palm outward. “Merely a—how yu say—feeger of speech, senor,” he explained. “Now, in my leetle story, ze coyote did not keel Ol’ Man Burdette.”

  He saw the start of surprise, the flash of fear in his listener’s eyes, and exulted inwardly; the chance shot had gone home. He coolly continued, “An’ make out it was ze work of ze C P. Yu know why King shoot Kit Purdie an’ try to peen ze deed on his brother Luce, senor?”

  With an effort the marshal got control of himself. “I dunno nothin’ ahout it,” he said sullenly.

  “Luce in hees way,” Ramon resumed. “I t’ink King deescover Nan Purdie look kindly at hees brother an’ he want her heemself. Almos’ yu help heem when yu nearly hang Luce for bushwhackin’ Green; Mart do that. Shall I tell yu who keel heem too?”

  The marshal shivered; this fleering devil with the soft purring voice had him in his power; he, a white man, was at the mercy of a “Greaser”—his own paid hand. Mingled with his fear was a cold rage which was growing steadily stronger.

  “Yu seem to know a hell of a lot,” was all he could find to say.

  “I make it my beesness to know—everyt’ing,” Ramon replied. He leant forward and the taunt vanished from his tone. “I put my cards on ze table, senor; ze game is too beeg for one man, but wit’ me, yu can win.”

  Slype’s crafty eyes narrowed. “An’ yore price?” he asked, and folded his arms.

  “We split ze profit two ways—feefty-feefty,” the Mexican said. “My share to include—Nan Purdie.”

  For a long moment the marshal sat silent, and then suddenly his arms fell apart, a gun in the right hand spat viciously—once; Ramon fell back with a bullet through his chest. Shaking with passion, the assassin scrambled to his feet and bent over his victim, who, twisting in agony on the sand, was making feeble efforts to reach his own weapon. Then he fired again, and the Mexican’s body shuddered and was still.

  “Know every’ting, huh?” the marshal mimicked. “One ‘ting yu didn’t savvy anyways, an’ that was when to keep yore mouth shut.”

  With trembling fingers he untied his horse, flung himself into the saddle, and with never a backward glance, galloped up the gorge. The shots might have been heard, and though the slaying of a Mexican was no great matter, he had no wish to be seen in the vicinity. The deed itself caused him little uneasiness; his explanation that the fellow had threatened him would be accepted. Upon the two spectators of the drama, the killing had come like a clap of thunder. As the marshal fled, Yago’s hand went to his pistol, but his foreman stopped him.

  “Let the reptile go—we can get him any time,” he said. “Mebbe the Greaser ain’t cashed.”

  A hundred yards further along they found a spot where the bank was less vertical, and the horses made the descent safely, mostly on their rumps.

  “We’d oughta fetched skids, my bronc has damn near rubbed his tail off,” Bill complained.

  When they reached the Mexican they found that Sud-den’s surmise was correct—he was not yet dead, though it was obviously only a matter of moments. He opened his eyes when Yago raised his head and gasped, “Water!”

  “This’ll do him more good,” Bill, said, and passed over a small flask of whisky. “Carry it in case o’ snake-bite,” he explained with a wink, when his foreman’s eyebrows went up.

  The raw spirit put a little strength into the wounded man, and with it came a desire for vengeance; a spark of hatred shone in the glazing eyes.

  “The marshal—do—this,” he muttered. “Write—write —I put name.”

  Sudden searched, found pencil and a fragment of paper, and took down the dying man’s statement, which they had already heard. Gasping for breath, every word a conscious effort, Ramon told his story, and gripping the pencil in nerveless fingers, scrawled his signature. Then a dreadful smile contorted his features and his head fell forward. They caught a last whisper.

  “Gracias, senores. Adios.”

  Yago laid the dead man gently on the ground, stood up, and said slowly, “Well, amigo, yu was a Greaser, but yu shore died fightin’, an’ I’d sooner call yùbrother’ than the vermin what put yore light out.”

  “Fightin’ an’ bitin’,” the foreman agreed. “I reckon he’s earned a quiet grave.”

