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

by Oliver Strange

  “They’ll flit now their hide-out is discovered,” he reasoned. “An’ mebbe try to take some stock along. If I can find the other entrance to that cave …”

  “Yi-i-i-i-i-i-ip!” The shrill call advented the approach of a racing pony which slid to a stop by the marshal’s side. The rider straightened up and disclosed the cheerful features of the Bar O foreman.

  “Found any rustlers?” was his greeting.

  “Yeah, like to see some? If yu got nothin’ to do …”

  “Me? I just come out for a ride.”

  “Is there a gully runnin’ at right angles to The Step and just south o’ the fall?” asked Sudden.

  “Yu mean Dark Canyon—one hell of a place. There’s no way out this end, an’ don’t I know it? Tried her for a short cut once; I was wrong.”

  “I expect yu didn’t look careful,” was all the sympathy he got.

  Reaching the place, they dismounted and crept through the thick brush which fringed the edges of the gully. There was no sign of life, save birds.

  “We’re outa luck,” he said. “Let’s try further along.” They pushed their way to another position some fifty yards distant, and were duly rewarded; in an open patch below stood a group of saddled ponies, two of which carried packs. Then, from behind a dark mass of undergrowth, men appeared, eight of them, mounted and set out.

  “Why, there’s Jake,” Reddy whispered excitedly.

  “Shore it is, an’ we gotta follow. Fetch the hosses.” For about a mile they kept pace with the riders, of whom they got only occasional glimpses. This brought them to a spot where the walls of the gully flattened out a little as it mounted towards the level of the surrounding country, and here was a grassy hollow, hedged in by thorn bushes, with a pool of water at one side. The entrance to this was closed with a crude gate of trimmed sapling trunks; inside the corral a score of cattle grazed peacefully.

  “What we goin’ to do?” Reddy asked, as they watched Mullins and his men ride up, and two of them jump down to remove the barrier.

  “Scare ‘em off,” Sudden replied. “When yu’ve fired, break ground quick an’ let ‘em have another, pronto; they’ll figure there’s a lot of us.” One after the other, they pulled trigger, and without waiting to see the result, ran a few yards right and left to repeat the process. The unexpected attack from unseen assailants caused something approaching a panic among the rustlers. The pair on foot dropped the pole they were lifting and jumped for their mounts; one of the riders cursed and grabbed his left arm; another reeled, but kept his seat in the saddle; a pack-animal squealed and kicked, dragging on its lead-rope. The fusillade from above continued and some of those below made an attempt to retaliate, firing at the smoke, but their leader soon saw the hopelessness of their position; they were just targets.

  “It’s no use, boys,” he shouted. “Leave the cows an’ git goin’.” He set the example by spurring his horse for the mouth of the gully, and the rest followed. The marshal watched them.

  “They’re headin’ north—for the hills,” he said.

  “One ain’t,” Reddy corrected, as a rider separated from the others and turned west. “Now what’s that mean?”

  “At a guess, I’d say Jake is visitin’ the Dumbbell.” They rode to the end of the gully, and turning in, arrived at the corral. The remains of a fire, a straight iron lying beside it, betrayed the purpose to which the place had been put. The steers were Bar O three-year-olds, and on four of them the brand had been clumsily changed to the Dumbbell. Reddy snorted with disgust.

  “Shore looks like yo’re right about Sark,” he said. “Jake ain’t the sort to be makin’ presents.” Having rounded up the cattle, they commenced the task of driving them to the Bar O.

  When, in due course, they drew rein at the ranch-house, Owen himself welcomed them with a whoop, inspected the recovered stock, frowned at the altered brands, and then dragged the two men indoors, eager to hear all about it. When Sudden told of the tunnel behind the Silver Mane, the eyes of both his listeners went wide.

  “I warn’t smart enough to remember that others might be usin’ the tunnel,” the marshal said ruefully, and related his capture and escape. “Then I met Reddy, an’ the rest was easy,” he finished.

  “You done noble,” Owen said warmly. “Wonder where they’ve gone?”

  “They’ll leave a trail.”

  “Not in the hill country they won’t,” the foreman stated.

