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

by Oliver Strange

  “Don’t shoot, Dave.” Jake’s head turned, and involuntarily the tension of his grip relaxed.

  In a flash, Sudden wrenched his right arm free and struck for the angle of the chin. Though travelling but a few inches, it was a crippling blow, driven home with every ounce of strength left in the striker’s body. The bandit’s eyes dulled, his arms dropped limply as he reeled drunkenly away to sprawl, face down, in the dust. The impact sent Sudden tottering to the cliff-side, where he leant, panting, and, for the moment, powerless.

  “I’m beat—I give in,” the prostrate man grunted hoarsely.

  Laboriously he got to his knees, and then, with amazing speed, sprang up and turned, the marshal’s rifle—on which he had chanced to fall—in his grasp. He pulled the trigger, but Sudden dropped swiftly, one hand sweeping to his hip; the gun barked once, Jake spun round, a foot swung over nothing, and—silence.

  Sudden lurched to the welcome shade of a bush and sat down, greedily gulping air into his depleted lungs.

  “Never knowed breathin’ was such a pleasure,” he told the world. “I feel like I’d been in the path of a stampede.” There Dave and the girl found him when they arrived, having witnessed the final scene of the tragedy.

  “Saw yu scrappin’ an’ we certainly hurried,” the young man explained, and with an apologetic look at the lady, “Guess I swore some.”

  “I thought it was a prayer,” Mary smiled.

  “Mebbe it was—kind of,” Masters agreed with relief.

  “Shore seemed yu’d take the big jump together, Jim.” The marshal’s eyes creased. “Yu saved me, Dave.”

  “But I warn’t here.”

  “He thought yu were—I played trick for trick,” Sudden replied, and told of his ruse. “It was him or me, but I’m sorry he went that way. What happened to yu?” His face hardened as he heard. “Men can die too easy,” he said. “Well, that’s one rogue we’re rid of, but there’s a bigger—who used him—to deal with.”

  Chapter XXI

  THE sun was dipping westwards when they again neared the rustlers’ retreat. The crackle of rifle-fire had ceased, but the acrid odour of burnt powder still permeated the air. They waited for a while, listening.

  “Reckon the fight is finished, but we gotta make shore who’s on top afore we go surgin’ in—we might be too welcome,” the marshal decided. “I’ll scout around.” It did not take him long to reach the edge of the clearing, and he saw at once that the outlaws had been defeated; the men passing in and out of the bullet-scarred building belonged to the attacking force.

  “Hi, Reddy,” he called.

  The Bar O foreman’s grimed, sweat-streaked features lit up when he saw who had hailed him. “Jim, yo’re a sight for sore eyes,” he cried. “yu missed all the fun.” Sudden’s smile was satiric. “Yeah,” he replied. “Where’s Jesse Sark?”

  “We found him upstairs. Someone had bent a six-gun over his cranium, but he’s come alive agin, an’ is he mad? He claims Mullins did it, an’ carried off Mrs. Gray. Ned sez it’s so, an’ that yu an’ Dave went after ‘em.”

  “We brought her back.”

  “An’ Jake?”

  “He had a bed fall—three hundred feet, mebbe, on to rocks,” was how the marshal put it.

  “Well, that saves soilin’ a rope,” the foreman said harshly.

  They passed through the battered doorway into the living-room to be greeted with a rousing cheer, and a storm of questions which both men refused to answer.

  Downstairs the gathering had grown strangely quiet. Austere-faced men whispered to one another, their attention centred on the marshal, Nippert, and John Owen, who were conversing together. On a chair, his head clumsily bandaged, Sark sat, sullenly watching the proceedings, and at the other end of the room was a group of five men, their hands bound. Dave joined the three leaders, who asked about Mrs. Gray.

  “She’s asleep,” he informed, and jerked a thumb at the prisoners. “What yu goin’ to do with ‘em?”

  “They swing,” Owen said shortly.

  “One of ‘em don’t,” Dave said. “He saved my life.”

  “He’s a cattle-thief an’ was fightin’ agin us,” the rancher persisted.

  “If it hadn’t been for him, yu wouldn’t be here,” Dave retorted.

  The marshal settled the matter by loosing the rustler’s wrists. “This fella goes free, John.

  He was done with Mullins before the fandango started, an’ on’y returned here to oblige me.”

