Sudden

by Oliver Strange

  “Reach for the roof—all o’ yu!” he spat out. “I’m on’y sayin’ it once.”

  Almost before they looked up the men at the card-table were obeying the command—they recognized the voice; they knew too that when King Burdette threatened lie was apt’ to keep his word. Sudden followed suit; already covered by the gun of a man who was killing-mad, he had no choice. The girl only disregarded the order, stepping calmly from her place behind the bar, and facing the newcomer unflinchingly. Her low-cut, short-skirted dress showing her white shoulders and slim, silk-clad ankles, brought a savage gibe to King’s lips.

  “All prinked up for yore new lover, huh? Yu ain’t lost any time, have yu?”

  “I have no new lover, King,” she told him quietly. “And no old one either it seems.”

  There was a touch of bitterness in her tone as she went on, “Perhaps I thought I had, but not being heiress to a ranch …”

  “So that’s the tale that lyin’ houn’ has been tellin’ yu?” Burdette burst in angrily.

  “I haven’t discussed you with anyone,” she replied. “I didn’t need telling, King; it was plain enough.”

  She was playing for time, hoping that some interruption might occur to prevent him carrying out his deadly purpose, for the moment he came in she knew he was there to kill Green.

  Standing half-crouched, alert for every movement, his levelled guns dominated the room.

  Murderous hate blazed in his slitted eyes, his mouth was twisted in a feral snarl. The sight of the man who had beaten him at every point of the game, and—as he believed—stolen the woman for whom he at least lusted, had turned him into a fiend indeed. He was on the point of pulling the trigger when the girl’s cool voice intervened.

  “You must be mad or drunk, King, to come back to a town where every man’s hand is against you.”

  “Hell, I’m King Burdette, an’ there ain’t one of ‘em dare face me,” he sneered.

  His swift glare at the card-players provoked no response; they knew what he could do with a six-shooter; a movement would mean instant death to two or three of them. They sat in their places as though petrified.

  “Except the man who is facing you now, and from whom you ran away when it was a question of an even break,” she said scathingly.

  The words cut him like a knife. “Shut yore cursed mouth, yu Jezebel, or I’ll send yu along with him,” he raved.

  “Keep outa this, Mrs. Lavigne,” the puncher urged. “Yu might get hurt. He’s loco, an’ may shoot wild.”

  His voice was steady and his grave eyes stressed the request. He did not for an instant believe what he had said, but he wanted her to. Burdette was a master of his weapon, and even in the grip of passion could not miss at that short range, and shooting at one who was, in effect, unarmed. Lu Lavigne looked at him wonderingly. With the shadow of Death hovering over him his one concern was for her safety. She had never met a man like this, and her heart told her she must save him—at any cost.

  “Don’t do this thing, King,” she cried impulsively. “Go away now and I will come with you. I’ll do anything you ask; be your slave—your toy …”

  A hideous laugh cut her short. “Hark to her,” King jeered. “Willin’ to buy yore triflin’ life with her beautiful body, Green—there’s devotion. But the price ain’t nearly high enough. Yu die.”

  Sudden drew himself up and looked coolly at the menacing muzzle. He had faced death before, had dealt it to others, and was not afraid.

  “Shoot an’ be damned, yu coward,” he said.

  Watching the killer’s eyes, alight with the lust to slay, he knew that the moment had come, and prepared to fling himself forward in a desperate effort to beat the bullet. It was one chance in a thousand against a good gunman. Burdette’s finger was actually squeezing the trigger when Lu Lavigne, with a cry of “No, no, you shall not kill him,” stepped swiftly in front of the threatened man. The crash of the report was followed by a tiny slap as of a drivenrain-drop on a window-pane, and the horrified spectators saw the girl drop limply into Sudden’s arms.

  King Burdette stood as if turned to stone, stunned by the crime he had committed. A growl of rage from the card-table apprised him of his own danger—the men were reaching for their guns. The noise of the shot would bring others. If he wished to live he must move quickly.

