Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940)

by Oliver Strange

  “You wanta help?” he inquired.

  “Betcha life,” the little man said eagerly. “What can I do?”

  “Fork a hoss an’ ride hell-bent for the Bar O. Tell Owen what’s happened an’ say for him to fetch along as many of his boys as possible, on the run. Sabe?”

  “Shore,” Sloppy replied. “Sent to Pinetown yet?”

  “That can wait; I’ve a notion Jake’s plannin’ to save us the trouble. Git agoin’, an’ leave kind o’ casual-like, in the opposite direction.” This precaution taken, Nippert returned to the saloon, where a few of his intimates awaited him.

  “If he’s that notorious outlaw ” Morley began.

  “He wouldn’t be the first to have a wrong label pinned on him,” Nippert cut in.

  “Anyways, I’m holdin’ him till we know more. We must have a couple o’ men on that door.”

  “You think he’ll try to get out?” the banker queried.

  “No, but others may try to git in; Jake ain’t finished yet —he’s sent for Sark.” Their faces lengthened. “That’s bad,” Rapper admitted. “The Dumbbell would more than tip the balance.”

  “Yeah, but Sloppy’s on his way to bring the Bar O,” Nippert informed. “Trouble is, they’ve further to come. Now, I want you to get hold o’ the decent fellas an’ convince ‘em that our proper play is to hand over the marshal—if he’s guilty—to Pinetown; we don’t hanker for any messy business here.” Meanwhile, Mullins and his visitor were sitting in the kitchen at the back of his eating-house, discussing a bottle and the situation.

  “We oughta rushed ‘em,” Javert grumbled.

  “Yeah, you an’ me would’ve bin the first to stop rushin’; that marshal swine’d take care o’ that,” Jake countered acridly. “I’ve seen him shoot.”

  “The liquor-peddler don’t exactly undervalue hisself.”

  “No, it’s ‘bout time his comb was cut, an’ I’ve sent for the man who can do it. When Jesse Sark an’ his riders git here we’ll be able to talk down to Mister Nippert.” Javert’s evil eyes gleamed. “I hope we’ll be able to do more than just talk,” he said viciously. “Why not git busy afore he comes?”

  “D’you figure I’m dumb?” Mullins asked. “Come an’ see for yoreself.” At the eastern end of the street they entered the Red Light’s rival, if a low drinking and gambling den could be so termed.

  Known as “Dirty Dick’s” after its shaggy-haired and bearded owner, it was frequented only by the tag-rag of the town. The place was full, and Jake chuckled as he elbowed a path through the throng.

  “Nippert ain’t so popular as he fancies—half o’ the guys here are customers o’ his,” he whispered.

  A bleary-eyed member of the company, balanced precariously on a table, was endeavouring to make himself heard above the hubbub.

  “I shay it’s a blot on Welcome,” he bellowed thickly. “Here we got a col’-blooded murd’rer—admits it, don’ he?—an’ we do nothin’. He’s our meat, we catched him, an’ oughta string him up.” A chorus of savage oaths, and cries of “That’s the ticket,” and “You said it, boy,” greeted the suggestion. The speaker swung his hat and shouted, “Let’s go.” Jake grabbed the nearest stool and stood on it. “Hold on,” he said harshly. The surge towards the door ceased.

  “You all know I wouldn’t willin’ly give that rat another minute to live, but I’m tellin’ you to wait.

  I’ve sent for Sark an’ his boys—they should be here soon. Nippert ain’t a fool all the time, an’ he’ll give in when he’s outnumbered three to one.” The man who had asked the question turned to the others. “Jake’s right; there’s no sense in gittin’ shot up unnecessary.”

  Chapter VI

  SLOPPY was cudgelling his brains for new words—expletives which would adequately describe the state of one reduced to desperation and despair. He had got away from Welcome unobserved, travelling west before swinging round to make for his real destination. For a time all went well and then Fortune played a scurvy trick. Descending the slippery side of a gorge his horse stumbled and went to its knees; when it rose he saw that the poor beast was too badly lamed to carry him. The Bar O was more than six long up and down miles distant, and as he realized what the accident might mean, the little man lifted up his voice and told the Fates just exactly what he thought of them, and it was plenty.