  Before Owen could raise any further objection a diversion occurred. Sark, rising shakily to his feet, demanded to be told who was in charge.

  “Speak yore piece—we’re all listenin’,” Nippert replied. “I wanta know why some of my men have been shot, an’ the rest driven off?”

  “S’pose yu tell us how yu an’ yore outfit come to be here a-tall,” Sudden suggested drily.

  Sark reached out the note he had received from Mullins. “There’s the answer,” he cried.

  “When I got that, I raised the coin an’ come hot-foot to release her from the scoundrel. I fetched my men in case he tried any tricks.” Sudden read the document and passed it to his companions.

  “Where’s the money?”

  “I paid it over, an’ if you mutton-heads hadn’t butted in, she’d ‘a’ bin at the Dumbbell hours back, where I’m takin’ her soon as she’s fit to go.”

  “An’ willin’,” the marshal added. “She’s safe now, an’ in the meantime, we’re goin’ to try yu, Sark. Better sit down, it may take time.”

  “Try me?” the cattleman repeated. “On what charge? I’ve explained my presence here, an’ I didn’t fire a shot at you. There’s no law..”

  “We’re makin’ one. Nippert, yu’ll act as judge; select yore jury. Better take his gun.” Right and left the accused man looked and saw none but stern faces. Primitive as the procedure was, it had a gravity which brought inward qualms. He fortified himself with the reflection that they could know nothing. His mind travelled to the Dumbbell, and the body in the empty room; he should have hidden it. If that damned nigger went poking about … The voice of the judge recalled him.

  “Well, marshal, we’re ready if you are.” Amid complete silence, Sudden stepped forward and pointed to the accused. “This man calls hisself Jesse Sark,” he began. “His real name is Ezra Kent. Sark died in the penitentiary at Bentley before his uncle was killed. I have a writing from the Warden to prove it.” The calm statement produced ejaculations of incredulity from the hearers, and every eye was on the lolling, disdainful figure in the chair. Though the blow was a severe one, Sark had, since he learned of the marshaI’s visit to Bentley, been more or less expecting it, and he had his answer ready. He forced a laugh.

  “So that’s why you went?”

  “How did yu know I’d gone a-tall?”

  “Oh, dicky-birds tell tales.”

  “Yeah, dirty dicky-birds,” Sudden retorted. Some of the Welcomers sniggered. “An’ yu sent Squint to close my mouth—for keeps?”

  “Never heard o’ the gent,” Sark replied.

  “Well, it don’t matter. Let’s get back to the trail we were followin’.”

  “Suits me,” the prisoner agreed. He was beginning to feel more comfortable. “I’ll tell you somethin’ you couldn’t ‘a’ discovered at Bentley because they don’t know it. Kent robbed the bank where I was employed, an’ bein’ a friend o’ his, I was—unjustly—roped in as an accomplice.

  We were sentenced to the same term, an’. sent to the pen together. On the way, we arranged to swap identities—it was mainly a prank, to put one over on the Warden, but we had a dim idea it might help when we got out. It worked; the prison people were a mite careless, mebbe, but we were pretty much the same age, build, an’ not unlike in appearance. So when Kent died he was buried as me, which was a complication we hadn’t figured on. That makes yore writin’ worth nothin’ a-tall.” The marshal looked at the impostor almost with respect —the fellow was cleverer than he had supposed. H
e did not for a moment credit the story, but it sounded plausible enough.

  “Is there anyone who can prove what yu say?” Beneath his breath, Sark cursed himself; the man who could have supported his fabrication was lying stiff and stark at the Dumbbell. He made a negative gesture.

  “When I come out I resumed my own name, an’ naturally, I didn’t talk none,” he replied.

  “I don’t know?”

  “There’s one here can show he’s tellin’ a pack o’ lies,” a voice interrupted, and Sloppy slouched from the wall. “What d’yu know about this?” Sudden asked.

  “That he ain’t the fella he’s purtendin’ to be.” The man in the chair regarded this new witness with derision. “He musta found Jake’s private store—he’s drunk,” he said.

  “I ain’t neither,” Sloppy rejoined. “An’ even if I was, I’d reckernize my own son.” He gazed around, enjoying the sensation his statement had evoked, and then, “Guess all o’ you think I’m soused, but yo’re wrong.” He shot a shaft at the accused. “What was yore father’s first name?”

