Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (25 page)

 
          
“Bully
for yu, Lu,” shouted one of the company, and most of the rest laughed
approvingly.

 
          
The
marshal saw that he had blundered. “I warn’t meanin’
no
offence,” he said, but his look at the lady was poisonous. “As law officer of
this yer town it’s my duty to stop a ruckus.”

 
          
“An’
yore boss is no doubt much obliged to yu,” Sudden cut in. He turned to
Burdette.

 
          
“I’m
servin’ notice that yu’ve reached yore limit,” he warned.

 
          
“I
make my own limits an’ for yu the roof’s off,” King retorted, and calling for a
drink, presented his back to the puncher. Outwardly calm again, he was a
volcano within. For the first time in his life he had lost self-confidence. Why
had he backed down before this stranger of whom nothing was known save that he
possessed a deadly speed with a six-shooter? By what wizardry had the fellow
escaped from the Sluice? Riley’s shots must have missed, of course, but King
knew the place, with its slimy, vertical walls and exit over the fall which
spelt certain death. Had Riley pushed the wrong man in? No, he could not have
made such a mistake in broad daylight, and Green had said, “Three times.”

 
          
He
was aware that the subject of his thoughts had gone out without replying to his
last remark; aware too that he had lost prestige with the men present. Most of
them had resumed their amusements, but there were nods and muttered comments.
Even the marshal—his creature—was regarding him doubtfully. Burdette turned a
frosty eye upon him.

 
          
“Wonderin’
why I didn’t take that fella up, Sam?” he asked. “Well, I ain’t mixin’ it with
every stray gun-fighter who comes glory-huntin’, an’
there’s
other reasons
to that.” He spoke loud enough for the room to hear, and
then dropped his voice. “I wanta find out what fetched him to Windy—he didn’t
drift in just by chance, I’ll bet a stack. Hello, what’s come o’ Lu?”

 
          
The
bar-tender, to whom he put a question, informed him that Mrs. Lavigne had
retired to her room, on the plea of a headache. King swore under his breath and
turned again to hear the marshal saying.

 
          
“Funny ‘bout that of dirt-washer.”

 
          
“Ain’t
heard,” Burdette said indifferently.
“Which of ‘em?”

 
          
“California,”
Slype told him. “No one’s seen hide
nor
hair of him
for a coupla days.”

 
          
“Sick,
mebbe, or out on a prospect.”

 
          
“No,
he ain’t at his
shack,
an’ his tools an’ burro is;
Goldy Evans went to see.”

 
          
“Oh,
he’ll show up. Anyways, I ain’t lost any prospectors.”

 
          
“That
goes for me too, but his
friends is
clamourin’ for a
search-party,” the marshal grunted. “Them damn’ gophers act like they owned the
town.”

 
          
“Let
‘em
look
for him themselves,” the Circle B man said
contemptuously. “They’re full-growed, ain’t they?”

 
          
“That’s
an idea,” the marshal said. “I’ll tell ‘em to fly at it.”

 
          
He
went out grinning, and King, seeing that Lu Lavigne did not reappear, followed
soon after. Though his lean, sneering features did not show it, he was amused
at the commotion caused by the disappearance of the hoary-headed old
gold-seeker. One thing was
certain :
the mining
element—which was fairly strong in the town—must not learn the truth. Loping
leisurely along the trail to the Circle B, he suddenly startled his horse by
emitting a throaty chuckle.

 
          
“Got
it,” he exclaimed. “That’ll explain things an’ mebbe put a crimp in yu, Mister
Green.”

 
          
He
ripped out an oath as he recalled the humiliation the puncher had inflicted
upon him in

 
          
“The Plaza.”
It was the first time any man had outfaced him
and got away with it, and he was still trying to explain his own attitude to
himself. He had been glad the marshal had interfered, but now he cursed him,
and yet—in the same circumstances he knew he would be glad again.

 
          
And
Lu Lavigne
?…

 
          
“Damn
them both,” he cried aloud, and raking the spurs along the ribs of his mount,
sent it headlong through the gloom.

 
          
THE
foreman of the C P arose on the following morning with an uneasy feeling that
all was not well with the missing prospector, whose absence was the chief topic
of conversation in the town. He confided his fears to Yago, adding that he
intended riding to the old man’s shack.

 
          
Bill
promptly announced that he was coming too. Sudden surveyed him disgustedly.

 
          
“Yu
talk like I was a kid,” he said.

 
          
“Yu
act like yu was,” Bill retorted bluntly. “From what I know o’ this Burdette
fella,

 
          
`Percy
Vere’
are
his middle names, an’ he’ll try again. Yu’ve
had the luck of a fat priest up to now, an’ it’s due to turn.”

 
          
“Cheery
li’l
fella,
ain’t yu?” his friend smiled. “Don’t this
allus lookin’ on the bright side hurt yore eyes?” When they reached the shack
the owner’s burro pushed its head between the corral bars and brayed a loud
welcome. “Say `Howdy’ to your relative, Bill,” the foreman smiled.

 
          
Yago’s
face was a picture of commiseration. “An’ yu kickin’ at bein’ called a kid,” he
said witheringly.