  There being nothing else for it, he walked—and talked—leading his mount, and pausing on the top of every rise in the hope of seeing or being seen by a Bar O rider. As he did this for about the twentieth time, his anger broke out afresh.

  “O’ course, they’s all workin’ elsewhere—they would be,” he raged. “If I was here to rustle cattle, I’d ‘a’ bin spotted right off.” He toiled on over the rough ground and the unwonted exertion soon began to tell. The vertical rays of the sun blazed down, sore and swollen feet made every step painful, and since—for such a short journey—he had neglected to bring a canteen, thirst was soon added to the other discomforts.

  Doggedly lie stumbled on. His legs became lead, requiring an effort to drag one after the other, but he dared not stop, knowing that he would never start again. Staggering blindly forward he tripped over a rock his weary eyes failed to note, and went sprawling. He was struggling to stand up when a voice said:

  “What th’ devil ?” Sloppy looked round, his lips moved, but no sound came from them.

  John Owen—for he it was—slipped from his saddle, unslung his water-bottle, and held it to the sufferer’s mouth. An eager swallow or two and Sloppy found his voice, hoarse but intelligible.

  “Was a-comin’ for you—my bronc went lame. We gotta hurry, it’s life or death. Git yore outfit.” The Bar O owner was a man of action. Though he did not know what it was all about, he realized that the messenger had not endured the agonies of that long tramp without good reason.

  Stepping into his saddle, he said:

  “Get up behind me—we can talk as we ride. Leave yore hoss, the boys will gather him in later.” The little man obeyed, and sighed with relief when his aching extremities were no longer on the ground. They had something less than two miles to travel and they did it at speed, but by the time they reached the ranch, Owen was in possession of the main facts.

  “Ned’s afeard that when them Dumbbell outcasts show up there’ll be a necktie party. It’ll be my fault if we’re too late,” Sloppy finished miserably.

  “Skittles! you couldn’t help yore hoss playin’ out on you,” Owen consoled. “Might happen to anybody.” As soon as they sighted the ranch, he drew out his rifle and fired three shots at equally-spaced intervals.

  “That’ll bring in most of ‘em,” he said. “They ain’t far afield to-day.”

  “Don’t I know it,” was the feeling reply.

  They found the place deserted, save for the Chinese cook —Owen was a bachelor. Sloppy hobbled to the bench by the door, sat down, and emptied the glass his host hastened to bring.

  “Gosh ! I needed that one,” he said, but refused a second. “I’ve bin fightin’ shy o’ liquor lately, but I reckon a fella who can’t take one an’ leave it at that ain’t o’ much account.”

  “Shorely,” the rancher agreed, and then, “You think a lot o’ the marshal, don’t you?”

  “He’s done a deal for me.”

  “An’ you say he admitted the killin’?”

  “yeah, but he claims it was an accident.”

  “He didn’t deny bein’ this outlaw—Sudden?”

  “No, but I’ll bet there’s an explanation for that too,” the little man said stoutly. “I’d stake my life on Jim bein’ straight.” The scamper of galloping ponies cut short the conversation, and Reddy, with four others, raced in and pulled up, sending the dust and gravel flying.

  “What’s doin’, Boss?” the carroty one inquired, and noticing the visitor,” ‘Lo, Sloppy, how’s the marshal?”

  “Still alive—I’m hopin’.” Reddy’s eyebrows lifted. “How come?” he asked.

  “No time for chatter,” h
is employer cut in. “You’ll need fresh hosses, an’ bring yore rifles.

  We’re for town—you can feed there.”

  “Shore, at the Widow’s—that’s worth ridin’ twenty-five mile for any day,” Reddy cried, and swinging his mount round, darted for the corral.

  But precious time was lost waiting for more of the men to put in an appearance, and when at length a start was made, Sloppy was in a fever of impatience; he knew that the Sark contingent must have reached Welcome before he arrived at the Bar O. If Nippert could hold them off … He glanced hopefully at these riders he had come to fetch, familiar, all of them, yet he seemed to be seeing them from a new angle. Instead of a band of reckless young devils, who played as they worked—hard, and were ready for any prank when they came to town, he saw men with set faces which told that their task would be done—at any cost.