  With hands and knives they scooped out a shallow trench, wrapped the corpse in a blanket, and heaped rocks above to prevent a prowling coyote from disturbing the murdered man’s last rest.

  “Saves us a journey,” Sudden said. “No need to go snoopin’ round Slype’s place now.”

  “What we goin’ to do ‘bout that jasper?” Bill inquired, as they rode south along the ravine.

  “Nothin’—yet,” his friend decided. “We’ll let him play his hand a bit longer. If he’s double-crossin’ Burdette, he’s on our side, that far.”

  “Sufferin’ snakes, if King knowed that Slippery bumped off his Ol’ Man there’d be proceedin’s.”

  “Shore would, but until the girl is back at the C P again, King has us where the hair’s short.”

  The marshal rode rapidly towards the town. Despite the blazing sun, beads of cold sweat oozed from his brow when he thought of the danger he had been in. If the Mexican had taken his tale to King Burdette …

  “I’d be like him—buzzard-meat,” he croaked aloud, and a shudder shook him as he recalled the stark still form he had left in the ravine. “Oughta planted him, I s’pose,” he continued. “Hell, corpses can’t chatter.” The corners of his mouth came down in an ugly sneer as his mind reverted to the “leetle story” the dead man had used. “Coyote, huh? Well, I reckon he knows now that them critters has got teeth.”

  He drew his gun, reloaded the empty chambers, and pulled his horse down to a steady lope. He wanted to think. Purdie would go up in the air when he heard about his daughter. The marshal could vision him with his outfit riding headlong for the Circle B. There would be a battle and Purdie would lose it—maybe his life as well. Perhaps King too. … Ramon had said the mountain lions had slain each other. That might happen—or could be made to; a marksman hidden in the brush… . He grinned devilishly; the “leetle story” might yet come true.

  Chapter XXI

  FOR a while after his visitors had gone Luce Burdette sat slumped in a chair, fists clenched, eyes staring into vacancy, his heart filled with a bitter fury against the man who had done this thing.
The darkly handsome, satirical face, with its mocking smile of triumph, rose before him, and coupled with this knowledge of King’s cruel, callous nature, suggested fearful possibilities.

  “An’ he’s kin to me,” the boy groaned. He struck the table fiercely. “He shan’t have her, damn him, not while I live.”

  Two hours later he was threading a thicket of live-oaks which masked the slope at the rear of the Circle B ranchhouse. Fortunately for his purpose the night was dark. Leaving his horse among the trees and carrying his lariat, he approached on foot, walking Indian-like on the balls of his feet and testing each step lest a cracking twig should betray him. It was a slow business, but presently he reached a strip of open ground where he would have to risk being seen. Here he paused, scanning the building. There was a lighted window just opposite to where he was crouching—the kitchen, which was his objective. For the rest, the place was in darkness, so far as he could tell. Light shone from the bunkhouse, fifty yards distant, and he could hear voices; some of the outfit would be there, playing cards, and yarning. Stooping, he sprinted across the shadowy space, reached the window and looked in. As he had expected and hoped, Mandy, the old coloured cook, was alone. Familiar taps on the pane brought her waddling hurriedly; she peered out and then cautiously raised the sash.

  “Foh de Ian’s sake, it cain’t be yo, Massa Luce,” she whispered tremulously.

  “Shore is, Mammy,” he replied, calling her by the name he knew she liked him to use.

  “Say, who’s in the house?”

  “Dey ain’t nobody but me,” she told him. “Dem King an’ Sim done went out; mebbe dey is in de bunkhouse wid de boys. Yo don’ oughta be hyar, honey; dat King, he massacree yo if he cotch you aroun’.”

  There was a mingling of fear and affection in her voice —Luce had always been her favourite; for his brothers she had little but dread.

  “Good old Mammy,” the boy said. “I ain’t goin’ to bècotched.’ ” He bent forward so that he could see her face and said earnestly, “Are yu shore there is no one in the house but yoreself?”

  At this question Mandy recoiled and the whites of her eyes showed big. “Lawdy, ain’t I tol’ yo?” she quavered, but Luce interrupted sternly :