Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (26 page)

 
          
The
men took the hint and returned to the bunkhouse, but the muttered threats boded
ill for the Circle B if the two outfits came to open warfare. The rancher and
his foreman retired to the house, where they found Nan anxiously awaiting them.
Sudden had paused on the way to dig out the bullet. Now, by the light of the
lamp, he was examining it.

 
          
“Another .38.
Still clingin’ to that notion, seemin’ly,” he
remarked.

 
          
The
girl’s question brought the reply she might have expected from her father.
“Luce Burdette, tryin’ to lay me alongside Kit,” he said savagely.
“Dirty, bushwhackin’ skunk.”

 
          
Her
face paled, but she did not reply. The foreman took up the cudgels. “Someone is
framin’ that boy, Purdie,” he said. “An’ it was me they were after; remember,
they don’t know how much Cal told me; whoever’s got him is back o’ this.”

 
          
The
owner of the C P shrugged his shoulders. These repeated outrages were sorely
trying his patience—short, at the best of times—and the thought that the shot
in the dark might have struck down his daughter filled him with fury. A
forthright man, with the simple creed of the frontier, he would have gathered
his riders and gone in search of his foes but for his foreman.

 
          
“That’s
what they’re workin’ for,” Sudden had more than once told him. “It’ll come to
that in the end, but for now, let ‘em run on the rope; we’ll throw ‘em good an’
plenty when the time comes.”

 
          
And
because of his growing faith in this confident young stranger with the steady
eyes and firm lips upon which danger brought no more than a sardonic smile,
Purdie let him have his way.

 
          
The
marshal draped his spare form against the bar of “The Lucky Chance,” wrapped
his fingers round the glass of liquor he had just poured out, and gave a
comprehensive glance at the company. The place was fairly full, but the man he
sought was not present. Mart Burdette, however, was lolling on a near chair,
and a brief look of understanding passed between them.

 
          
“Evenin’
Sam,” the saloon-keeper greeted.
“Anny news o’ th’ missin’
man yit?”

 
          
“Nope,”
the officer replied, “but I’m expectin’ a fella who may be able to gimme some,
an’ here he is.”

 
          
“Is
it Green ye mane?” Magee asked, as the C P foreman and Yago entered. “What will
he be after knowin’ about it?”

 
          
“I’m
here to find out,” the marshal said somewhat loudly. “Hey, Green, I want yu.”

 
          
The
cowpuncher detected hostility in the tone but he smiled as he inquired.

 
          
“What’s
the charge, marshal?”

 
          
“There
ain’t
none—yet
,” was the retort. “Just a few
questions, that’s all.”

 
          
“Toot
yore li’l horn an’ go ahaid,” Sudden replied, as he leaned lazily against the
bar and sampled the drink Magee pushed forward.

 
          
“It’s
about—Cal,” Slype began slowly. “I hear yu was the last man to see him alive.”

 
          
“Why,
is he dead, then?” the puncher inquired.

 
          
“Mebbe
he is an’ mebbe he ain’t,” the marshal snapped. “I’m doin’ the askin’, an’ I
wanta know whether yu was up at his shack the day he disappeared?”

 
          
Sudden
did not reply immediately; the question had taken him by surprise. A hush had
come over the gathering, and he divined that some of those present had known of
the marshal’s intention. Save for Purdie, Yago, and the prospector, only the
assassin had been aware of his visit to the shack, and if the latter had talked
it could only be for a purpose.

 
          
“I
certainly had a chat with Cal that mornin’,” he said. Slype’s small eyes
gleamed triumphantly at this admission. “What took yu that way?” he asked.

 
          
“
It’s
part of our range,” the puncher pointed out.
“Didn’t know the old chap was located there till I happened on him.
He was alive an’ kickin’ when I left.”

 
          
The
marshal’s face shot forward, an ugly grin on his bloodless lips. “Yu said it,”
he sneered. “A fella would be apt to kick if he was slung into the Sluice.”

 
          
A
threatening growl from some of the auditors greeted this; Sudden stared in
bewilderment at the speaker.

 
          
“Yu
suggestin’ I throwed the old man in the river?” he cried. “Yu must be drunk or
dreamin’.”

 
          
“Don’t
think it; I’m sayin’ that’s just what yu did do,” the officer retorted. “An’
then yu went back an’ stole his dust.”

 
          
The
accused man glanced round the room and despite the black looks he met with,
laughed scornfully.

 
          
“Someone’s
been stringin’ yu, Slype,” he said. “Yu got the story all wrong.”

 
          
“I
wasn’t just expectin’ yu to own up,” the marshal said with heavy sarcasm. “As
for stringin’, I had it from Riley o’ the Circle B, who chanced to be on the
other side o’ the river, an’ saw the whole affair.”

 
          
The
name told the puncher much of what he wanted to know. “Yeah,” he commented
reflectively. “Wasn’t it Riley who claimed he saw Luce tryin’ to bump me off?”
And when Slype nodded.
“Useful fella that—reg’lar Johnny-on-the-spot,
ain’t he? The Circle B shore oughta pay him well.”

 
          
The
marshal made no attempt to reply, but another did. Heaving his big bulk out of
his chair, Mart Burdette thrust forward an ugly, threatening face and said with
savage intensity.