  Sloppy’s fears were only too well-founded; little more than two hours after he had left Welcome, Sark and his outfit rode in, and instead of pulling up, as usual, at the Red Light, went on to Dirty Dick’s. Here their leader left them, and repaired to Jake’s abode.

  “Howdy, Sark, this is Mister Javert, from Pinetown; Dutch will have told you ‘bout him,”

  Mullins greeted.

  The rancher acknowledged the introduction with a curt nod, sat down, and poured himself a drink, his gaze on the swollen, battered features of his host.

  “That fella can certainly use his fists,” he remarked. “If I’d met you anywhere else I wouldn’t ‘a’ knowed you.”

  “He had all the breaks, an’ at that I damn’ near got him,” Jake retorted savagely. “This afternoon I’m goin’ to—” Dutch burst unceremoniously into the room. “I got news,” he cried.

  “Ned disarmed the marshal when he locked him up, an’ took his belt into the Red Light.”

  “How very thoughtless of him—might just as well have signed his death-warrant,” Sark murmured.

  “You said it,” Jake gritted. “What’s yore strength, Sark?”

  “Twelve, besides myself.”

  “Thirteen is an unlucky number,” commented Javert, who had all a gambler’s superstition.

  “It will be—for the marshal,” was the sinister answer. “Let’s move.” Dirty Dick’s was a human beehive, and the motley crowd, reinforced by the Dumbbell riders, fed Sark’s vanity with a cheer. From his saddle, the rancher addressed them:

  “Well, friends, I’m told you want me to argue with Nippert.”

  “Argue nawthin’,” came a harsh voice. “We aim to take an’ string that gunman. Ain’t that so, fellas?” Affirmative yells answered the question, and Sark, with a lift of his shoulders as one giving in to the popular desire, led the way down the street. His cowboys closed in behind him, and the mob followed.

  Outside the calaboose, the saloon-keeper, with less than a dozen men, stood on guard. He had witnessed the arrival of the Dumbbell party, heard the riotous clamour at Dirty Dick’s, and knew that an attempt would be made to deprive him of the prisoner.

  “Pity you took away Jim’s guns,” Gowdy said. “If it comes to a battle, he’d be useful.”

  “I’ve got his belt on under my coat,” Nippert replied. “If things git that far, I’ll agree to fetch Jim out an’ slip it to him. Here they come.” Sark and his outfit, rifles across their knees, had pulled up about ten paces away, and the others spread out in a half-circle behind them, glaring with avid eyes at the prison which held their prey. A menacing silence prevailed until Nippert spoke:

  “Well, Sark, what’s yore errand?”

  “We want the criminal yo’re plannin’ to set free.”

  “That’s not true. I’m handin’ the marshal over to Pinetown; it’s their job to deal with him.”

  “We ain’t trustin’ you. Fetch him out, or take the consequences.” The saloon-keeper looked at the row of threatening rifles, one volley from which might well wipe out himself and his friends. It would be hopeless. He glanced up the street, but there was no sign of the Bar O. He must make a last desperate bid for time.

  “You win, Sark,” he said. “I’ll git him.”

  “No,” Jake snapped. “Throw me the key.”

  “I’ll see you in hell first.”

  “Then you’ll be waitin’ for me,” the other jeered, and drew his gun. “Out with it, or…”

  The big man was still hesitating when a voice from inside the calaboose said calmly, “Better let him have it, or-timer; no sense in a ruckus which can on’y end one way.” With a curse of disgust, Nippert flung the key on the ground. “An’ that’s the man you claim is a bloodthirsty murderer,” he cried passionately.

  “That kind o’ talk won’t buy you anythin’,” Jake retorted.

  He unlocked the door and stood back, revolver in hand. A moment of silence and the prisoner stepped out into the sunlight to be welcomed by a storm of execration. He heard it with contemptuous indifference; if he had his guns …

  “Git agoin’,” Jake ordered.

  The marshal looked at the men who had tried to save him. “I’m thankin’ yu,” he said, and head up, staring stolidly before him, moved forward.

  Some of these men had praised him when he thrashed Mullins; they would condemn him with the same enthusiasm when he dangled lifeless from a tree. Once he turned his head and saw that his few friends were tramping along with the others. He spoke his thought:

  “They can’t do a thing.”

