Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (35 page)

 
          
“Let
the reptile go—we can get him any time,” he said. “Mebbe the Greaser ain’t
cashed.”

 
          
A
hundred yards further along they found a spot where the bank was less vertical,
and the horses made the descent safely, mostly on their rumps.

 
          
“We’d
oughta fetched skids, my bronc has damn near rubbed his tail off,” Bill
complained.

 
          
When
they reached the Mexican they found that Sud-den’s surmise was correct—he was
not yet dead, though it was obviously only a matter of moments. He opened his
eyes when Yago raised his head and gasped, “Water!”

 
          
“This’ll
do him more
good
,” Bill, said, and passed over a small
flask of whisky. “Carry it in case o’ snake-bite,” he explained with a wink,
when his foreman’s eyebrows went up.

 
          
The
raw spirit put a little strength into the wounded man, and with it came a
desire for vengeance; a spark of hatred shone in the glazing eyes.

 
          
“The
marshal—do—
this,” he muttered. “Write—write —I put
name.”

 
          
Sudden
searched, found pencil and a fragment of paper, and took down the dying man’s
statement, which they had already heard. Gasping for breath, every word a
conscious effort, Ramon told his story, and gripping the pencil in nerveless
fingers, scrawled his signature. Then a dreadful smile contorted his features
and his head fell forward. They caught a last whisper.

 
          
“Gracias, senores.
Adios.”

 
          
Yago
laid the dead man gently on the ground, stood up, and said slowly, “Well,
amigo, yu was a Greaser, but yu shore died fightin’, an’ I’d sooner call
yùbrother’ than the vermin what put yore light out.”

 
          
“Fightin’
an’ bitin’,” the foreman agreed. “I reckon he’s earned a quiet grave.”

 
          
With
hands and knives they scooped out a shallow trench, wrapped the corpse in a
blanket, and heaped rocks above to prevent a prowling coyote from disturbing
the murdered man’s last rest.

 
          
“Saves
us a journey,” Sudden said. “No need to go snoopin’ round Slype’s place now.”

 
          
“What we goin’ to do ‘bout that jasper?”
Bill inquired, as
they rode south along the ravine.

 
          
“Nothin’—yet,”
his friend decided. “We’ll let him play his hand a bit longer. If he’s
double-crossin’ Burdette, he’s on our side, that far.”

 
          
“Sufferin’
snakes, if King
knowed
that Slippery bumped off his
Ol’ Man there’d be proceedin’s.”

 
          
“Shore
would, but until the girl is back at the C P again, King has us where the
hair’s short.”

 
          
The
marshal rode rapidly towards the town. Despite the blazing sun, beads of cold
sweat oozed from his brow when he thought of the danger he had been in.
If the Mexican had taken his tale to King Burdette …

 
          
“I’d
be like him—buzzard-meat,” he croaked aloud, and a shudder shook him as he
recalled the stark still form he had left in the ravine. “Oughta planted him, I
s’pose,” he continued. “Hell, corpses can’t chatter.” The corners of his mouth
came down in an ugly sneer as his mind reverted to the “leetle story” the dead
man had used.
“Coyote, huh?
Well, I reckon he knows
now that them critters has got teeth.”

 
          
He
drew his gun, reloaded the empty chambers, and pulled his horse down to a steady
lope. He wanted to think. Purdie would go up in the air when he heard about his
daughter. The marshal could vision him with his outfit riding headlong for the
Circle B. There would be a battle and Purdie would lose it—maybe his life as
well.
Perhaps King too.
… Ramon had said the mountain
lions had slain each other. That might happen—or could be made to; a marksman
hidden in the brush
… .
He grinned devilishly; the
“leetle story” might yet come true.

 
          
FOR
a while after his visitors had gone Luce Burdette sat slumped in a chair, fists
clenched, eyes staring into vacancy, his heart filled with a bitter fury
against the man who had done this thing. The darkly handsome, satirical face,
with its mocking smile of triumph, rose before him, and coupled with this
knowledge of King’s cruel, callous nature, suggested fearful possibilities.

 
          
“An’
he’s kin to me,” the boy groaned. He struck the table fiercely. “He shan’t have
her, damn him, not while I live.”

 
          
Two
hours later he was threading a thicket of live-oaks which masked the slope at
the rear of the Circle B ranchhouse. Fortunately for his purpose the night was
dark. Leaving his horse among the trees and carrying his lariat, he approached
on foot, walking Indian-like on the balls of his feet and testing each step
lest a cracking twig should betray him. It was a slow business, but presently
he reached a strip of open ground where he would have to risk being seen. Here
he paused, scanning the building. There was a lighted window just opposite to where
he was crouching—the kitchen, which was his objective. For the rest, the place
was in darkness, so far as he could tell. Light shone from the bunkhouse, fifty
yards distant, and he could hear voices; some of the outfit would be there,
playing cards, and yarning. Stooping, he sprinted across the shadowy space,
reached the window and looked in. As he had expected and hoped, Mandy, the old
coloured cook, was alone. Familiar taps on the pane brought her waddling
hurriedly; she peered out and then cautiously raised the sash.

 
          
“Foh
de Ian’s sake, it cain’t be yo, Massa Luce,” she whispered tremulously.

 
          
“Shore
is, Mammy,” he replied, calling her by the name he knew she liked him to use.

 
          
“Say,
who’s in the house?”