  The question jolted Sark sadly; he felt the ground slipping again from beneath his feet. He could not answer.

  “How was yore mother called before she married?” The badgered man pulled himself together; he must find some excuse. “I can’t remember these details—I had a bad illness

  “Liar,” Sloppy burst in scornfully. “Yo’re just a pore fraud; you did oughta studied up the Sark family a bit more. Well, folks, I’m Ray Sark, on’y brother to Amos, an’ father o’ Jesse; I’m tellin’ you that tinhorn there is no son o’ mine.” Nippert stilled the hubbub by rapping on the table with the butt of his gun, and turned a severe eye on the witness.

  “If you’ve knowed all along this warn’t Jesse Sark, why ain’t you spoke afore?”

  “I was scairt, Ned,” the little man admitted. “You see, it was me found Amos first of all that mornin’. I’d recent come to Drywash, an’ was on my way to try an’ patch things up atween us. I can see him now lyin’ there at the side o’ the trail. He was hurt mortal, but just before he passed out, he opens his eyes, an’ sez, `So it was you? Well, it won’t put nothin’ in yore pocket, nor that time-servin’ pup who blotted the name o’ Sark; it all goes to Mary.’ Thatsuited me, but I’m in a jam; if it gits knowed I was on the spot, folks’ll shore figure—like Amos—that I shot him on the chance o’ gittin’ somethin’. So I starts his hoss for the ranch, an’ lit out. When I learns o’ the will givin’ the Dumbbell to my son, I’m scairt wuss’n ever, it bein’ a bigger reason for my committin’ the crime. Jesse havin’ died—which I don’t know then—an’ this fella takin’ his place, don’t clear me o’ that suspicion. So I took the coward’s course, let my whiskers grow, an’ drifted to Welcome—where I was a stranger, hopin’ somethin’ would turn up. It did—Jim come.” This halting recital elicited a laugh of ridicule from Sark. “He ain’t drunk, he’s mad,” he said. “Likely, ain’t it? A fine, well-stocked range is left to his boy an’ he lets another man grab it. He claims to be Ray Sark, my father; I say he is not. Looks to me as if he wiped out Amos an’ is tryin’ to pin the job on me.” Silence followed the accusation and Sloppy got some doubtful looks. Then it was seen that the marshal was holding a small brass box on the palm of his hand.

  “I found this on the spot where Amos Sark was killed,” he said to the prisoner. “Do you recognize it?”

  “I remember you showed it to me.”

  “An’ yu wanted to buy it. Why?”

  “Just curiosity,” the other shrugged.

  “To find out if the initials E. K. were scratched inside the lid, huh? Well, they are.” Sark’s face remained expressionless. “Means nothin’ to me,” he said, and turned sharply on Sloppy.

  “Got anyone to say you are Ray Sark?” The little man was taken aback. “Mebbe if I peeled this hair off’n my face somebody in Drywash would remember me,” he said doubtfully. “But I warn’t there long.”

  “How comes it Mary Gray don’t remember, her uncle?” Sloppy grinned. “Because she ain’t seen him, as such, since she was a tiny toddler, which you’d ‘a’ knowed if you were the fella you claim to be.”

  “I did know, I was just testin’ you,” Sark returned coolly. If he could only gain a respite, reach the Dumbbell, perform a certain task, find and destroy the lawyer’s papers… . He resolved on a bold stroke. Pointing to Sloppy, he went on, “You heard him. Tells you he’s Ray Sark, but can’t prove it. Tells you I’m not Jesse Sark, but if you give me time, I can show that I am. If Seth Lyman was here?”

  “He is,” croaked a reedy voice.

  The men grouped around the doorway stood aside to allow the passage of a strange pair.

  A big negro, helping, almost carrying a shrivelled weed of humanity in a skirted black coat and bloodstained boiled shirt. From his waxen-white face, deep-sunk eyes flared feverish hate, and a dreadful determination. With the inevitability of Death itself he moved forward and stopped in front of the accused.

  The gathering watched their progress in amazed silence. Upon Sark their appearance was petrifying. Open-mouthed, and with a clammy fear constricting his heart, he gazed distraught at the man he had left for dead in the Dumbbell ranch-house. In those vengeful eyes he read his doom and his trembling lips framed a frantic appeal:

  “Seth, save me,” he whispered. “We can still make good. I swear I’ll..” A hideous laugh from the lawyer stilled the remainder of the sentence.