  “You bet they can’t, ‘cept go with you for comp’ny,” a cowboy beside him agreed. “We got ropes to spare.” Sudden did not reply. The top of a tall cottonwood was now in sight, and the imminence of death was upon him. He knew that to be hauled off the ground and left hanging until the tightening noose checked the breath, must, to a healthy man, mean many minutes of agony. He dismissed the thought with a shrug.

  The tree was reached, and the victim thrust under a stout outflung branch over which the man who had jeered at him on the journey proceeded to throw one end of his lariat. He then adjusted the loop and stood back, surveying his work. “All set,” he announced.

  At these words the spectators closed in, eager to feed their animal appetite with every detail of the drama.

  To the condemned man it all seemed unreal. Above his head, birds were chirping, and the sunlight, filtering through the foliage, threw dancing shadows on the ground. The world appeared, in truth, a fair place, and he was about to leave it—shamefully. Then into his consciousness came something very real indeed—Javert’s poisonous features, alight with triumph, within a foot of his own.

  “So, Mister Sudden, our game is finished, an’ I take the pot,” he hissed. “I promised myself to get you an’ that coyote cub, Masters ” He got no further, having—in his eagerness to vent his spleen—overlooked the fact that the man he taunted was unbound. With all the fury of one who has nothing to lose, Sudden’s right fist came up and smashed into the leering face like a battering-ram, and Javert went down as though he had encountered a cyclone. Mouthing mad blasphemies, he scrambled to his feet and clawed at his gun, but Jake clutched his wrist.

  “Don’t be a fool ! ” he cried. “Can’t you wait a few minutes? That’s what he was playin’ for—an easy death.” The stricken man spat out a tooth and wiped the blood from his gashed lips.

  “I’ll make it easy for him,” he snarled. “Listen, you with the rope: when he’s half-choked, lower him to the ground again so’s he can fill his lungs, an’ keep on doin’ it; he shall die ten times for that blow.” This diabolical suggestion brought an angry protest from the saloon-keeper, and some of the more sober in the crowd supported him.

  “We’re here to see justice done, Sark,” one of them said. “But we ain’t Injuns, an’ won’t stand for torture.”

  “An’ I don’t reckon that Pinetown has the say-so in these proceedin’s neither,” another added, a sentiment which brought a still blacker look to Javert’s damaged countenance, but was promptly taken up and repeated.

  More joined in, and the argument as to wh
ether a man should die slowly or quickly became general.

  Chapter VII

  SHORTLY after the band of self-appointed executioners had departed on its grisly errand, a solitary horseman loped into Welcome. Young, attired in range-rig, with a good-humoured, not unpleasing face, there was nothing remarkable about him save his pallor, unusual in a land of sunburnt skins. At Gowdy’s store he dismounted, entered, and asked for “smokin’.”

  “This is the most lonesome place I’ve struck,” he remarked. “Yu ain’t the on’y inhabitant, are yu?”

  “All the men are gone to the lynchin’, I s’pose,” Lucy told him, with a feminine shudder.

  “Beasts, I call them.” The visitor stared at her. “Yu don’t say. Who they string-in’ up, an’ why for?”

  “Our new marshal,” she said. “They say he shot a man.”

  “Well, a marshal has to do that—times. I ain’t never seen a hangin’. Where’s it takin’ place?”

  “On the road to the west—there’s no trees here.”

  “What had the dead man done?”

  “I don’t know—it happened a long ways off, before the marshal came here.” Her eyes filled. “You see, it was owin’ to me he got the job. If I hadn’t told him of the vacancy maybe …

  Oh, it’s too bad. I can see him now, ridin’ up to the Red Light on that great black horse.”

  “A black hoss?” the cowboy cried. “With a white face?”

  “Why, yes, do you ?”

  “Hell’s flames!” he swore, and darted for the street leaving his purchase and the dollar he had put down in payment lying on the counter.

  Amazement held her for a moment, then she ran to the door, only to see a diminishing cloud of dust travelling west.

  “He must be awful anxious to see a hangin’,” she decided.

  In this she did the young man an injustice, for that was precisely what he fervently desired not to see. Therefore he plied spurs and quirt—though not cruelly—in the effort to drag a little more speed from his tired mount.