  The marshal’s eyes twinkled. “One o’ them pack-hosses had a sack o’ meal across its rump,” he said. “I put a bullet into it.” The cattleman slapped his knee. “you think of everythin’, you durned ol’—methodis’,” he grinned.

  Chapter XIII

  WELCOME lay sweltering in the midday sun. The marshal, his deputy, and factotum, draped over the only three chairs in the office, were smoking and sweating in silent discomfort.

  “It’s a nice day to go for a ride,” Sudden remarked, after a while.

  “It’s a nicer day not to,” Dave contradicted.

  “Sloppy, wasn’t yu around when Amos Sark was bumped?” Sudden went on.

  The little man, who had been half-asleep, became swiftly awake. His expression was one almost of alarm, but he answered without hesitation.

  “Yeah, I was livin’ at Drywash.”

  “Yu know where it happened?”

  “The fella what—found him, pointed it out to me.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  “Why, it took place over a year ago; what yu expect to find?”

  “Oh, I’m curious.”

  “Curious is puttin’ it mild—yo’re a freak,” Dave rejoined. They passed a side trail which would have taken them to the Dumbbell ranch, and about a mile further on, Sloppy halted.

  “Here she is,” he said.

  In the bright sunlight it was difficult to conceive that there a man could be foully done to death, and yet the spot possessed the one necessary adjunct. The road, deep-rutted, was open, save for scattered trees, but on one side a solitary cluster of low bushes offered safe cover for a lurking assassin. Ten yards away was a young birch, and to this Sloppy pointed.

  “Amos was lyin’ there, on his face, arms spread; they figured he’d went over the hoss’s head,” he informed. “His money was missin’.”

  “So it might ‘a’ been robbery?”

  “Yeah,” Sloppy agreed, but his tone was not very convincing. “The track o’ the slug showed he was shot from behind.” The marshal dismounted and walked to the bushes. They were close-growing, but at the back was an opening where a man could stand and command a view of the road in both directions. With the barrel of a pistol he poked about in the rubble of lead leaves and coarse grass which obscured the roots of the shrubs. Presently he heard the unmistakable clink of metal against metal. The find proved to be a small, brass tobacco-box, dull and discoloured by exposure to the elements. It was empty, but on the lid inside, rudely scratched, were the letters E.K. Returning, he showed it to his companions.

  “Remember anyone with those initials?” he asked Sloppy, and got a shake of the head for answer. “Then it don’t help us any.”

  “Plenty people use this road,” Dave said. “One of ‘em could ‘a’ throwed it there.”

  “That’s so,” Sudden agreed, and slipped the box into a pocket. “Sloppy, d’yu know much about that law-sharp yu mentioned to me?”

  “Slimy? Not enough to hang him—more’s the pity.”

  “What’s he done to yu?”

  “Nothin’—I ain’t anythin’ to lose, so I’m safe from his kind.”

  “I’m beginnin’ to suspect yu don’t like the fella,” Sudden said. “Amos Sark trusted him.”

  “ Hated’ is a better word,” Sloppy retorted. “By all accounts, Amos could smell a skunk, two-legged or four.”

  “He let him make his will,” the marshal persisted.

  “I’m lettin’ this hoss carry me, but I ain’t trustin’ him,” the little man said, with a wry smile.

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p; Nippert examined the brass box and shook his head. “Funny findin’ it where you did, but it don’t prove a thing,” he said. “Yo’re a clever guy, Jim, but the shootin’ o’ Amos Sark is goin’ to be one too many for you.”

  “Dessay yo’re right,” Sudden rejoined. “I did hope them letters would give me a line.

  What sort of a burg is Drywash?”

  “A lot bigger’n Welcome, an’ as tough as a rawhide,” was the reply. “They got a sheriff there—Blick—but Jesse Sark owns him, like he would the marshal here if you hadn’t come along.

  You’ll on’y be wastin’ yore time there.”

  “I guess I’ll look the place over,” Sudden said carelessly.

  So, in the morning, he set out. Curiosity was the excuse he gave his friends, but the real incentive was the possibility of unearthing information about the murder, in which the discovery of the tobacco-box had stimulated his interest. Amos must have had friends and probably enemies, there.

