“Well, Jim, what’s the idea?” he asked. “I’m s’posin’ yu got one, or yu wouldn’t take the chance o’ Burdette not waitin’.”
“He’ll do that,” Sudden said confidently. “He figures he’s got us cinched, an’ besides, he wants Miss Purdie hisself—which is one reason why he won’t play fair.”
The knuckles of the rancher’s clenched hands showed white beneath the tanned skin. “But that woman said ” he began.
“He’s double-crossin’ her—she’s been persuaded that he’s on’y usin’ yore girl to get the ranch, but Luce has told us different,” the foreman pointed out. “Signin’ that paper won’t fetch Miss Purdie back, though it might save her somethin’,” he finished awkwardly.
The elder man rasped out an oath. “I’d sooner see her dead than tied to that spawn o’ the Devil. Spill yore plan, Jim.”
“I’m goin’ to try Luce’s trick, but in a different way. If I can’t get them…”
“Them?” interrupted the rancher brusquely. “Yu ain’t goin’ to bother about that Burdette fella, are yu?”
“He went there to save yore daughter,” Sudden reminded.
The owner of the C P was a fair-minded man, not afraid to admit when he was in the wrong. “That’s so, Jim; sorry I forgot, but the very name o’ Burdette is pizen to me. Yu ain’t said how yu propose to get ‘em. I don’t cotton to the notion o’ yu bein’ alone.”
“She’s the on’y chance—the place’ll be guarded,” Sudden told him. “It’ll mean Injun work, but I was raised amongst redskins.”
“An’ I gotta sit here doin’ nothin’?” Purdie grumbled. “Not any; yo’re goin’ to have one busy session. Soon as I’m away, round up the boys. Tell ‘em to come, fixed for trouble. Yu got any friends yu can trust in town?”
Purdie nodded.
“Send ‘em word to meet yu some place, but they gotta get away without anyone knowin’, ‘specially the marshal. Yu Babe?”
The rancher nodded again. His air of despondency had vanished and his eyes were shining; the prospect of action was meat and drink to him.
“When yo’re all set, fetch the men to the Circle B an’ plant ‘em in the brush to wait for the signal, which will be a ‘Pache war-cry—twice. That’ll mean we’re clear o’ the house an’ yu can start to clean up. I don’t know how long it will take me, but I figure yu won’t get that signal till around daybreak. Yu gotta hold the boys back; if they start the ruckus too soon, there’ll be hell to pay an’ no pitch hot.”
A grim smile flitted across the cattleman’s rugged features. “Don’t yu worry ‘bout that,” he assured. “They’ll be good; they think a heap o’ Nan, an’ damn near as much o’ yu. Get the prisoners in the open an’ we’ll give them Battle Butte bushwhackers somethin’ else to occupy ‘em. I’m a mite curious how yu aim to do it?”
“Ain’t got it worked out yet,” the foreman evaded, for he did not wish to dash Purdie’s hopes with details of the desperate endeavour he had in mind. “Tell yu all about it later—mebbe,” he supplemented, with his whimsical grin.
To Bill Yago he was no more communicative, and the little man voiced his views plainly.
“Goin’ to take another fool chance, huh?” he said. “Well, I’m admittin’ that up to now yore luck shore has been amazin’—too damn good to last.”
“Yore idea would be to sit back an’ let King Burdette take all the tricks, I s’pose?” Sudden rejoined, knowing full well that he libelled his friend grossly.
“My idea is that two heads is better’n one,” was the sage, if ungrammatical, reply.
“Yeah, but it’s a matter o’ feet not heads,” the foreman retorted, with a sly glance at the generous extremities of the grumbler. “Them wagons yu walk on would make as much noise trampin’ through the brush as a herd o’ cattle. ‘Sides, the Ol’ Man wants yu, now, pronto, an’ at once.”
Yago departed with a snort of disgust, and when he returned Sudden had set out. Bill followed, but in a different direction, having first given orders which turned the hunkhouse into a hive of frenzied activity. Weapons were carefully overhauled, belts stuffed with ammunition, but only the menace of their preparations betrayed the fact that the men were about to engage in an enterprise which might result fatally to some of their number. Not one of them thought of this, but beneath the light banter there was a substratum of grim resolution. For the Circle B had stepped into the open—the abduction of Nan Purdie tipped the balance—and the opportunity of paying for many months of stealthy aggression and studied insult had come at last. They did not know the whole of the story—there was no need—the rancour between the two ranches was of long standing, and for months the outfits had but waited the word to fly at one another’s throats.