 
          
“Dey
ain’t
nobody
but me,” she told him. “Dem King an’ Sim
done went out; mebbe dey is in de bunkhouse wid de boys. Yo don’ oughta be
hyar, honey; dat King, he massacree yo if he cotch you aroun’.”

 
          
There
was a mingling of fear and affection in her voice —Luce had always been her favourite;
for his brothers she had little but dread.

 
          
“Good
old Mammy,” the boy said. “I ain’t goin’ to bècotched.’ ” He bent forward so
that he could see her face and said earnestly, “Are yu shore there is no one in
the house but yoreself?”

 
          
At
this question Mandy recoiled and the whites of her eyes showed big. “Lawdy,
ain’t I tol’ yo?” she quavered, but Luce interrupted
sternly
:

 
          
“Come
clean, Mammy; it ain’t like yu to lie to me.” Still she hesitated, pulled two
ways by affection for the lad before her and terror of his elder brother; the
former triumphed.

 
          
“King’ll
sho’ly take the hide off’n my back if he knows,” she said huskily. “Dey’s a gal
locked up in yo ol’ room. I dunno who she is—they done hustled me outa de way
when she was fotched in.”

 
          
“It’s
Nan Purdie, Mammy,” Luce told her.
“God!
It makes me
ashamed to know I’m a Burdette.”

 
          
The
deep disgust and anguish in his voice made the old Negress look at him
strangely.

 
          
This
was not the merry lighthearted lad to whom she had been a mother. A sudden
decision firmed her face.

 
          
“Yo
needn’t to be, honey. Yo ain’t a Burdette, an’ yo nevah was one,” she said, and
then, as she read his expression, “No, I ain’t out o’ ma haid—I’m tellin’ yo
true. Long time back, when we
was
crossin’ Injun
country on de way hyar, Ol’ Man Burdette fin’ yo cryin’ in de brush—yo was
‘bout knee-high to a jackrabbit. Pretty soon we light on a burned cabin an’ two
bodies; dey was white an’ dat was all we—but I don’ need to tell yo ‘bout dem
red devils. Mis’ Burdette figured dey was yo folks an’ ‘lowed she’d ‘dopt yo.
The Ol’ Man say, `Brand an’ throw him in de herd, de damn li’l maverick; he’ll
make a Burdette one day.’ But yo nevah did, honey; allus dere was a difference.
Now, don’t yo care …”

 
          
To
the boy the revelation and all it meant to him swept everything else from his
mind. He did not doubt the story, and, looking back, found much to confirm it.
Father and brothers had always treated him with a sort of good-natured
contempt, an attitude he had put down to his age.

 
          
Even
after the Old Man’s death he had not been admitted to the family’s councils,
nor invited to join in those periodic mysterious expeditions from which the men
returned weary with riding and sometimes wounded. These things had hurt him,
but now he was glad. Nameless and of unknown origin he might be, but he was not
a Burdette, and Nan … At the thought of her he drew himself up, his eyes
shining.

 
          
“Care?”
he echoed. “Why, Mammy, it’s the grandest news I ever heard
.“
Hell,
if yu’d on’y told me afore.”

 
          
“I
was feared o’ grievin’ yo,” the old woman said.

 
          
“Shore,
yu couldn’t know,” Luce told her. “Now, I gotta get Miss Purdie outa this. If
you hear anythin’, warn me.”

 
          
He
melted into the shadow of the building, stealing along
Until
he stood beneath the window of his old room. It was nearly ten feet above his
head—for the Circle B ranchhouse boasted two storeys—but he was prepared for
that. Close by stood a big cottonwood, a stout branch of which passed above the
window. Hanging the lariat round his neck, he began to climb the tree, almost
smiling as he recalled how often, as a boy, he had done the same thing with no
other object than to enter unknown to his father and brothers. Dark as it was,
he soon found the familiar hand and footholds, and in a few moments had swung
himself along the branch.

 
          
Kneeling
upon the sill, he thrust up the unlatched sash and
whispered
:

 
          
“Miss Purdie—Nan.”

 
          
A
muffled mumble was the answer. He struck a match, shielding the light in his
cupped hands that it might not show outside. The girl was seated on the bed—his
bed once—her hands and feet tied, a handkerchief knotted over the lower part of
her face. With great staring eyes she gazed at him, and then an expression of
joy drove the fear away. She trembled as he removed the gag.

 
          
“Luce—you?”
she breathed. “Oh, take me from this dreadful place.”

 
          
“That’s
what I’m here for,” he assured her, as he severed the bonds. “Yu
ain’t—hurt—any?”

 
          
His
voice shook as he asked the question.

 
          
“No,”
she whispered.
“Only frightened of that, horrible man.
Your brother.”

 
          
“He
ain’t that, an’ I’m not a Burdette, Nan,” Luce told her exultantly. “No time to
explain now—we gotta hustle. Do yu reckon yu can walk?”

 
          
“Yes,
of course,” she replied, stretching her cramped limbs experimentally.

 
          
“The
door’s locked, so I’ll have to let yu down from the window,” he went on, and
slipped the loop of his rope beneath her armpits. “All yu gotta do is sit on
the sill an’ slide off.”

 
          
All
went well. With feet braced against the wall, Luce paid out the rope slowly when
he felt the girl’s weight upon it, and soon a whisper from below apprised him
that she had landed safely. Then he retraced his way along the branch and in a
moment was by her side.