Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 06 - Sudden Gold-Seeker(1937) (6 page)

 
          
“Han’some
fella,” Sudden commented. “No, I ain’t seen him.” The omission was to be
rectified a little later when the chase of a steer took him down the trail.
Returning with the runaway at the end of his rope, he pulled up at a halted
wagon, with a group of men ringed round two others. One of these, a slight
bow-legged man with a peculiarly fiat face and beady eyes, was bending forward,
a hand on his pistol. The other, a burly, bearded teamster, stood a dozen paces
away, gripping his whip.

 
          
“Pull
yore gun, farmer,” the former was saying. “I’ll larn you to lay yore paws on
Dick Rodd.”

 
          
“I
don’t use
none
,” the other replied. “If you
was
more’n half a man I’d take my han’s to you, but …” His
look of contempt at the puny figure of his adversary finished the sentence.

 
          
One
of the onlookers now noticed the man on the black horse. “Hey, cowboy,” he
called.

 
          
“Yo’re
the fella to settle this; you’ve seen gunfights, I’ll
lay
.”
Sudden rode nearer. “What’s the trouble?” he inquired.

 
          
The
teamster explained, with an angry gesture towards his opponent: “This rat has
been shinin’ up to my daughter, who don’t want
none
of
his company. I’ve warned him two-three times to keep his distance an’ now I
find him pesterin’ her again. I had to argue with him.”

 
          
“He
kicked me—me, Dick Rodd,” the little man almost screamed. “He dies for that,
the
..”

 
          
He
ended with a string of obscenities.

 
          
“Why
didn’t yu let the gal alone if she didn’t want yu?” the cowboy asked.

 
          
“Bah!
women
are all alike,” came the sneering reply. “They
just retreat to draw a fella on. I ain’t the on’y one
she’s ”

 
          
“You
dirty liar,” the teamster stormed.

 
          
As though he had been waiting for this further provocation, Rodd
rapped out an oath and dragged at his weapon.
It was no more than half
out of the holster, however, when Sudden spoke again:

 
          
“Put
that back where it belongs or yu’ll eat yore supper in a hotter place than
this.” The cold, passionless tone was pregnant with menace. Still clutching the
butt of his gun, Rodd hesitated. Then, when he saw that by some miracle of
speed, one of the cowboy’s Colts was covering him, he let his hand drop to his
side.

 
          
“What
damn business is it o’ yores, anyway?” he grumbled. Sudden did not answer. He
turned to the teamster. “Can yu use that whip pretty good?” he asked.

 
          
“Can
I use her?” the man repeated. “Why, stranger, I c’n take a fly off’n the ear o’
my lead ox an’ the critter wouldn’t know.” Boastful as the statement certainly
was, Sudden knew it might not be very wide of the truth. The cowboy looked at
the smaller man.

 
          
“Understand
whips?” he questioned.

 
          
“Naw,”
was the disgusted reply. “I ain’t
no
perishin’ hayseed.”
Sudden pondered for a moment. “He don’t savvy yore weapon an’ yu don’t savvy
his,” he said. “It’ll have to be yore gun against his whip.”

 
          
“Suits
me,” the teamster said, adding grimly. “I’ll have an eye out’n him ‘fore he can
wink it.” The second combatant was less prompt in speaking and it was plain he
did not like the proposition, though it appeared to be in his favour; he had
but to pull and fire his gun before the other struck. But he knew the
incredible speed with which the lash would come at him, like a striking ‘snake,
and with force sufficient to cut through the tough hide of an ox. If he fired
and missed there would be no second shot; he would be cut to ribbons, perhaps—blinded!
A shiver shook him, and in that moment he came to a decision; there were safer
ways of compassing his revenge.

 
          
“I
ain’t puffin’ on a man what isn’t `heeled’,” he said sullenly, and turned to
where his horse was standing.

 
          
“You
lousy yeller dawg,” the teamster shouted, and swung his weapon.

 
          
Sudden
raised a protesting hand. “He’s all o’ that but yu gotta let him go,” he said.

 
          
Amid
a chorus of jeers the discomfited ruffian climbed to his saddle. The cowboy had
a final word for him:

 
          
“If
any accident happens to our friend here”—he pointed to the teamster—“I’ll be lookin’
for yu,” he warned, adding with a hard smile, “an’ I shall be heeled.” He had
to eat with the teamster’s family, his wife, a plump, homely woman, the
daughter—cause of all the trouble—a pretty girl with rosy cheeks and a shy
smile, and a tow-headed boy of twelve who could not take his eyes off the
visitor’s guns.

 
          
“Say,
mister, you ever wiped anybody out with those?” he presently blurted out.

 
          
Sudden’s
smile faded. “Do I look like a killer?” he fenced. “I’m allowin’ you don’t,”
was the reply. “But if you
was
riled, I’d step around
mighty careful.”

 
          
“Shet
yore trap,” his father ordered, and, apologetically to his guest, “Dunno what
kids is comin’ to; if I’d spoke out like that in company
my
of
man would have had the hide off’n me. So you won’t trail along with
us to Oregon?” Sudden shook his head. “I got other plans,” he excused. When he
returned to his own outfit, Mason was mildly facetious. “What was it yu forgot?”
he inquired, and grinned at his friend’s look of bewilderment. “Yu must ‘a’
gone back to Wayside for somethin’.” Sudden joined in the laugh at his own
expense. “Nigger’s a good hoss but he ain’t got wings,” he said. “I’ve been
makin’ the acquaintance of yore friend with the barrel-hoop legs.”