  “Hark to him,” he taunted. “Begging mercy from one who has tasted the torments of Hell to come here and destroy him.” He paused for a moment, gathering strength, and then, stabbing a finger at the cowering wretch in the chair, “There sits Eza Kent, liar, thief, traitor, and murderer.

  Listen: I always coveted the Dumbbell range, and when Amos Sark made me his man of business, I saw my way. I meant to use young Jesse, but when he died in gaol, I had to content myself with this—thing. Forging the will was a simple matter, and the fact that the heir was not known around here seemed to make success certain.” He halted again, and the spectators of this weird scenestood dumb while this fragile creature, obviously dying on his feet, fought for time to compass his vengeance. Sark, fascinated, could not drag his fearful gaze from those blood-drained lips which were condemning him to the darkness of eternity.

  “Killing Amos was no part of my plan, but Ezra couldn’t wait. We got the range, and nobody suspected until Welcome gets a new marshal and this fool has to fall foul of him; if he’d made friends instead of foes …” His glazing eyes never left the object of his scorn, and the consuming hatred which had enabled him to endure the terrible ride from the Dumbbell still sustained him. The pitiless accusation continued.

  “You paid Mullins to steal the girl, meaning to force her into marriage and so make your title good; you failed. You offered five hundred dollars for the marshal’s murder, and failed again.” In his shaking hand he thrust out a small sheaf of papers. “You even failed to find these—my confession, and the real will, leaving everything to Mary Gray.” He grimaced horribly.

  “I told you they were in a safe place and so they were—the safest place in the world to a bungler like you, right under your nose; you stepped over them a dozen times a day at the ranch. Ha! that touches you.” Bitter chagrin came and went in the tortured eyes. The lawyer’s voice weakened to a mere whisper. “You tried to kill me, and I—live—to—hang you.” The last words were almost inaudible. His head fell forward, and the sagging form collapsed in Juba’s grasp. He lowered it gently to the floor, and bent for a moment.

  “Sho’ is daid—dis time,” he said.

  No one spoke, but he marshal removed his hat, and the others followed suit.

  As one awakening from an evil dream. Sark wrenched his gaze from the body, and furtively scanned the grim faces around him. All told the same story; he could see no spark of compassion in any one of them. An appalling despair bit into his brain. Nippert spoke:

  “Ezra Kent, have you anythin’
to say?” He heard himself talking incoherently. “It was Lyman’s plot. I had to do what he said—I was in his power. When I refused, at the ranch, he threw a gun on me; I struck him in self-defence. For God’s sake, have pity.”

  “What pity did you show Amos Sark?”

  “Lyman forced me” he began, and stopped as he saw the judge was looking at the jury.

  In turn each shook his head, and a sweat broke out in beads of ice on his brow. His body shook as with an ague. From his swollen, livid face the eyes protruded, and the squirming lips transformed it into a hideous human travesty. Spellbound, the onlookers saw him try to rise, but his knees buckled beneath him, and with a choking cry of “Mercy!” he pitched headlong across the man he had slain. Nippert was the first to reach him. His exclamation was brief.

  “Finished,” he announced. “Died o’ sheer fright, seemin’ly. I never see the like. Where’s Jim?” The marshal had slipped out unnoticed in the excitement, but returned in time to hear a flippant comment by a Bar O puncher:

  “Less trouble for us. How many ropes needed now?”

  “Nary a one,” Sudden told him. “Mister Death has had a plenty big harvest a’ready.”

  “Allasame, them fellas are rustlers,” Owen objected. “They stole my steers an’ shot down my boys; I’m hangin’ ‘em.”

  “Yu’ll have to catch ‘em first. I figured that was how yu’d feel, so I turned ‘em loose.

  They’re leavin’ the country, an’ I’ll bet they ain’t delayin’ any.” The rancher glared at him. “You’d no right to do that, even though you are marshal.”

  “I ain’t—I resigned before I sent ‘em off. Sloppy, didn’t yu give Ned my star?”

  “Done forgot,” the little man said, with an unrepentant grin. “Things was happenin’ so quick.”

  “So yu see, John,” Sudden continued, “if yu must have a necktie party, yu gotta be content with me.” He smiled as he spoke, and the very absurdity of the suggestion brought an answering laugh all round, save from the cattleman. The saloon-keeper put the matter bluntly: