Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) (17 page)

 
          
“This
ain’t finishin’ here,” he warned.

 
          
“I’d
noticed that,”
came
the gibe. “Split the wind, yu
misfit.” With studied deliberation, the ruffian rode down the street, and the
young man’s eyes gleamed mischievously. Pulling his gun, he sent a couple of
bullets under the pony’s pacing feet, flinging the frightened beast into a mad
gallop, and nearly unseating the surprised rider. Then, with a contented grin,
he went into the restaurant, just as its owner, white-faced, appeared.

 
          
“I
heard shots,” she said.

 
          
“His
hoss was lazy—I just
livened
it up some,” he
explained. “What was he after?” The colour came back into her cheeks. “He was
after—me,” she replied demurely.

 
          
“The
devil he was?”

 
          
“Your
astonishment is hardly a compliment,” she smiled. “Yu know I didn’t mean it
thataway.”

 
          
“You
only make it worse; I’m afraid you’ll never be a success with the ladies.”

 
          
“I
don’t aim to be, ‘cept with one,” he said warmly.

 
          
She
changed the subject. “I haven’t seen the marshal to-ay.

 
          
“Gone
to the Bar O; told me to stay an’ keep shop,” Dave informed.
“Said
there might be another unruly customer to chuck out.
Now how in blazes
could he know that?” She shook her head. “He is a clever man; if I had any
secrets I should be afraid of him. Did he say anything else?” Dave grinned
gleefully. “Shore, he reminded me to make the fella pay first, an’ I did—this
time.” The subject of their conversation was certainly on his way to the Bar O,
but the route he had selected was by no means the nearest. In fact, he had gone
straight to the Silver Mane. The place had a fascination, and he was convinced
that it held a secret. But he failed again to find anything, and after a
patient search, he gave up and rode along The Step until he came to where it
dipped down and could be crossed.

 
          
On
the far side, he found a wide slope of sparse grass, and presently he came upon
cattle, grazing in twos and threes. Acting on an impulse, he chased one group,
and when sufficiently near, whirled his rope. The loop dropped neatly over the
head of a steer, and Nigger sat back on his haunches. The running beast went
down as though its feet had been snatched from under it, with a jar which knocked
the breath out of its body. Ere it could recover, the horseman was by its side.

 
          
He
needed but one look; true, it was a Dumbbell brand, but one half was inflamed,
having evidently been recently added. To make sure, he ran down several other
bunches, and without troubling to use his rope again, found further damning
evidence.

 
          
“Reckon
this will interest Owen,” he said grimly. “I’ll have to go to the Bar O after
all.”

 
          
But
he was saved the trouble, for on covering only a few miles, he heard a hail,
and saw the rancher coming towards him.

 
          
“‘Lo,
Jim,” he greeted. “Seen any cattle-hungry hombres around?”

 
          
“No,
but I’d like to show yu somethin’ if yu ain’t in a hurry.”

 
          
“I
got all the time there is.”

 
          
“C’mon then,” Sudden invited.
He swung his horse round and
the other followed.

 
          
“Smart
work snatchin’ the pot from those bank-breakers,” the rancher remarked. “You
must ‘a’ been born lucky, Jim.” Sudden did not reply, save by a smile, bitter,
without mirth. He was thinking of the youth—not then twenty—who, on the
flimsiest evidence, had been branded thief and murderer, a price put upon his
head, driven to herd with outlaws and fight for his freedom.1 Lucky? Well,
perhaps he was—to be alive.

 
          
They
crossed The Step and soon came upon the cattle. The marshal roped and threw
one, Owen watching the operation with appreciative eyes; rarely had he seen
such skill and precision; he said as much.

 
          
“Punchin’
is my business,” was the reply. “Take a squint at the brand, an’ give me yore
opinion.” One look sufficed, but one word did not.
“Sark?”
Owen cried. “So he’s the damned, dirty, thievin’ dawg? Of all the …” A string
of blistering, vitriolic terms tripped from his tongue in swift succession
until, invention and breath failing, he stopped, looked at the marshal—and laughed.

 
          
“Damn’
silly, but if I didn’t cuss I’d just naturally explode,” he excused. “But that’s
enough to make any cattleman mad, ain’t it?”

 
          
“Shorely,
but there’s one thing I can’t understand,” Sudden replied. “The brand is badly
botched—a kid could do better, an’ I reckon Sark’s hands are cowmen.”

 
          
“Some
of ‘em are better gunmen,” Owen responded. “
I’m needin’
an explanation right now. Let’s go.” Driving their captive before them, they
set out.

 
          
As
they drew near the forest, they could see the ranch-house standing clear of the
trees, with the other buildings and corrals a little distance away. Constructed
mainly of ‘dobe, it was larger and more pretentious than the Bar O. It had the
usual raised terrace in front, giving access to the dwelling, and below this,
flower-beds had been laid out, but these now showed every sign of neglect.

 
          
“Amos
had ‘em made for Mary Gray,” Owen said. “It’s a blazin’ shame they should
belong to this coyote.”

 
          
“I’m
agreein’ with yu. He’s comin’ to meet us. Keep yore wool on, John; we’re an
easy mark.” In fact, Sark was swinging towards them, but presently he stopped
and waited for them to ride up. His expression of insolent surprise was not one
of welcome.

