Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (5 page)

 
          
“
Don’t yu get no
wrong ideas about them fellas,” his
informant observed. “Ain’t none of ‘em lackin’ sand, an’ if they done it an’
took the notion, they’d be here brazenin’ it out, yu betcha.
Bad?
Shore they’re bad, but there ain’t a smidgin o’ fear in the whole bilin’, no
sir.”

 
          
Then
came the interment; the puncher followed the procession to the little cemetery
less than half a mile to the north of the town. There, on a grassy slope shaded
by cottonwoods and birches, in a silence broken only by the gay chirping of the
birds and a few remembered fragments of the burial service pronounced by the
doctor, the boy was laid to rest. When the two miners who officiated had filled
in the grave, the spectators resumed their hats and melted away.

 
          
Sudden
was the last to leave, save for the sturdy figure with folded arms and bowed
head gazing with unseeing eyes at the newly-made mound which held all his
hopes. The puncher would have liked to utter a word of comfort, but he did not
know what to say, and his cowboy’s inherent dread of emotion in any form kept
him tongue-tied. At length he too turned to retrace his steps to Windy. He had
not gone far when Purdie caught him up.

 
          
“Stranger,”
the cattleman said in a deep voice, “I reckon I ain’t thanked yu right for what
yu did.”

 
          
Sudden
gripped the outstretched hand. “Why, there ain’t any need,” he returned. “I
wish I
could ‘ve
…” He paused awkwardly, and the other
man nodded his comprehension. “It’s shore tough, but life is like that,” he
said, and despite his iron control there was a tremor in his tone.

 
          
“Yu
see,
he was pretty near all I had—I lost his mother
when he was no more’n a li’l trick; there’s on’y Nan now.”

 
          
He
was silent for some moments, and then he straightened up, squaring his shoulders
as though making a conscious effort to free them of a burden. “Yu aimin’ to
stay around here?” he asked bluntly.

 
          
“I
ain’t decided,” the other replied. “I’m kind o’ footloose about now. Got tired
o’ Texas an’ New Mexico, an’ figured I’d have a look at Arizona; heard there
was gold here too.”

 
          
The
elder man shot a quick look at him. “There is if a fella knowed where to
search,” he said.

 
          
They
were entering the town when a young man came striding rapidly towards them; it
was Luce Burdette. Sudden’s eyes went to his companion, but the ranch-owner’s
features had the fixity of stone itself. Burdette did not hesitate; he stopped
square in front of them.

 
          
“I’ve
just struck town, Purdie, an’ heard of yore loss,” he said. “I want yu to know
that I’m terrible sorry.”

 
          
The
cattleman looked at him, his eyes like chilled steel, his lips clamped tightly.
“Murder is one o’ the things that bein’ sorry for don’t excuse,” lie said
harshly.

 
          
Burdette’s
eyes opened in bewilderment and then, as understanding came to him, his cheeks
flushed redly under the tan.

 
          
“Yu
tryin’ to tell me I killed yore son?” he cried.

 
          
“Nothin’
less,” was the stern reply. “He was found in Echo Valley with a .38 slug
through his back, fired by a fella who rode a grey; there’s yore hoss an’ gun,
an’ you was seen headin’ that way a bit before. If yu wasn’t a Burdette, or if
we had a marshal worth a busted nickel, yu’d be stretchin’ hemp right now.”

 
          
“It’s
a damnable lie,” the young man said hotly. “I never had any grudge against
Kit—in fact …” He hesitated and then burst out, “It’s absurd. Why, if things
had been different, him an’ me might ‘a’ been good friends. I give yu my word,
Purdie,
I had nothin’ to do with his death.”

 
          
Sudden,
watching him closely, believed he was speaking the truth, but the cattleman’s
face expressed nothing hut incredulity.

 
          
“O’
course yu’d say so,” he sneered. “I wouldn’t take the word of a Burdette at the
Throne of Heaven.” His eyes, mad with misery, glared at this lad who had all
his own son had lost—youth, vigour, the vista of life—and a savage spate of
anger swept away his control. “Pull yore gun, yu cur, an’ we’ll settle it here
an’ now,” he cried.

 
          
The
boy’s face flushed at the insult, but he made no move towards his weapon. His
gaze did not waver as he
replied :

 
          
“If
yu want to kill me, Purdie, go ahead; there’s a reason why I can’t draw on yu.”

 
          
The
elder man’s lips twisted into a furious snarl. “Yu bet there’s a reason—yo’re
yellow, like the rest o’ yore scaly, shoot-from-cover family,” he rasped.
“Well, yu get away with it for now, but paste this in yore hat: I’m goin’ to
find the fella who murdered my boy, an’ when I do—he dies.”

 
          
“I’ll
help yu,” Luce replied, and walked slowly away. Purdie looked at the puncher.

 
          
“What
d’yu make o’ that?”

 
          
“I
don’t think he did it.”

 
          
“Yu
don’t know the breed—lyin’s as natural as breathin’ with them,” the rancher
replied.

 
          
“I’m
backin’ my judgment, seh,” the puncher persisted.

 
          
“Weil,
mebbe, but I’m bettin’ it was a Burdette anyways,” the old man said. “What I was
goin’ to ask yu when that houn’ showed up was to see me before yu make any
plans. Will yu do that?”

 
          
“Pleased
to,” Sudden said.

