Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (16 page)

 
          
King
Burdette’s sinister gaze followed him as he slouched away. “Yu ain’t nobody’s
dawg—just a plain damn fool,” he muttered. “When yu bump off Luce, his
brothers—though they’ve disowned him—have just naturally gotta get yu to even
the score.
I don’t overlook bets neither.”

 
          
BUSINESS
in “The Lucky Chance” was booming that night. Goldy Evans, burrowing like a
human mole in the hillside, had struck a “pocket”. The news had soon spread,
and men flocked to the saloon to share in the celebration they knew would
follow. The man himself was there, half drunk, and displaying a heavy Colt’s
revolver which had been the first thing bought with his newly-acquired wealth.

 
          
“An’
I reckon it was comin’ to me, boys, after the dirty way I got trimmed,” he
said. “Any son-of-a-bitch who tries that trick agin’ll git blowed sky-high, yu
betcha.”

 
          
Which
sentiment, especially amongst the mining fraternity, was whole-heartedly
applauded.
Gold was hard to get, windfalls like the present
one few and far between, and to endure the toil and hardship only to benefit a
thief was not to any man’s liking. As the liquor circulated, inflaming the
men’s passions, threats were freely uttered, and it might have gone ill with
Luce Burdette had he entered the place just then, for some still believed he
had robbed the prospector.

 
          
“Nex’
time we won’t worry the marshal,” a burly miner said, and there was a sneer in
the last three words. “A rope or a slug is the on’y cure, an’ I guess we can
‘tend to that, ourselves.”

 
          
“Shore
thing, an’ interferin’ outsiders c’n have a dose o’ the same,” growled another,
with a drunken glare at Green, who, with one elbow on the bar, was chatting
with the saloon-keeper and watching the scene amusedly. The marshal, standing
not far away, heard sundry far from complimentary criticisms of himself with an
expression of surly contempt; he had a poor opinion of “dirt-washers,” as he
termed them.

 
          
“Feelin’
plenty
brash,
ain’t they?” he sneered. “Give ‘em two
pinches o’ yaller dust to buy licker with an’ they’re gory heroes right off.”

 
          
His
comment was addressed to Magee, but before that worthy could reply, even had he
intended doing so, the door swung open and Whitey entered. At the sight of that
blood-drained face Sudden rubbed the back of his head, and in so doing, tilted
his hat forward to hide his own features. He recognized the fellow—there could
be no two men in the South-west like that—yet he asked a whispered question.

 
          
“Who’s
yore friend?”

 
          
Magee
looked at him. “Shure an’
I’m
not so careless pickin’
me frinds,” he replied. “They call him `Whitey’ — niver heard any other name.
He rides for the Circle B, an’ ‘tis said he has twelve notches on his guns.”

 
          
“Reg’lar
undertaker’s help, huh?” the puncher replied lightly. “Shucks! Notches ain’t so
much; where’s the sense in whittlin’ yore hardware all to bits thataway?”

 
          
He
faced around, thus presenting his back to the newcomer, hut he did not lose
sight of him; mirrors behind a bar are meant to be useful as well as
ornamental, so Sudden was able to watch the gunman unobserved.

 
          
With
a curt nod here and there, Whitey walked to the bar and called for liquor.
Sudden noted that he helped himself sparingly from the bottle pushed forward.
Also, save for one fleeting glance, he appeared uninterested in the puncher;
there had been no gleam of recognition in that look. “He
don’t
know me,” Sudden reflected. “Guess I’ve altered some since we met. Well, I
ain’t remindin’ him.” At the same time, that singular sixth sense which men who
tread dangerous paths somehow acquire, was warning him to be on his guard.
Presently he became aware that the gunman had moved nearer and was now looking
directly at him.

 
          
“I
guess yu’re Green—the new C P foreman,” he said in a flat voice. “Take a
drink?”

 
          
“Yu
guess pretty good,” the puncher replied, and pointed to his almost untouched
glass.

 
          
“I’m
all fixed; like yoreself, I ain’t much on liquor.”

 
          
Whitey’s
slit of a mouth twisted sneeringly. “What about a li’l game? But
mebbe yu ain’t much on kyards neither
?”

 
          
“Like
I said, yo’re a good guesser,” the foreman agreed. He was alert, wary,
suspecting the fellow was intent on forcing a quarrel. His reply brought no
expression to that corpse-like mask, but the pupils of the pale eyes narrowed
to pin-points.

 
          
“Is
there anythin’ yu are much on?”
came
the contemptuous
inquiry.

 
          
“I’m
reckoned
good
at mindin’ my own business,” drawled the
puncher.

 
          
The
snub apparently left the gunman unmoved, but it advised the rest of the company
that something unusual was taking place. The rattle of poker chips, slither of
dealt cards, and murmur of conversation ceased. An atmosphere of menace seemed
to envelope the gathering, and every man there, save only the puncher lounging
lightly against the bar, seemed to sense what was coming. Magee made an effort
to avert the storm. Thrusting forward a bottle, he said placatingly,

 
          
“Whist
now, Whitey, don’t be after makin’ throuble. Have one on the house—both av ye.”

 
          
The
gunman glared at him. “Better take a lesson from this fella an’ mind yore own
business,” he snarled, and turned on Sudden. “Yu come here, a stranger, glom on
to a good job, an’ git too uppity to drink or play with us. Who the hell are yu
to put on frills?”