 
          
“What,
Bandy?” Mason asked.

 
          
“He
certainly is. I never met anyone whose knees were such total strangers.”

 
          
“How come?”
Sudden told the story in his own whimsical
fashion, passing lightly over his part in it, but Gerry was beginning to know
this habit of careless indifference.

 
          
“An’
he ate crow?” he said incredulously. “I s’pose he ain’t exactly in love with
yu?”

 
          
“I’m
afraid I hurt his feelin’s,” Sudden said, an unrepentant twinkle in his eyes,
and then he sobered. “I should ‘a’ warned yu, Gerry, that I’m one o’ 0I’ Man
Trouble’s special favourites; yu oughta cut loose from me.”

 
          
“Like
hell!” came the hearty rejoinder. “I didn’t come
West
to pick flowers an’—there’s Miss Ducane.” There was a reverence in the boy’s
tone as he spoke the name which swept the good-natured jest from the other’s
lips. He liked this frank-faced young fellow whose companionship meant much to
a lonely, friendless man. For since he had come
North
,
unjustly driven as an outlaw from his own country, Texas, his quixotic search
had kept him moving and he could form no ties.

 
          
Deadwood!
One narrow street, formed by irregular rows of nondescript buildings of the
crudest character, the most pretentious of which were constructed of unbarked
logs or roughly sawn boards; a few boasted two storeys, others had the false
front so prevalent in frontier settlements, but for the most part the shack and
dug-out predominated.

 
          
At
a first glance the town appeared to consist almost entirely of saloons and
gambling dives, with a few stores intermingled, but closer inspection revealed
hotels, boarding and eating-houses. Plank sidewalks protected the pedestrian
from the roadway—if the almost knee-deep strip of dust, which after rain became
a morass of mud—could be so-called. Stumps of trees, boulders, and piles of
lumber impeded progress and testified to the feverish haste to which the place
owed its being.

 
          
The
population was as varied as the architecture. Men of every colour, white,
yellow, bronze and black, thronged the sidewalks; blue-shirted, bare-throated,
bearded miners, their homespun trousers thrust into the tops of their boots,
gaily-sashed Mexicans, slant-eyed Chinamen, and occasionally, a plumed Indian,
wrapped in his gaudy blanket, dignified, aloof,
unreadable
.
In the road itself, wagons drawn by patient-eyed oxen and piloted by
perspiring, vitriolic-tongued drivers ploughed up clouds of fine dust to the
extreme discomfort of passers-by.

 
          
Overhead,
in a pale blue sky, the sun blazed.

 
          
Into
this welter of humanity the newcomers plunged and were at once submerged.

 
          
Sudden
and his friend arrived at one end of the street and Gerry prepared to dismount
at the first saloon.

 
          
“That
can wait,” Sudden said. “First we gotta find out where we live.” Having left
their mounts at a livery stable, they emerged into the street again in time to
witness a curious scene. A bent old man, clad in a shabby black coat, was
retreating before a group of young roughs who were pelting him with stones and
refuse. There was something of dignity in the victim’s silence, but Sudden
caught a look of appeal in the dark eyes.

 
          
“What’s
the old fella done?” he asked a red-headed youth who appeared to be the
ringleader.

 
          
“How
long you bin peace-officer?” came the impudent retort, shot over a shoulder.

 
          
Sudden’s
long arm reached out and swung the speaker round. “I ain’t,” he said quietly, “but
when I ask a civil question I expect the same sort o’ answer.” Red-hair’s hand
had gone to his waistband, where the butt of a gun protruded, but fell away
when he saw the type of man he had to deal with. This cold-eyed person who wore
two weapons might be a cowpuncher, gunman, or both, and in any case, did not
look easy. He decided to temporize.

 
          
“Dunno
as he’s done anythin’,” he replied surlily. “He’s a Jew, that’s what.”

 
          
“Which
is no crime in a free country,” the puncher said. “What’s the penalty for hein’
a cowardly coyote pup?” The contemptuous question, deliberately insulting,
upset the young ruffian’s poise, and his face became as red as his hair. He did
not know what to do; this sarcastic, confident stranger, little older than
himself in mere years but twice his age in experience, had him “buffaloed.” The
shamed bully looked round at his following and for a few tense seconds the
issue hung in the balance. But Gerry had been whispering to the nearest of the
gang, the word had passed round, and with no more than ugly glares they
slouched away. Red-hair, the last to leave, alone found his tongue.

 
          
“I’m
rememberin’ this,” he snarled.

 
          
“Yo’re
gettin’ sense a’ready,” Sudden complimented.

 
          
The
old man, who had watched the scene with inscrutable eyes, now came forward. “My
friends, I thank you,” he said, voice and manner entirely out of keeping with
the shabby attire.

 
          
“Those
young devils have made life a burden to me for weeks past.”

 
          
“I
reckon they won’t trouble yu again, seh,” Sudden smiled.

 
          
“You
certainly gave them a lesson, but I fear they will transfer their enmity to
you,” the other replied. “Ridicule is a bitter pill for youth to swallow.”
Sudden laughed and looked at his friend. “Shucks, I figure we can take care of
ourselves.” The old man’s eyes swept over them approvingly. “I do not doubt it,
given fair play,” he agreed, “but this is the toughest town of the many I have
known. You are strangers here; is there any way I can help you?”

 
          
“We
got in this afternoon an’ we’re wonderin’ where we can bed down,” Mason
explained.