  With lightning swiftness he sent two bullets at the card-players, and without waiting to see the result, darted to the door, hurled himself on his horse, and raced down the trail.

  In the saloon Sudden was kneeling beside the girl who had given her life for his, one arm supporting her head. The bullet had struck her just above the heart, and he knew there was no hope. Her eyes opened.

  “I always knew it would be King,” she whispered. “Don’t be too sorry for li’l Miss Tenderfoot.” Her voice faltered, and then, “you are a good man—Jeem”—her brave attempt to smile was heartbreaking—“but women are fools and don’t always find it out—in time. Would you … ?”

  Sudden read the request in the big dark eyes and bent his lips to hers.

  “Tell the boys good-bye,” she murmured, and that was the end.

  When the foreman stood up his face was a mask of bronze, his voice sounded strange and unnatural. ” ‘Tend to her,” he said. “I gotta ‘tend to him,” and stepped swiftly from the saloon.

  “An’ I hope he gets him,” growled one, whose right arm hung useless. “If he hadn’t been so blame’ quick I’d ‘a’ nailed the skunk my own self.”

  “Green’ll get him, yu betcha,” another said grimly. “Did yu see his face? If Burdette owed me money I’d call it a total loss right now.”

  Sudden swung into his saddle, gave one look at a distant cloud of dust on the trail through the valley, and sent Nigger charging after it. Behind him the town was in a ferment; from every building men popped out, asked one excited question, and raced for “The Plaza.” Soon after the puncher had left, an armed band of dour-faced riders followed him; Lu Lavigne had been well liked.

  Sudden rode like a man whose brain has been numbed; the completeness of the catastrophe had overwhelmed him. His mind slid back into the past, to an incident of his boyhood, when he had seen another lad slashing beautiful wild blooms with a stick for the selfish pleasure of seeing them fall, bruised and broken, at his feet. Without quite knowing why, save that it had seemed a pitiful, wanton waste, he had thrashed that boy. And now—he must catch the man in front.

  “We gotta do it, Nig, even if we go to the edge o’ the world,” he muttered.

  The big horse pricked up its ears and settled down to the job in earnest. Not often was he allowed to run as he liked; he would show his master, who sometimes asked a great deal, but was never unkind, and who always saw to his, Nigger’s, comfort before his own, what he could do.

  The great corded muscles slid easily to and fro beneath the skin, like well-oiled pistons, driving the body forward in a tireless, leaping stride. Slowly but surely the black was gaining ground.

  The first few miles of the trail to the Circle B ran straight along the open floor of the valley, and the fugitive soon became aware that he was followed. One hurried backward glance told him who it was—there could be no mistaking the horse—and he cursed himself for an oversight.

  “Why’n hell didn’t I turn the hoss loose, or shoot it?”

  He knew why, he had had only one thought—to get away. The accusing dark eyes in the flower-like face rose before him now, and he strove to find excuses. It was an accident—he could not have foreseen that she would stepin front of the puncher. But though such a plea might salve his own conscience he knew it would carry no weight in Windy. In a land where men were hanged for even attempting to steal a beast, this thing he had done would be dealt with in only one way; a rope and the nearest tree would be his portion if he were taken. For he had threatened to kill the girl. Damn it, Sim had been right; he had tripped over a skirt, and the crash of the fall had shattered his nerve. He, the last of the Burdettes, was fleeing fo
r his life from one man.

  One man! Why not stay and shoot it out? He stole a look rearward. The black horse was nearer now—noticeably nearer—and further back along the trail was a bigger smother of dust in which dark spots moved swiftly. Burdette knew what this signified, and snarled an oath.

  “Hell’s fire! If I down Green they’ll get me,” he muttered, and savagely spurred and quirted the racing beast between his knees to a greater burst of speed. For a moment or two the animal pluckily responded, but could not keep it up. Foot by foot the black was drawing closer and, notwithstanding the intense heat, a clammy wetness bedewed Burdette’s brow. His horse was nearly exhausted, while that of his pursuer appeared to be running easily, as fresh as when it started. Was this to be the end? Tough as was his nature, he could not repress a shudder. He was still young, and life could be sweet. In another country, under a new name…. But first he must deal with the relentless devil behind.