“King Burdette has shore got his gal,” Moody said. “Hi, yu thief, drop them shells; I’ll want ‘em all my own self.”
Flatty relinquished the box of cartridges of which he was about to take toll. “An’ that’s whatever,” he said pointedly. “Any hombre yu throw down on has on’y gotta stand still to be safe.”
Moody’s reply to this libel on his marksmanship took the form of a chunk of wet soap; Flatty ducked sideways and got the missile in the neck, at which the thrower chuckled gleefully.
“Why didn’t yu stay put, fella?” he gibed.
“On’y proves what I said,” Flatty responded, grabbing the nearest article to dry himself, which elicited a wail from Levens.
“That’s my shirt yo’re usin’.”
“Well, I don’t mind—much,” the offender told him. “Soap won’t hurt it none—time it saw some anyways.”
“Strip allus washes his shirt once a year, whether she needs it or not,” was Curly’s contribution.
The appearance of their employer put an end to the joshing. “Get a wiggle on, boys,” he urged. “Jim may be through quicker’n he figured, an’ we gotta be on hand when he wants us.”
A few moments later they set out, every man of the outfit save the cook, who, from the bunkhouse door, watched till the darkness blotted them out.
“Hell! Rustlin’ grub ain’t no job for a man,” he told the world. “Hope they bring back Miss Nan an’ hang every thief at the Circle B.”
He dragged a chair to the door, lit a pipe and sat down, a loaded shotgun across his knees.
For the first time in his life he was in sole charge of the C P, and he did not intend to be caught napping.
Something less than a mile from Windy, Sudden swung off to the left and began the task of finding a way through the brush and thicket-clad northern slope of the valley. It was imperative he should not be seen, the success of his audacious attempt depending entirely on a surprise. He had calculated that this way of approach would take twice as long as the open trail, but he soon discovered that he had underestimated the difficulties. The night was dark—no moon or stars in the black void overhead—and while he was grateful for that, it did not make the picking of a path through dense thorny undergrowth easier. Moreover, he had to rely on his sense of direction, and as progress meant frequent twists and turns to avoid impassable obstacles there was danger of losing his way.
“Durn it, a’most wish I’d chanced the trail,” he muttered, as, for the twentieth time perhaps, he found himself in a blind alley which necessitated retracing his steps and trying again.
He felt his horse wince and quiver beneath him, guessing the reason. “Thorn, huh?” he said. “I feel like a blasted pincushion m’self.”
For what seemed like hours the weary struggle went on. At long intervals they found open spaces across which they moved swiftly only to renew the battle with the brush on the other side. Though the need for watchfulness was constant, Sudden’s subconscious mind reverted to the man who was really responsible for his being there—that quiet little citizen with the compelling grey eyes which had twinkled when he said in all seriousness, “If yu get into a mess, you must get out again; I can’t help yu.” Well, he was in a mess, and whether he could get out remained to be
seen.
For another half-hour man and beast pursued their painful progress. Owing to the tardy appearance of scattered stars the light was a trifle better, and through a break in the trees Sudden could make out a huge black mass looming up ahead of them, and guessed they had reached the end of the valley. He tried to locate his position, and decided that he was not far from the wagon road which slashed the face of the butte and formed the usual approach to the Circle B. But this he dared not use—it would certainly be watched.
Picketing his horse in a grassy grove, he began to climb the scrub-covered slope, heading in the direction he believed the ranchhouse to lie. He made good progress at first, for the rise was gentle, but it grew steeper as he went on and soon, despite the chilly night air, he was perspiring freely. Slipping, twisting, hauling his body up by sheer strength, scratched by thorns and bruised by encounters with protruding rocks invisible in the gloom, he at length reached a tiny shelf and flung himself down to rest.
“Hell, I feel like I’d been washed an’ wrung out,” he soliloquized. “I’d give a month’s pay for a smoke.” He had no means of discovering the hour, but calculated that it was well past midnight. “Purdie an’ the boys should be along soon.” He flexed his aching muscles and the resultant pain produced a grunt. “Sittin’ here won’t buy me nothin’ —gotta keep movin’.”