 
          
“Well,
well, the last two people I’d expect to bring me a present,” he began, his gaze
on the steer, still held by Sudden’s rope.

 
          
“Look
at the brand,” Owen said curtly.

 
          
Sark
stepped closer. “Ragged work,” he replied coolly. “If I can find out who did
it, he gets his time. I’m obliged to you.”

 
          
“Quit
stallin’,” Owen rapped out.

 
          
“You suggestin’ I’m stealin’ yore cattle?”

 
          
“What
else? Here’s a beast with my iron altered to yores an’ there’s others where we
found it, just this side o’ The Step, on yore range.” Sark glared. “A part I
don’t use,” he said, “but no matter. Listen: when I want the Bar O, I’ll take
it—hook, line, an’sinker, not a few measly cows at a lick. Get that? Now, make
tracks, afore I have you run off my land, an’ take yore hired killer with you.”
He had raised his voice, and several men—appearing from the outbuildings—drew
nearer. Sudden saw the backward glance and spoke for the first time:

 
          
“I
wouldn’t crow too loud, even if yu are on yore own dung-hill. An’ don’t rely on
that bunch o’ bush-whackers yu’d be buzzard’s meat when they started anythin’.
That”—he pointed to the steer—“needs explainin’; I’ve seen men hanged on
slimmer evidence.” The cold, passionless tone brought Sark up with a round
turn. He spat disgustedly.

 
          
“My
fellas would do a better job than that, an’ wouldn’t leave the cattle where you
could find ‘em till the wounds
were
healed,” he
pointed out. “I’d say someone is doin’ this to throw suspicion on the Dumbbell,
an’ cover their own tracks.”

 
          
“If
you’d said that right off
we
might ‘a’ believed you,”
was Owen’s comment. “If you ain’t liftin’ the cattle, I’ll
bet
a blue stack yo’re
buyin’ ‘em. It wouldn’t be the first rotten trick you’ve
turned, you—jail-bird.” Sark’s face became livid. Dumb with rage, he made a
movement towards his gun.

 
          
“I—just—wouldn’t,”
the marshal said.

 
          
Simple
as the words were, they carried a threat which penetrated the mind of the
half-demented man. His hand stopped, and then, with a furious wave of
dismissal, he turned and walked back to his ranch-house. Owen had a parting
shaft:

 
          
“We’re
leavin’ the cow you paid for.” No response coming, they rode unhurriedly away.

 
          
For
a while neither spoke; the marshal was the first to break the silence.

 
          
“Has
he really been a guest o’ Uncle Sam?”

 
          
“Yeah,
it ain’t generally knowed, but he got two years in the pen; that finished him
with Amos.”

 
          
“Yet
he leaves him practically all his property. Odd, ain’t it?”

 
          
“So
damned odd I can’t believe it, but the will seemed straight enough. O’ course,
Amos was queer in some ways, but he thought a lot o’ Mary.” Another silence
ensued, and then the rancher remarked, “Well, I got troubles o’ my own. What am
I
to.
do
‘bout this
brand-blottin’?”

 
          
“Yu
can’t move till yu know for shore,” Sudden told him. “It might be a frame-up
like he claims.”

 
          
“I’ll
stake my life he’s mixed up in it,” Owen said stubbornly. “They steal, an’ he
buys—cheap; that’s my guess.”

 
          
“Yu
may be right,” Sudden agreed. “I was watchin’ him close an’ he didn’t seem
so
surprised as he oughta been, but we gotta have proof. It’ll
mean waitin’, but we’ll get it. I’m beginnin’ to feel a whole lot interested in
Mister Sark.”

 
          
SEVERAL
days had passed, and Sudden was again at the Silver Mane, watching the sheet of
water sweep over The Step, to drop, with a continuous boom, into the stream
beneath and go dancing and eddying away between the willow-lined banks.

 
          
He
waded through the water and rode to the other side. Dense masses of evergreen
masked the sides of the fall, but pushing into these he found a narrow space
between them and the wall of rock. Following this, he came to a ledge of stone
some three feet in width, directly under the Silver Mane, and there, completely
concealed, was what appeared to be the entrance to a cavern. Though it was high
enough to admit a horseman, he decided to explore on foot.

 
          
As
he had expected, the opening led into the bowels of The Step itself. By the
light which came, as from a window, through the sheet of water, he could see
innumerable hoof-marks, both of horses and cattle. So this was how Pockmark’s
companion had got clear.

 
          
The
tunnel sloped slightly upwards, and from the roughness of the walls it was
evident that man had no hand in the making of it. As the faint light from the
entrance failed he found that the passage veered to the left, and since it soon
became entirely dark, he had to feel his way. He had covered something more
than two hundred paces when a voice came to him, reverberating weirdly through
the gloom.

 
          
“I’ll
see you,” it said, and a curse followed. “Damn it, two-handed poker never was
no
good to me.” Sudden went on, but more warily, until,
groping round a bend, he saw that which sent him swiftly behind a projecting
spur of rock—a fire, and beside it, two men playing cards on a spread blanket.
The leaping flames showed that here the tunnel gave upon a large and lofty
cave, the full extent of which he was unable to determine; on the far side,
through an irregular opening, he could see daylight.

 
          
The
gamblers were conversing in low tones, and the marshal was considering an
attempt to get near enough to overhear when an indefinite sound of movement
from behind arrested him.