  Desperately his brain worked on the problem. A turn of the head told him that Green was now perilously near—sufficiently so to shoot him down if he wished, while the posse was still some distance away. But the expected shot did not come. Into the hunted man’s eyes crept a gleam of hope. Furtively he got out his gun and reloaded the three empty chambers, shivering a little as he recalled the reason for his having to do so. Hell! It was her own fault, he told himself savagely. Holding the weapon in front of his body, he waited, conscious that he would soon be overtaken. What would Green do? Shoot it out, giving him an even break? yes, that was the sort of fool he was. His thin lips twisted in a scornful grimace.

  The drumming beat of the oncoming black was louder now, and his own mount was visibly tiring. A bare twenty yards separated them. King’s haggard, dust-grimed features hardened. They were nearing the point where the trail skirted the broken, wooded country around the base of Battle Butte, and if he could contrive to cripple the black or his rider he would have time to disappear before the posse came up. There were places …

  Swiftly he slewed round in his saddle, fired twice, and stooped low over the neck of his pony to escape an answering bullet. None came; only the hammering hoofs grew more distinct, ringing like a death-knell in his ears. Again he flung two shots behind him, but travelling at such a pace it was impossible to aim with accuracy. He saw Green’s hat fly from his head and cursed in bitter disappointment; an inch or two lower…. In a sudden spate of despairing ferocity King used his bloodied spurs cruelly. This savage act proved his undoing; his pony, already dying on its legs, lunged blindly, put a foot in a hollow and pitched forward. Burdette was a fine rider, but, caught unawares in the act of turning to fire one more chance shot, could not save himself, and was thrown headlong. In an instant the black thunderbolt was upon them; it missed the struggling pony but caught the man. Sudden, wrenching impotently at his reins, had a brief glimpse of a fear-riven face, heard a shriek of agony, and then—silence.

  The posse scampered up to find the C P foreman looking down upon the huddled, broken body of King Burdette. The pony had scrambled to its feet again and now stood head down, with heaving sides and every limb trembling.

  “So yu got him?” one of the men said.

  Sudden shook his head. “My hoss trampled him—broke his back, I reckon. I couldn’t stop him in time.”

  “Well, it don’t matter so long as he’s cashed,” another said callously. “We heard shootin’.”

  The puncher explained, and the man’s eyes widened. “Why the blazes didn’t yu cut down on the coyote?” he wanted to know.

  “I hadn’t figured it thataway,” was the grave reply.

  A discussion arose as to the disposal of the body. “I’m for takin’ him in to town,” Weldon said. “He was a big man hereabout—once.”

  “This’ll be bad news for Slippery,” someone remarked. “How comes he ain’t here?”

  “Said suthin’ about ridin’ to his ranch this afternoon.”

  For the marshal, listening in his office to the shooting, had purposely made a belated appearance at “The Plaza,” arriving after the posse had departed.

  “I reckon Sam’ll want to see the last of his boss,” Weldon said grimly, little dreaming how near he was to the literal truth.

  So it was decided. King Burdette made his last journey to Windy slung over the back of his pony, and Sudden, pacing behind the gruesome burden, remembered that he had brought young Purdie home in just the same fashion. And King had bushwhacked Purdie! His mind reverted to “The Plaza,” and a gust of anger moved him.

  “He died too easy,” came the bitter reflection.

  Chapter XXVI

  THAT evening, behind the bolted door of his quarters, the marshal and his deputy had a lengthy conversation. The death of King Burdette was not all that Slype had hoped for.

  “That cursed cowpunch is still blockin’ the trail; we gotta git rid o’ him,” he said. “I guess it’s up to yu, Riley.”

  “Yu can guess again,” Riley replied unhesitatingly. “I pass. That fella’s too damn lucky, an’ likewise, too spry with his guns.”