  He had compassed about half the journey when, having crossed an arid area and entered the welcome shade of a small forest, he turned in his saddle just as a rider appeared on the other verge of the plain.

  Concealed in the undergrowth, he waited, but when the rider at length arrived, jogging steadily along, it was Sudden who got the surprise, for the traveller proved to be Jesse Sark.

  “What’s his errand in Drywash?” he asked himself. “Mebbe I can find out.” The leisurely pace enabled him to keep his quarry in sight without discovery, for the rancher rode with hunched shoulders, apparently deep in thought, and devoid of interest for what might be behind him. When they entered the town, it became more difficult, for though—as Nippert had said—it was a big place, it consisted of the inevitable one long street. Keeping in the rear of a loaded freight-wagon, Sudden contrived to trail his man to the Drywash Hotel. Here Sark dismounted and went in.

  The marshal waited a while, and then—having ascertained that the bar was empty—followed. He ordered a drink and invited the shirtsleeved dispenser of liquor to join him.

  Almost immediately a short, wizened, grey-haired man with a beak of a nose and lips so thin that they made a mere line on his face, bustled in and said sharply:

  “Is Sark here?”

  “Shore, Mister Lyman, in No. 7.”

  “Now, ain’t that too bad?” Sudden drawled, when the other had vanished up a stairway. “I reckon I’ll need a room tonight, an’ seven is my lucky number.”

  “He don’t off’n stay—just uses it for a business powwow, I guess,” the bar-tender said. “I’ll keep it for you.”

  “But I’m wantin’ that apartment straight away—I’ve been ridin’ since dawn, an’ I’m aimin’ to snatch a snooze afore I start in to set this burg alight,” was the peevish reply.

  “No. 6 is next door, an’ just as good a room. If I’m gamblin’ I like to begin with a loss.”

  “Somethin’ in that too,” Sudden allowed. “I’ll go up pronto. Shore I’ll take my spurs off—I ain’t no wild man from the woods.” With a broad grin, he went up the staircase and reached a corridor with numbered doors along one side. Stepping lightly as a cat, he located the one he was looking for and slipped noiselessly in. As he had hoped, the partition wall was of board, and with his ear pressed against it, much of the conversation in the next room was audible. Lyman was speaking, and his reedy voice was strident.

  “So you’ve got the Bar O suspecting you, eh? That’s not very clever.”

  “They can’t prove or do anythin’,” Sark replied. “I’m too strong for ‘em.”

  “Jake seems to have muddled matters,” the lawyer remarked. “A pity—it was a neat way of bleeding Owen.”

  “He was unlucky,” Sark excused. “That cursed marshal…” Lyman cut short the string of oaths. “Blame yourself. Why the devil didn’t you make a friend of the fellow instead of letting the Bar O get hold of him? These men all have their price. Now, I’ll have to find a way to deal with him. Your head is just an ornament, and poor at that.” To the surprise of the listener, Sark took the rating meekly. “I ain’t got yore brains, Seth, but he queered our plan to make Mullins marshal, an’ so.”

  “You have to show your hand by making an enemy of him?” the lawyer said testily. “One marshal is as good as another, if he’s taking your pay. How are you getting on with the girl?”

  “Oh, we’re good friends,” was the careless reply. “I don’t want to rush things.”

  “No, you tried that and failed, didn’t you? Don’t lie to me, Jesse; I know what happens in Welcome.”

  “I was lit up, but she’ll listen to reason.”

  “She’ll have to, but it was another stupid blunder. Let it be the last, or …” Silence ensued, and then Sark said, “By the way, Seth, I’ve bin thinkin’ that if yore office got burned out, or if anythin’ happened to you, them papers ”

  “Are in a safer place than my office,” Lyman interrupted.

  “And if I met with misfortune, my friend, it would be awkward—for one Jesse Sark.”

  “But, hell, you might drop dead in the street, an’ then ”

  “My troubles would be over and yours would begin,” was the grim retort. “Brought the cash?”

  “Yeah, an’ it takes a lot o’ findin’,” Sark grumbled. “With Jake an’ his men in the discard it’ll be harder.”