 
          
Sudden
smiled tolerantly; he knew now that his suspicions had been correct—the man was
there to kill him, perhaps at the instigation of King Burdette. He determined
to let Whitey force the issue.

 
          
“Didn’t
just look at it thataway,” he admitted. “Seein’ yo’re sot on ‘em, we’ll have
the drink an’ the li’l game.”

 
          
He
saw the look of chagrin in the killer’s eyes; it was not the reply he had
played for. In fact, Whitey was disgusted; matters had been going just right
for him, and now the fellow had crawfished. He emptied his glass, his right arm
dropping to his side. A bitter jeer was in his voice when he replied, “Thought
better of it, huh? Well, that won’t help yu none. I ain’t takin’ favours from
yu, yu son-of-a —”

 
          
The
epithet was one which only an accompanying smile could excuse. Whitey was not
smiling, and, as he uttered the word his body fell in to a crouch, while his
right hand snapped back to his gun. There was a hurried scuffle as men in the
vicinity got themselves out of the way and then—a breath-stopping silence.

 
          
“Flash
it, yu white-livered sneak,” croaked the killer.

 
          
For
an instant he thought his prey would escape after all, for the puncher half
turned as though about to decline the challenge. Then recollection came; he saw
a picture from the past, and the clammy fingers of fear clutched at his heart.
He knew that movement, knew too that he was about to suffer the same fate as
those he had himself wantonly destroyed. It was too late to retract; even as
the thought darted through his brain he was dragging at his gun with the
desperation of despair. He got it clear of the holster…

 
          
All
the nearest spectator could afterwards say was that, following a bang and spurt
of flame from the puncher’s left hip, he saw Whitey stagger, double up at the
knees, and sink slowly down to lie grotesquely sprawled on the sanded floor,
his weapon clattering beside him. “Never see Green go for his gun a-tall, but
he musta done, o’ course,” he added. “An’ fast? I’m tellin’ yu, I believe he
could make lightnin’ hump itself.”

 
          
The
crash of the shot ended the tension. Forgetful of their games, the gamblers
crowded round the bar, jostling one another to get a glimpse of the dead man.
One of them picked up the dropped revolver and ran a finger along the nicks in
the butt.

 
          
“Kept
his tally—six of ‘em,” he remarked. “If there’s the same number on the twin,
he’s sent twelve fellas to wait for him on the other side.”

 
          
“He
tried for one too many,” was Weldon’s comment. “Me, I’m sooperstitious thataway;
when I’ve bumped off a dozen, I’m stoppin’.”

 
          
The
remark, despite the presence of death, raised a laugh. Men who made it their
business to kill received small sympathy when they paid the penalty. In Western
idiom, Whitey had “got what was comin’ to him,” and there was no more to be
said.

 
          
Sudden
went to the marshal, who was looking curiously at the body. “Yu know where I’m
to be found if yu want me,” he said.

 
          
“This
hombre asked for it,” the officer replied. “I ain’t wantin’ yu, but—others
may,” he added meaningly.

 
          
The
cowpuncher shrugged his shoulders and went out. Gradually the players returned
to their games, the corpse was removed, and the episode, for the time being,
was ended. When, a little later, Mart Burdette came in, there was nothing to
show that a man had but just died.

 
          
Standing
near the door, the newcomer looked the room over.

 
          
“Know
where Whitey is?” he asked the blacksmith.

 
          
“Well,
I dunno how long it takes to get to hell, but I guess he’s there by now; he
started half an hour back,” was the grim reply.

 
          
Mart
stared at him. “Yu mean he’s—dead?” he asked incredulously.

 
          
“Shore
I do,” Weldon told him. “He’s most awful dead, that Whitey fella.”

 
          
The
Circle B man’s breath whistled as he drew it in. “How come?” he inquired.

 
          
“He
got to domineerin’ that stranger—the one what fetched in Kit Purdie,” the smith
explained.

 
          
“An’
he beat him to it?” the other cried amazedly.

 
          
“Yu
might call it that,” Weldon grinned. He was enjoying himself—he did not like
the Burdettes. “Green let him get his gun out an’ then—well, Whitey sorta lost
interest, as a fella will with a slug between his eyes.”

 
          
Mart
turned away, and his informant, with a sardonic smile, watched him go.

 
          
“He
seems quite astonished—an’ upset,” he remarked to his neighbours.
“Didn’t know the Circle B was that fond o’ their riders.”

 
          
Mart
went straight to where Slype was sitting. “I hear Green has shot Whitey. What
yu goin’ to do about it?” he asked truculently.

 
          
“Bury
the body,” the marshal said. “Whitey would have it, an’ he drawed first.”

 
          
Mart
frowned. “Is that what I’m to tell King?”

 
          
“Shore
an’ yu can add that Whitey warn’t good enough,” Slippery said meaningly, and
there was a gleam of satisfaction in his foxy eyes.

 
          
Burdette
gulped a drink and went in search of his elder brother. He found him in “The
Plaza,” exchanging pleasantries with its fair owner. Drawing him aside, Mart
told what he had learned and delivered the marshal’s message. King’s eyebrows
grew black as he listened.

 
          
“Whitey’s
gun musta snagged,” he suggested.

 
          
“Nary
a snag,” Mart assured him. “He had it out afore the other fella made a move,
an’