  “Scared, huh?” his chief sneered.

  “Shore I am,” the other admitted, adding bluntly, “An’ so are yu.”

  Slype scowled, but did not deny the imputation. “We’ll have to find some way,” he said, and sat thinking. Presently he looked up. “Reckon I got it. How about this?”

  The deputy smiled crookedly when he had heard the scheme. “She’s a great notion,” he agreed. “Won’t nobody be able to heave rocks at yu neither. Yu certainly have got a headpiece, Slippery.”

  “I figure it will work—for us,” the marshal said. “If it does, the game’s our’n. Cal’s back an’ we can make him come clean when we want.”

  “Yu ain’t forgettin’ Purdie?”

  Slype snapped his fingers. “Without Green he’ll be easy,” he replied. “Git a-movin’.”

  “The Plaza” was closed. Because of that, and the exciting events of the day, “The Lucky Chance” and smaller drinking-places were crowded. From one to another of these the marshal and his deputy severally gravitated, mixing with group after group of the customers and joining in the conversation. Naturally there was only one topic—the day’s doings—and the opinions of Slype and his assistant were singularly alike. Burdette was dead, and there was no harm in hanging a halo on him. The marshal did not state it in that way, but he voiced a doubt as to whether the Circle B boss was quite so blameworthy as appeared. He put forward a somewhat altered explanation of the kidnapping .Burdette believed he had a legitimate claim against the C

  P and was holding the girl to enforce it in order to avoid bloodshed—a laudable object.

  “Bit high-handed o’ King, I’m willin’ to say,” Slype admitted, in the tone of one anxious to be fair to both sides, “but that don’t justify Purdie wipin’ out the Circle B like he done.”

  The slaying of Lu Lavigne was an obvious accident for which, according to the marshal, Green was really responsible. He had announced that he would shoot Burdette on sight, and naturally the menaced man, finding his enemy in “The Plaza,” had got the drop on him. When King, half demented at having killed the woman he worshipped Slype inwardly smirked when he used the word—rushed away, the puncher followed, and having the better horse, caught him.

  “An’ what happens?” the marshal asked, and proceeded to answer his own question: ”

  ‘Stead o’ shootin’ it out man to man as any fair-minded gent would, Green knocks him off his busted bronc an’ lets that black brute o’ his tromp King to death.”

  All of which, when backed up by liberal doses of free liquor, sounded plausible enough, especially to the turbulent faction of the community, to whom the spectacular lawlessness of the Black Burdettes had appealed. There was further talk of strangers who drifted in and tried to “run the town.” By midnight, such is the mercurial quality of public opinion, the late owner of the Circle B was being almost regretted and the man who had beaten him correspondingly condemned.

&nb
sp; The result of the marshal’s activities was evidenced early next morning when a freckled-faced lad rode up to the C P and in a shrill treble yelled, “Hello, the house.”

  Sudden, on his way to his employer, stopped short and surveyed the young visitor and his aged mount with a good-natured grin.

  “We ain’t takin’ on hands for the round-up yet, son,” he remarked.

  The boy squirmed in his saddle. “I warn’t …” And then, with a rush, “Slippery sent me up to git yu.”

  The foreman flung up his hands in mock alarm. “Don’t shoot; I’ll come quiet,” he promised. “Middlin’ young for a deppity, ain’t yu, Timmie?”

  “Aw, quit yore joshin’,” the boy expostulated, and pulled the brim of his battered hat as Purdie stepped from the house. “They’s holdin’ a inquiry on King an’ Mrs. Lavigne this mornin’; I ain’t grievin’ none ‘bout him, but” —there was a little break in the childish voice—“she was mighty kind to me.”

  “That’s all right, sonny, we’ll be along,” the rancher told him. “Fed yet?”

  “Shore seems a while ago, seh,” Timmie confessed.

  “Cut along an’ see the cook,” Purdie smiled. “Two breakfasts never did hurt a boy yet.”