Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) (31 page)

 
          
“So
that’s why you went?”

 
          
“How
did yu know I’d gone a-tall?”

 
          
“Oh,
dicky-birds tell tales.”

 
          
“Yeah,
dirty dicky-birds,” Sudden retorted. Some of the Welcomers sniggered. “An’ yu
sent Squint to close my mouth—for keeps?”

 
          
“Never
heard o’ the gent,” Sark replied.

 
          
“Well,
it
don’t
matter. Let’s get back to the trail we were
followin’.”

 
          
“Suits
me,” the prisoner agreed. He was beginning to feel more comfortable. “I’ll tell
you somethin’ you couldn’t ‘a’ discovered at Bentley because they don’t know
it. Kent robbed the bank where I was
employed,
an’
bein’ a friend o’ his, I was—unjustly—roped in as an accomplice.

 
          
We
were sentenced to the same term, an’.
sent
to the pen
together. On the way, we arranged to swap identities—it was mainly a prank, to
put one over on the Warden, but we had a dim idea it might help when we got
out. It worked; the prison people were a mite careless, mebbe, but we were
pretty much the same age, build, an’ not unlike in appearance. So when Kent
died he was buried as me, which was a complication we hadn’t figured on. That
makes yore writin’ worth nothin’ a-tall.” The marshal looked at the impostor
almost with respect —the fellow was cleverer than he had supposed. He did not
for a moment credit the story, but it sounded plausible enough.

 
          
“Is
there anyone who can prove what yu say?” Beneath his breath, Sark cursed
himself; the man who could have supported his fabrication was lying stiff and
stark at the Dumbbell. He made a negative gesture.

 
          
“When
I come out I resumed my own name, an’ naturally, I didn’t talk
none
,” he replied.

 
          
“I
don’t know?”

 
          
“There’s
one here can show he’s tellin’ a pack o’ lies,” a voice interrupted, and Sloppy
slouched from the wall. “What
d’yu know
about this?”
Sudden asked.

 
          
“That
he ain’t the fella he’s purtendin’ to be.” The man in the chair regarded this
new witness with derision. “He musta found Jake’s private store—he’s drunk,” he
said.

 
          
“I ain’t neither,”
Sloppy rejoined. “An’ even if I was, I’d
reckernize my own son.” He gazed around, enjoying the sensation his statement
had evoked, and then, “Guess all o’ you think I’m soused, but yo’re wrong.” He
shot a shaft at the accused. “What was yore father’s first name?”

 
          
The
question jolted Sark sadly; he felt the ground slipping again from beneath his
feet. He could not answer.

 
          
“How
was yore mother called before she married?” The badgered man pulled himself
together; he must find some excuse. “I can’t remember these details—I had a bad
illness

 
          
“Liar,”
Sloppy burst in scornfully. “Yo’re just a pore fraud; you did oughta studied up
the Sark family a bit more. Well, folks, I’m Ray Sark, on’y brother to Amos, an’
father o’ Jesse; I’m tellin’ you that tinhorn there is no son o’ mine.” Nippert
stilled the hubbub by rapping on the table with the butt of his gun, and turned
a severe eye on the witness.

 
          
“If
you’ve knowed all along this warn’t Jesse Sark, why ain’t you
spoke
afore?”

 
          
“I
was scairt, Ned,” the little man admitted. “You see, it was me found Amos first
of all that mornin’. I’d recent come to Drywash, an’ was on my way to try an’
patch things up atween us. I can see him now lyin’ there at the side o’ the
trail. He was hurt mortal, but just before he passed out, he opens his eyes, an’
sez, `So it was you? Well, it won’t put nothin’ in yore pocket, nor that
time-servin’ pup
who
blotted the name o’ Sark; it all
goes to Mary.’ Thatsuited me, but I’m in a jam; if it gits knowed I was on the
spot, folks’ll shore figure—like Amos—that I shot him on the chance o’ gittin’
somethin’. So I
starts
his hoss for the ranch, an’ lit
out. When I learns o’ the will givin’ the Dumbbell to my son, I’m scairt wuss’n
ever, it bein’ a bigger reason for my committin’ the crime. Jesse havin’ died—which
I don’t know then—an’ this fella takin’ his
place,
don’t
clear me o’ that suspicion. So I took the coward’s course, let my whiskers
grow, an’ drifted to
Welcome—
where I was a stranger,
hopin’ somethin’ would turn up. It did—Jim
come
.” This
halting recital elicited a laugh of ridicule from Sark. “He ain’t drunk, he’s
mad,” he said. “Likely, ain’t it? A fine, well-stocked range is left to his boy
an’ he lets another man grab it. He claims to be Ray Sark, my father; I say he
is not.
Looks to me as if he wiped out Amos an’ is tryin’ to
pin the job on me.”
Silence followed the accusation and Sloppy got some
doubtful looks. Then it was seen that the marshal was holding a small brass box
on the palm of his hand.

 
          
“I
found this on the spot where Amos Sark was killed,” he said to the prisoner. “Do
you recognize it?”

 
          
“I
remember you showed it to me.”

 
          
“An’
yu wanted to buy it. Why?”

 
          
“Just
curiosity,” the other shrugged.

 
          
“To
find out if the initials E. K. were scratched inside the lid, huh? Well, they
are.” Sark’s face remained expressionless. “Means nothin’ to me,” he said, and
turned sharply on Sloppy.

 
          
“Got
anyone to say you are Ray Sark?” The little man was taken aback. “Mebbe if I
peeled this hair off’n my face somebody in Drywash would remember me,” he said
doubtfully. “But I warn’t there long.”