Another short burst of strenuous endeavour brought him to a patch of stunted pine. Here the ascent was less abrupt and the carpet of pine-needles provided easy going. Gliding swiftly and silently from tree to tree, the puncher went upwards until he was conscious that the incline had almost ceased; he must be nearing the plateau on which the Circle B was built. Then a faint shaft of yellow light shone through the foliage, apprising him that the end of his journey was at hand. For long moments he stood motionless in the deep shadow, peering and listening. A whiff of a familiar odour—burning tobacco—came to him; he was facing the faint breeze, therefore the smoker must be ahead. Dropping down, Sudden crawled slowly forward, feeling every foot of the ground in front before making a movement—the snapping of a tiny twig might mean ruin to his hopes. Presently he could see the fellow, a dim shape, squatting, back against a tree and a rifle across his thighs. His complaining voice reached him:
“Damn this job. What’s King scared of, anyways? He’s got the C P tied, an’ them rabbits in Windy don’t have the guts to move.”
There was no reply; evidently the sentinel was relieving his feelings by talking to the air.
The intruder smiled forbiddingly and continued his advance. When he was within two yards of the unsuspecting guard he rose to his feet and drew a gun. Two silent strides, a swift downward chop of the steel barrel, and the sentinel sagged senseless where he sat. Sudden dragged the fellow further into the gloom, gagged and hound him with his own neckerchief and belt, and then, keeping under cover of the growths which skirted the edge of the plateau, made his way towards the ranchhouse. Approaching from the side, he slipped over the rail of the verandah and creeping along in the shadow until he was beneath the lighted window, lifted his head cautiously and peeped in.
One glance told him all he wanted to know; it was the living-room, and King Burdette was there—alone. Reclining in a big chair, a bottle of spirit on the table beside him, the Circle B man appeared to be half asleep. He had discarded his belt, which was hanging on the back of another chair some feet away, a fact the visitor noted with a grin of approval.
“Luck is shore runnin’ my way,” he commented softly, and cat-footed to the front door, where again fortune favoured him; he found it unfastened.
Chapter XXIII
“Put ‘em up, Burdette!”
The low, harsh command brought the dozing man to his senses like a dash of ice-cold water. With unbelieving eyes he stared at the granite-hard face of the man he hated and whose presence there he could scarcely credit. Then, as the threatening gun-muzzle dropped an inch and he saw the thumb holding back the hammer relax, he pushed his hands above his head.
“Good for yu,” the visitor said grimly. “Yu were just one second away from hell when yu done that.”
King Burdette knew it was no bluff—this man would have shot him down without hesitation; the puncher with the sardonic smile and lazy, drawling voice had metamorphosed into a lean-faced, cold-blooded killer, and notwithstanding his hardihood, he felt an unaccustomed chill in the region of his spine. With an effort he flung off the feeling and regained something of his usual bravado. Inwardly he was cursing his men for letting the fellow pass, and himself for being caught without his weapons. His eyes went to them, and then to the lamp. An acid voice cautioned him.
“Yu couldn’t make it, but”—the fell eagerness was evident—“I’d admire for yu to try. I’m hopin’ yu will.”
Burdette, who had tensed his muscles in readiness to thrust the table over and jump for his guns, relaxed them again before the deadly menace of the warning. He locked his hands behind his head and laughed.
“Nervy, ain’t yu?” he sneered. “An’ now—what? Goin’ to hold me here till one o’ my men comes in?”
“Yu better pray hard that don’t happen—it’ll be yore death-warrant,” Sudden said. “Seem’ I got a use for yu that’d be a pity. Stand up—slow—an’ lead the way to Miss Purdie, an’ mind this, Burdette, if things don’t go slick, yu will.”
Footsteps sounded outside, and Sudden slid behind the half-open door. “Send him on his way,” he hissed, and the threatening gun backed up the order.
“Everythin’ all right, Boss?” asked a voice.
“Get to hell outa here,” King shouted, furious at the ignominious part he was being forced to play, and the man went away muttering.
“Come ahead,” the visitor curtly commanded.