 
          
It
was agreed that he should ride over to the C P on the following morning, and
the cattleman departed. Sudden went in search of a meal, his mind full of the
encounter he had just witnessed. He liked Purdie, recognized him for a white
man, and admired the sturdy pluck with which he was facing a crushing
misfortune. Regarding Burdette his mind was in a curious condition. As at their
first meeting, he felt attracted to the boy, and found it difficult to conceive
him guilty of a cowardly murder. Certainly it was not lack of courage that made
him refuse the older man’s challenge, at the risk of being shot down where he
stood.
If all the Burdettes were like this one…

 
          
Meanwhile,
the subject of his speculations had gone straight to the marshal’s office.

 
          
Slype,
lounging in a tilted-back chair, his heels on his desk, chuckled inwardly when
he saw the visitor’s pale, furious face.

 
          
“‘Lo,
Luce, what’s bitin’ yu?” he inquired.

 
          
“I’ve
just seen Purdie, an’ he’s accusin’ me o’ shootin’ Kit,” the boy blurted out.

 
          
The
marshal grinned. “Well, didn’t yu?” he asked.

 
          
“Yu
know damn well I didn’t,” Luce retorted hotly. “An’ yu gotta get busy an’ find
out who did; I ain’t goin’ to have a thing like that pinned on me.”

 
          
“Orders,
huh?” the officer sneered. “Well, I ain’t takin’ ‘em. Ol’ Man Purdie has served
notice that
him
an’ his outfit is goin’ to handle the
job, an’ that lets me out.
Sabe?”

 
          
His
little eyes squinted at the youth in malignant enjoyment; he would not have
dared to take that tone with any other of the Burdettes.

 
          
“Playin’
safe, huh?” Luce said scornfully. “They shore don’t call yù Slippery’ for
nothin’,” and stamped out of the office before any adequate reply occurred to
its owner.

 
          
Getting
his horse, he mounted and rode slowly out of town, taking the westerly trail
which was the direct line to Old Stormy. Sitting listlessly in the saddle, head
down, he had an air of dejection utterly foreign to his nature. In truth, Luce
Burdette was in the depths of despair, for the events of the last two days had
wrecked the secret cherished hopes of months. How would Nan Purdie regard him
now —the reputed slayer of her brother? Despite the dormant enmity between the
two families, he had dared to dream, and even after the mysterious taking-off
of Old Burdette had nearly provoked an open rupture, had gone on doing so. But
this latest killing, so obviously a reprisal, must be the end of everything—for
him. And the dream had been so sweet!

 
          
Unknown
to all others, they had met at intervals—accidentally, as they both
pretended—and though no word of love had been uttered, eyes spoke to eyes and
told what the lips dared not say.

 
          
And
now, in the faint hope that he would see her, and be able to deny this damnable
thing that was being said of him, he was going to a spot where he had already
seen her several times, a sheltered little glade on the lower slopes of Old
Stormy.

 
          
It
was an ideal place for a lovers’ tryst—a tiny circle of grass, mosaiced with
flowers, almost entirely walled in by scrub-oak and other trees, with an
undergrowth of catclaw, prickly pear, and smaller shrubs. Burdette’s face fell
when he found that the glade was empty, though he had expected to find it so.
Dismounting, he trailed the reins and dropped on a prostrate tree-trunk which
had served them as a seat on happier occasions. With bowed head he sat there,
wondering.

 
          
Would
she come, and if she did, would she believe him? He asked himself over and over
again. It did not seem possible; she would take her father’s view, and he had
to admit that Purdie was justified—the evidence was damning.

 
          
A
whinny from his horse apprised him that someone was approaching, and he looked
up to see the girl he was waiting for. At the sight of him she checked her pony
for a moment and then came slowly on. Despite the very evident signs of grief,
she made a picture to fill the eye of a man. She rode astride, with the long
stirrup of the Arizona cowboy, and her mount—a mettlesome mustang—knew better
than to try any tricks. A dark shirt-waist, and divided skirt which reached to
the tops of her trim riding-boots, showed the curves of her slim figure, and
her honey-coloured hair, cut short almost like a boy’s, curled crisply beneath
the black wide-brimmed hat. Burdette saw the shadows under the deep blue eyes
which had always smiled at him, and choked down a curse. Hat in hand, he rose
to his feet.

 
          
“I
was hopin’ to see yu,” he said.

 
          
“I
didn’t expect ” the girl began, and then, “I couldn’t stay in the house; I had
to come out—just to convince myself that the world isn’t all ugly and wicked.”

 
          
The
poignant note of misery made him writhe. “Nan!” he cried, and his heart was in
his voice, “Yu don’t believe I did it, do yu?”

 
          
The
tear-laden eyes met his bravely. “If I thought that I wouldn’t even look at
you,” their owner said.

 
          
The
boy’s face lighted for a moment. “Then I don’t care who does think it,” he said
impulsively.

 
          
“It
makes no difference,” she told him. “
you
are a
Burdette, I am a Purdie; no good can come of our—meeting.”

 
          
“But
if yu don’t believe the Burdettes did this thing,” he protested.

 
          
“I
didn’t say that, Luce,” she reminded him, and though she spoke softly there was
an underlying bitterness which told him only too plainly what she did believe.
Hopelessness again claimed him.

 
          
“I’ll
find the skunk,” he gritted. “If my people had anythin’ to do with it, I’ll
disown the lot of ‘em.”

 
          
He
meant it—the savage intensity of his voice showed that—but the girl shook her
head.