 
          
“How
comes it Mary Gray don’t remember, her uncle?” Sloppy grinned. “Because she ain’t
seen him, as such, since she was a tiny toddler, which you’d ‘a’ knowed if you
were the fella you claim to be.”

 
          
“I
did know, I was just testin’ you,” Sark returned coolly. If he could only gain
a respite, reach the Dumbbell, perform a certain task, find and destroy the
lawyer’s papers
… .
He resolved on a bold stroke.
Pointing to Sloppy, he went on, “You heard him. Tells you he’s Ray Sark, but
can’t prove it. Tells you I’m not Jesse Sark, but if you give me time, I can
show that I am.
If Seth Lyman was here?”

 
          
“He
is,” croaked a reedy voice.

 
          
The
men grouped around the doorway stood aside to allow the passage of a strange
pair.

 
          
A
big
negro
, helping, almost carrying a shrivelled weed
of humanity in a skirted black coat and bloodstained boiled shirt. From his
waxen-white face, deep-sunk eyes flared feverish hate, and a dreadful
determination. With the inevitability of Death itself he moved forward and
stopped in front of the accused.

 
          
The
gathering watched their progress in amazed silence. Upon Sark their appearance
was petrifying. Open-mouthed, and with a clammy fear constricting his heart, he
gazed distraught at the man he had left for dead in the Dumbbell ranch-house.
In those vengeful eyes he read his doom and his trembling lips framed a frantic
appeal:

 
          
“Seth,
save me,” he whispered. “We can still make good. I swear I’ll
..”
A hideous laugh from the lawyer stilled the remainder of the sentence.

 
          
“Hark
to him,” he taunted. “Begging mercy from one who has tasted the torments of
Hell to come here and destroy him.” He paused for a moment, gathering strength,
and then, stabbing a finger at the cowering wretch in the chair, “There sits
Eza Kent, liar, thief, traitor, and murderer.

 
          
Listen:
I always coveted the Dumbbell range, and when Amos Sark made me his man of
business, I saw my way. I meant to use young Jesse, but when he died in gaol, I
had to content myself with this—thing. Forging the will was a simple matter,
and the fact that the heir was not known around here seemed to make success
certain.” He halted again, and the spectators of this weird scenestood dumb
while this fragile creature, obviously dying on his feet, fought for time to
compass his vengeance. Sark, fascinated, could not drag his fearful gaze from
those blood-drained lips which were condemning him to the darkness of eternity.

 
          
“Killing
Amos was no part of my plan, but Ezra couldn’t wait. We got the range, and
nobody suspected until Welcome gets a new marshal and this fool has to fall
foul of him; if he’d made friends instead of foes …” His glazing eyes never
left the object of his scorn, and the consuming hatred which had enabled him to
endure the terrible ride from the Dumbbell still sustained him. The pitiless accusation
continued.

 
          
“You
paid Mullins to steal the girl, meaning to force her into marriage and so make
your title good; you failed. You offered five hundred dollars for the marshal’s
murder, and failed again.” In his shaking hand he thrust out a small sheaf of
papers. “You even failed to find these—my confession, and the real will,
leaving everything to Mary Gray.” He grimaced horribly.

 
          
“I
told you they were in a safe place and so they were—the safest place in the
world to a bungler like you, right under your nose; you stepped over them a
dozen times a day at the ranch. Ha!
that
touches you.”
Bitter chagrin came and went in the tortured eyes. The lawyer’s voice weakened
to a mere whisper. “You tried to kill me, and I—live—to—hang you.” The last
words were almost inaudible. His head fell forward, and the sagging form
collapsed in Juba’s grasp. He lowered it gently to the floor, and bent for a
moment.

 
          
“Sho’
is daid—dis time,” he said.

 
          
No
one spoke, but he marshal removed his hat, and the others followed suit.

 
          
As one awakening from an evil dream.
Sark wrenched his gaze
from the body, and furtively scanned the grim faces around him. All told the
same story; he could see no spark of compassion in any one of them. An
appalling despair bit into his brain. Nippert spoke:

 
          
“Ezra
Kent, have you anythin’ to say?” He heard himself talking incoherently. “It was
Lyman’s plot. I had to do what he said—I was in his power. When I refused, at
the ranch, he threw a gun on me; I struck him in self-defence. For God’s sake,
have pity.”

 
          
“What
pity did you show Amos Sark?”

 
          
“Lyman
forced me” he began, and stopped as he saw the judge was looking at the jury.

 
          
In
turn each shook his
head,
and a sweat broke out in
beads of ice on his brow. His body shook as with an ague. From his swollen,
livid face the eyes protruded, and the squirming lips transformed it into a
hideous human travesty. Spellbound, the onlookers saw him try to rise, but his
knees buckled beneath him, and with a choking cry of “Mercy!” he pitched
headlong across the man he had slain. Nippert was the first to reach him. His
exclamation was brief.

 
          
“Finished,”
he announced.
“Died o’ sheer fright, seemin’ly.
I
never see the like. Where’s Jim?” The marshal had slipped out unnoticed in the
excitement, but returned in time to hear a flippant comment by a Bar O puncher:

 
          
“Less trouble for us.
How many ropes needed now?”

 
          
“Nary
a one,” Sudden told him. “Mister Death has had a plenty big harvest a’ready.”

 
          
“Allasame,
them fellas are rustlers,” Owen objected. “They stole my steers an’ shot down
my boys; I’m hangin’ ‘em.”

 
          
“Yu’ll
have to catch ‘em first. I figured that was how yu’d feel, so I turned ‘em
loose.