For some seconds King hesitated, his subtle brain busily seeking a means of turning the tables on the man who had trapped him. But he could see no chance; save for old Mandy and the prisoners, he was alone in the house, his brothers and the outfit being either on guard or in the bunkhouse. Any attempt to summon them meant instant death; this grim-faced gunman who had slain Whitey was definitely not a man to gamble with. King had courage, but to die uselessly was no part of his programme. So he nodded suddenly and stepped to the door, consoling himself with the thought that his men were watching every avenue of escape. The fools might get clear of the house, and then…
Well aware of the gun-barrel nudging his ribs, he led the way upstairs, unlocked and threw open a door. In the dim light of the coming dawn they saw Nan Purdie, sitting with bent shoulders on the side of the bed. At their entrance she started up, her eyes wide with fear when she saw the Circle B owner.
“It’s all right, Miss Purdie,” Sudden’s voice assured her. “Mister Burdette has had a change of heart—he’s here to help yu.” His eyes narrowed when he saw her bound wrists. “Turn her loose,” he ordered, and King, knowing that the shadow of death was very near to him at that moment, hastened to comply. “Now we gotta collect yore brother, Luce,” the puncher said.
King emitted a savage snarl. “Don’t call that sneakin’, white-livered cur brother to me,” he snapped. “Yu can have him, an’ welcome; he ain’t worth the price of a rope.”
They found the other prisoner in the next room, bound hand and foot. When he had been released, Burdette turned a jeering face upon them. “What’s the next bright move?” he asked.
“My men has orders to shoot first an’ inquire after.”
“Yu better hope they don’t spot us, ‘cause if they miss yu, I shan’t,” Sudden told him.
“We’ll go out the back way.” He handed one of the guns to the boy. “If anythin’ breaks loose, head for the brush an’ get Miss Nan as far from here as possible; don’t think of nothin’ else whatever.”
A streak of faint grey light on the eastern horizon heralded the birth of a new day, but the valley below the Butte was still a pool of blackness. They crossed the open space at the back of the ranchhouse safely and were about to plunge int
o the undergrowth when fortune forsook them. Sudden, intent on watching their conductor, trod on a loose stone, which, turning under his foot, flung him violently forward. Instantly Burdette was upon him, clutching his gun arm, and shouting lustily for his men. Sudden’s voice rang out low and vibrant.
“Get the girl away, Luce; run like hell!”
Little as he liked it, the boy obeyed. Gripping Nan by the wrist, he dragged her into the brush, heedless of direction, intent only on putting distance between themselves and their prison.
They were only just in time, for as they panted up the slope which sheltered the ranchhouse, they could hear a medley of yells, curses, and pounding feet as the hands in the bunkhouse answered their employer’s call.
Meanwhile, the man they had left behind was fighting for time as well as life; the longer he could give the fugitives the better chance they had of evading pursuit in the tangled scrub.
King Burdette, furious at the failure of his plans and the humiliation the puncher had put upon him, fought like a tiger-cat. Sudden’s unlucky slip had handicapped him almost hopelessly, for, as he fell, Burdette had dropped upon him, and now knelt across his prostrate body, one hand pinning down his gun, while the other squeezed his throat. In that vice-like grip the foreman was unable to give the promised signal. Conscious that aid was coming for the other man and that he had only a few moments, Sudden exerted himself to the utmost in an effort to break that murderous hold. But Burdette was a powerful man and his mad rage doubled his strength.
Half-choked, his starved lungs aching for air, the puncher knew he could not bear the intolerable pressure much longer. The hate-filled eyes and snarling lips told that the man on top knew it too.
“Got yu this time, Mister Green; got yu good,” he panted.
Even had he wished to, the foreman could not answer; the pain in his throat was paralysing. With his free hand he struck feebly at his foe, wondering how much longer his ribs would bear the terrible strain to which they were being subjected. In an odd way his failing senses carried him back to his battle with this man’s brother; Mart’s mighty arms were crushing him again, and in a flash he remembered how he had escaped from that bear-hug which had so nearly proved fatal. Suddenly ceasing to struggle, he closed his eyes, let his head fall back and his whole body slacken. The ruse succeeded. Believing his man to be beaten, and in dire need of a respite himself, Burdette relaxed a little of the pressure. Instantly, digging his heels into the ground, Sudden bucked like an outlaw pony, and Burdette, taken by surprise, had to fling out his right hand to save himself from being thrown headlong. One deep breath of air was all the puncher dared allow himself, and then from his tortured throat the one-time dreaded Apache war-cry rang out—twice. No sooner was it uttered than King was on him again.
Sudden Page 22