 
          
“Meanin’?”

 
          
The
foreman was now sure that the whole scene had been pre-arranged, but it made no
difference to his attitude.

 
          
“That
Riley is a liar, an’ that yu
an
yore brothers know
it,” he said deliberately.

 
          
This
was fighting talk; every man there knew it, and wondered when he saw that Mart
was not wearing his belt. A Black Burdette without a gun was a sight no one of
them could remember. Sudden’s keen eyes had noted the omission as soon as the
fellow stood up, and sensed its significance. There was an evil satisfaction in
the big man’s gaze as he replied to the puncher’s accusation.

 
          
“Fella
with a gun can allus talk biggity to the chap what ain’t wearin’ his,” he
sneered. “If yu got the guts to shuck that belt, I’ll kill yu with my bare
hands.”

 
          
He
spread the fingers of his great paws as he spoke, opening and closing them with
a slow, gripping motion horribly suggestive of his purpose. His leering look of
savage anticipation told that this was what he had been hoping for. The
challenge was one the cowpuncher could not decline, and he had no thought of it.
The Burdettes had “framed” him, and he must go through with it. He smiled
grimly at the thought that he had taught them to respect his gun-play.

 
          
“Forgot
to put yore belt on, huh?” he said acidly. “Or mebbe yu remembered not to put
it on. Anyways, yu played it safe.”

 
          
By
this time games were forgotten, and the players were congregated in a circle
round the two men. Willing hands pushed tables and chairs out of the way until
a space was cleared for the contest. Excited voices offered and accepted bets
and wrangled over the merits of the combatants. Most of those present favoured
the bigger man, who was deemed the best rough-and-tumble fighter in that part
of the country, and certainly the huge mass of him and the bulging muscles of
his mighty limbs suggested that they were right. But a few studied the other
with appraising eyes, noted the lean, wiry frame, remembered the swift,
pantherish action of his body, and divined the steely sinews which rippled
beneath his skin at every movement.

 
          
“He’s
fit from the toes up—all bone an’ gristle—an’ Mart is too fat,” Weldon, the
blacksmith, remarked. “Green looks like he’s fought afore too. I’ll take twenty
to ten about him.”

 
          
“Go
you,” replied the other. “Burdette’ll break him in two when he gits
holt
of him.”

 
          
“Yeah—when,”
agreed the smith. “Well, he’s a-goin’ to have his chanct.”

 
          
For
the puncher was unbuckling his belt and passing it to Yago. The little man’s
face expressed both anger and concern.

 
          
“Yu
must be loco, Jim,” he whispered. “He’s big enough to swaller yu.”

 
          
“I’ll
stick my elbows out, amigo,” Sudden smiled. “What yu want I should do—run
away?”

 
          
Bill
did not, and said so—ornamentally. “Couldn’t yu see they
was
layin’ for yu?” he asked testily.

 
          
“
Shore,
an’ they got me,” his friend said easily. “Ever hear
o’ the biter bein’ bit?”

 
          
Yago
apparently had not. “He’ll do that if he gits a chanct,” he returned seriously.

 
          
“Everythin’
goes, bar weapons, in this sort o’ scrap.”

 
          
Sudden’s
face assumed a whimsical look of pity. “Bill, did yu ever have a grandmother?”
he asked solicitously.

 
          
The
little man stared at him. “I reckon so. Why?”

 
          
“Then
I expect yu tried to instruct her in the art of extractin’ nutriment from an
egg by means o’ suction,” his foreman said gravely, but his eyes were
twinkling. “Now, keep yore hair on, Bill, yu can’t afford to lose any.”

 
          
“This
ain’t
no
time for laughin’,” Bill snorted.

 
          
“Why
not ol’-timer? Mebbe my face won’t be in
no
shape for
it presently,” Sudden grinned.

 
          
A
harsh, sneering voice stilled all the others.
“If yu done
dictatin’ yore last will an’ testyment, what ‘bout makin’ a start?”

 
          
Mart
Burdette, eager for the fray, and confident of victory, stood waiting. He had
discarded his vest, and the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt disclosed a powerful
pair of arms in which the knotted muscles stood out as he clenched his fists
and squared his shoulders.
A stillness
succeeded the
hubbub as the puncher also removed his vest, slung his hat aside, and stepped
forward. The physical disparity between the two men became more apparent as
they faced one another in the cleared space.

 
          
“Two
to one on Goliar,” shouted a would-be wit, whose early teaching had not
entirely left him.

 
          
“Yu
can double that an’ be safe,” the big man boasted. “I’m a-goin’ to show yu
where this fella steps off when he ain’t got a gun.”

 
          
Dropping
his head, he made a sudden plunge at his opponent. If he had hoped to take his
man by surprise he was woefully disappointed, for the puncher slipped aside,
drove a fist into the thick, corded throat, and stood waiting, a little smile
of derision on his lips. Again and again Burdette, with lowered head, rushed in
like a charging bull, and each time the other planted a vengeful blow and got
away unhurt. These tactics did not suit the bulkier man’s backers; they saw
that their man was making no progress, and moreover, it was not their idea of a
battle. They were not slow to voice disapproval.

 
          
“Stand
up to him, cowboy; this yer’s a fight, not a perishin’ foot-race,” growled one.