 
          
Having
forked some hay into the corral and filled the rude drinking-trough, they
entered the hut. A skillet containing half-cooked bacon by the dead fire, and a
pot of cold coffee beside it, showed that the occupant had left in the midst of
preparing a meal. The pile of blankets which did duty as a bed had been pulled
aside, disclosing a small cavity in the packed earth floor.

 
          
“That’ll
be where he cached his dust, an’ it’s went,” Yago observed.
“Looks
like he didn’t leave willin’.”

 
          
“Somethin’
else has gone too,” Sudden said, and told of the piece of rich “float.”

 
          
Bill’s
eyes widened. “Somebody got wise.”

 
          
The
foreman nodded and went outside. He found plenty of tracks in the soft soil,
for Evans and his friends had been there, but presently, casting a wider
circle, he came upon a fresh lot, those of half a dozen riders, headed away
from Windy. He studied them closely for a while, and then returned to the shack
in a thoughtful mood. Yago, who had been searching for another possible
hiding-place, looked up expectantly.

 
          
“Looks
thisaway to me,” Sudden said. “Someone followed me that mornin’, overheard the
conversation here—the ol’ man warn’t exactly whisperin’, an’ there’s
boot-tracks an’ cigarette ends side o’ the shack—pushes me into the Sluice, an’
six of ‘em come back later an’ collect Cal.

 
          
Reckon
they got him holed up somewheres, aimin’ to make him talk.”

 
          
“Mebbe
they took him to the Circle B?” Bill suggested.

 
          
“Mebbe
they didn’t do nothin’ so foolish,” his foreman replied. “We gotta try an’
trail ‘em.”

 
          
“Ain’t
yu goin’ swimmin’ this time?” Bill innocently inquired, and was given an order
he declined to obey.

 
          
“It’s
hot enough here,” he said. “Betcha a dollar them jaspers has blinded their
trail.”

 
          
For
a few miles they had no difficulty in following the horsemen, and then, on a wide
stretch of arid, stony ground to the north of the town, all traces ended. After
an hour’s fruitless search, they gave it up.

 
          
“These
hombres knowed where to come; yu could march a regiment across here an’
a
Injun couldn’t follow it,” Sudden said. “Seem to be
headin’ away from the Circlue B, too, but that don’t mean nothin’. We’ll have
to try an’ pick up a pointer in Windy.”

 
          
“I’ll
keep my ears open,” Yago offered.

 
          
His
friend grinned. “We shan’t miss anythin’ then, even if it’s whispered,” he
said, with a sly glance at his companion’s hearing appendages.

 
          
Bill’s
reply was sadly devoid of the deference due to his superior; their friendship
was not of yesterday. Other work claimed their attention, and it was not until
the approach of dusk that they got back to the ranch. On the way to the
bunkhouse, Purdie called his foreman. He had just returned from town, where he
had heard about the missing miner.

 
          
“What
d’yu suppose
has happened to the old chap?” he asked.
“Shouldn’t ‘a’ thought he was worth robbin’ even, let alone makin’ away with.”

 
          
Whereupon
the foreman told what he knew of the matter, including his own perilous part in
it.
Purdie’s eyes grew big.

 
          
“Yu
got out the Sluice?” he cried.

 
          
“With
the help o’ Bill Yago,” Sudden reminded.

 
          
“Yeah.
But
them
currents an’
whirlpools! Why, I wouldn’t tackle it for a million dollars,” the rancher said,
and meant it. “Yu must be half a fish.”

 
          
“I
swim pretty
good
,” the puncher admitted, and, with a
whimsical smile, “I didn’t have no choice, yu know.”

 
          
“Got
any notion
who
shoved yu in?”

 
          
“Nope.
But King Burdette knowed about it.
He looked like I was a ghost when he saw me in `The Plaza.’ Yu think that ol’
skeezicks really has struck it rich?”

 
          
“Shouldn’t
wonder—there’s allus been a tale of a lost mine up on Stormy. Never took no
stock in it myself, but if Cal or anybody else finds it they’re welcome, far as
I’m concerned.”

 
          
“Even
the Circle B gang?” Sudden suggested.

 
          
The
rancher’s head snapped back. “No, by God!” he cried. “Yo’re right, Jim; anybody
but them thieves an’ murderers.” His brow grew dark and furrowed. “I misdoubt I
should ‘a’ dragged yu into this,” he finished gloomily.

 
          
“Shucks!”
the foreman laughed. “Blame that little fella in Juniper. I’m wonderin’ what
the next move will be?”

 
          
As
if in answer to the words came a flash from a belt of pines six hundred yards
down the slope, a current of cool air passed between the faces of the two men,
and a dull thud told that the bullet had buried itself in the ranchhouse.
Then followed the muffled crash of a rifle-shot.

 
          
Instantly
from the top of the trail came an answering
report,
and a shadowy rider raced through the dusk towards the pines.

 
          
“Near
thing, Purdie,” the foreman said coolly. “Moody will smoke him out if he waits,
but I’m bettin’ against it. I’ve been expectin’ somethin’ o’ the sort, an’ we
gotta take turns sleepin’.”

 
          
He
grinned at the men who had
come
piling out of the
bunkhouse. “It’s all right, boys, no damage done, an’ there ain’t anythin’ we
can do—yet,” he said, adding meaningly, “An’ we shore make a fine target
bunched together like this.”