  “Don’t talk like a fool. They must go on worrying the Bar O, whittling down their herds, until Owen is willing to sell—at our price. I hear Mary Gray is doing well out of her eating-house; no chance of cutting in on her trade, I suppose?”

  “Not any, the marshal an’ his side-kick have made the town solid for her.”

  “She’s got courage, ability, and looks,” the lawyer said. “You’re going to be a lucky fellow, if you play your cards properly. If I were twenty years younger …”

  “Well?” The other laughed wheezily. “I’m not, so it doesn’t matter. Now, no hanging about here; get back to the Dumbbell.” This was evidently not in accordance with the rancher’s intentions. “Damn it, Seth, a chap must have some fun,” he protested. “Yo’re askin’ too much.”

  “I’m not asking anything,” Lyman rasped. “I’m giving orders.” Sudden heard the door slam, the sound of one pair of feet on the stairway, and then Sark’s hoarse, angry voice:

  “You blood-suckin’ leech. One o’ these days I’m goin’ to squeeze that shrivelled windpipe till the breath leaves yore rotten carcass.” Having hurled this valediction at a man who could not hear it, he too departed. The eavesdropper waited until he consisted the coast would be clear. He found the barman in conversation with a stocky, abnormally broad individual, whose sheriff’s star occupied a prominent position on his vest. His pig-like eyes, deep-sunk in a fat, pimply face, surveyed the stranger truculently. The latter’s badge was not in evidence.

  “Visitor, I guess,” he opened.

  “The same,” Sudden returned easily. “Sheriff. I see.”

  “Correct, an’ the name is Blick—mebbe you’ve heard o’ me?” the officer said pompously.

  “I’m new to these parts—just ridin’ through,” the marshal replied, and when the barman reminded him that he had booked a bed, added, “I like to play safe; sleepin’ on my saddle ain’t no treat for me.”

  “Cowpunch, huh?”

  “Yeah, but just now I’m takin’ a li’l vacation. Which is the best place in this township for a fella to amuse hisself?”

  “The Square Deal,” the sheriff replied. “Good liquor, pretty gals, an’ straight games—you’ll find ‘em all there.”

  “Your joint?”

  “Shore, but I ain’t boostin’ it on that account, eh, Tom?” This to the bar-tender, who shook his head and winked slyly to his other customer. “I’m a square man, an’ a square deal has allus bin my motto, which explains the name. Come an’ see for yoreself.” He emptied his glass, and without waiting for an answer, strutted out. Sudden’s sardonic eyes followed the stubby figure until it vanished behind the swingi
ng door, and then turned to encounter the grinning face of the barman.

  “He’s certainly square—to look at,” he commented.

  “An’ that’s as far as it goes,” the other said viciously. “Him an’ Slimy run this burg to suit theirselves an’ both of ‘em is bad right through. If you win at Blick’s, some yaller-haired hussy’ll take it from you, an’ if she don’t, there’ll be strong-arm gents waitin’ outside.” The marshal opened his wide shoulders. “Them last will have an interestin’ time.”

  “Forget it,” Tom told him. “Hocussed liquor makes their job easy.” 114

  “That’s different. I’m obliged to yu, friend.” Having put his horse in the hotel stable, and carried his saddle and rifle up to his room, he went in search of a meal. He found one, plentiful enough but poor as regards quality and cooking.

  “Mrs. Gray is spoilin’ me,” he reflected as he came out. “She’d make a fortune here.”

  Drywash was a busy place, for despite the heat, there was a certain amount of bustle and activity.

  Pedestrians of both sexes hurried or sauntered along the sidewalks, and outside the drinking dives men lounged, chatting and smoking. One of these spoke as the marshal swung past.

  “Another sucker for Blick an’ his like to trim,” he laughed.

  Further along the street, the object of their interest abruptly slid behind the projecting corner of a store as a familiar form stepped out; it was Galt. With his hat pulled well over his eyes, Sudden followed until the rustler disappeared into a building, on the door of which was the name, “S. Lyman.” The marshal came away, and proceeded to try out a plan he had conceived.

  Entering a saloon, he ordered a drink, and reaching out the brass box—which now contained tobacco—began to construct a cigarette. None of the other customers evinced any interest, and leaving, he repeated the process at a number of places, but without meeting any success.