Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) (4 page)

 
          
“So’s
Jake, but his methods is different. An’ Sark ain’t
none
pleased; he musta bin raised on curdled milk he’s that sour. Jim’s got trouble
comin’, certain as
cats has
kittens.”

 
          
“Well,
I guess trouble an’ him ain’t exactly strangers,” Nippert said shrewdly. “I’ll
bet he can handle it.”

 
          
For
a week or so it appeared that Gowdy’s fears were groundless; the town remained
quiet. Only once did the peace seem to be in danger and that was when, on a
broiling afternoon, a shaggy-haired, wild-eyed rider came rocketing in at the
eastern entrance, rolling from side to side on his saddle, gun out, and yelling
like one possessed.

 
          
“I’m
a lone wolf from Pizen Springs, an’ I’m yere to blow this prairie-dawg
community to hellangone. Emerge from yore holes, you varmits, or I’ll smoke you
out.” Receiving no answer to this challenge, he pulled up, his slitted,
drink-inflamed eyes roving right and left.

 
          
“Ain’t
there a man amongst you with spunk enough to Show hisself?” he vociferated.

 
          
There
was: the marshal stepped from his office and walked unconcernedly towards the
intruder, whose weapon was at once slanted upon him.

 
          
“Stop
right there an’ h’ist yore paws,”
came
the command.

 
          
The
marshal obeyed the first order only when he was a yard from the horseman, and
ignored the second entirely. “Yu were allus a fool, Squint,” he said.

 
          
The
low voice brought a quick look of apprehension on the bluster’s unpleasing
face, and he bent forward to peer at the man who defied him so casually. The
marshal pushed his hat back, and taking off his spectacles began to polish the
lenses; the simple act appeared to have a mesmeric effect on the visitor.

 
          
“You?”
he gasped. “What of hell …?”

 
          
“Put
that gun away an’ punch the breeze—pronto. An’ listen, if yu open yore mouth
about me within a hundred mile o’ here, I’ll—take—yore—trail.”

 
          
“
But ”
Behind the replaced glasses the marshal’s eyes grew
hard; he pointed to the west.

 
          
“
yu
have sixty seconds to get outa range, an’ I’m meanin’ it,”
he said.

 
          
Evidently
Squint was not of the doubting type; the cruel, big-toothed spurs raked the
ribs of his pony and sent it racing in the direction indicated.

 
          
The
citizens who witnessed the incident rubbed their eyes in amazement.

 
          
“That’ll
teach these glory-huntin’ sots not to come pirootin’ around here like they
owned the place,” Nippert exulted. “We got a fella now who can talk to ‘em.”

 
          
“Yeah,
talk seems to be his strong suit,” Mullins—whowas in the Red Light at the time—sneered.
“Can’t he use them guns when he’s facin’ a man?”

 
          
“There’s
an easy way o’ findin’ out.”

 
          
“
Shore,
an’ I ain’t forgettin’ it.”

 
          
“You’d
better, or I’ll be shy yore custom,” Nippert advised.

 
          
Jake
went without replying; he had conceived an idea which called for immediate
action.

 
          
Some
miles out of town the wagon road to the west sprung round in a wide curve where
it reached the foothills of the Mystery Mountains, but knowledge of the country
would enable one to save this detour. The nearest settlement was Drywash, fifty
miles distant.

 
          
Towards
this place the fugitive from Welcome was steadily making his way when he
sustained a second shock in the shape of a curt order to halt and raise his
hands. It was backed by the barrel of a rifle protruding from a bush on the
edge of the trail. Squint obeyed.

 
          
“Good
for you,” the ambusher said. “I couldn’t miss if I tried, an’ it ain’t worth
it; all I want from you is information.”

 
          
“What about?”

 
          
“Yoreself.
Why did you run like a jackrabbit from Welcome?”
The traveller looked perturbed, and craned his neck in an endeavour to see his
questioner, but without success. “Who are you?” he asked.

 
          
The
unknown laughed. “Not the fella you was so scared of,” he replied. “An’ I don’t
like him no more’n you do.” This sounded better, and Squint’s business instinct
began to function.

 
          
“What
do
I
git out of it?” he growled.

 
          
“Yore
money, weapons, hoss—an’ life,” was the cool reply. “You know what they’re
worth better’n I do.” The threatened man’s tone betrayed irritation. “Killin’
me won’t git yu no place,” he pointed out.

 
          
“Shore,
but it
will
git you to hell. I’m givin’ you one minute
to decide.”

 
          
“If
I talk you won’t let on to—anybody?”

 
          
“Not
a whisper, an’ anyways, I don’t know you. Now, who is this fella what sent you
packin’?”

 
          
“His
name’s James Green, but he’s better knowed as `Sudden’ in Texas, where he’s
wanted—had.
With a six-gun he’s lightnin’ in a hurry.”

 
          
“Sudden,”
the other repeated reflectively. “Wasn’t it him cleaned up a place called Hell
City?”

 
          
“Yeah,
damn his soul,” the informer spat out viciously. “What’s he doin’ around here?”

 
          
“He
was marshal o’ Pinetown, murdered his pal, an’ got away a flea’s jump ahead o’
the posse, so the tale goes.”

 
          
“Shore
it’s the same man?”

 
          
“I
got plenty reason to remember him,” was the disgusted answer. “Cost me some
good friends an’ a pile o’ bucks. He used to ride a big black with a white
blaze—a fine hoss.”

 
          
“That
fits. Why didn’t you down him? You had the chance.”

 
          
“I
guess you ain’t seen him in action,” Squint retorted. “He’s a wizard, an’ got
as many lives as a cat.” The hidden man laughed shortly. “He’s goin’ to need ‘em,
‘an eyes in the back of his head as well,” he said. “On yore way, friend, an’
if yo’re aimin’ to stay in Drywash, I may have a use for you. For
now .
.” He flipped a gold piece in the air and the horseman
deftly caught and tucked it in a vest pocket. “Thanks,” he said. “You’ll find
me there, an’ if it’s a matter o’ squarin’ up with that
Sudden
gent, I’ll come in cheap.
So-long.”
He resumed his
journey and was soon lost to sight. Only then did Mullins step out, an ugly
grin of satisfaction on his face.

 
          
“So
that’s the way of it?” he muttered. “It
shore
looks
like I got you where the hair’s short, Mister Methodis’.
Sudden,
huh?
Well, the fastest gunman can’t beat a rope.” An encounter which
caused the marshal a great deal more perturbation than that with Squint
occurred the next morning when, for the first time, he met Mary Gray. Small,
slim, with wide-spaced eyes and short, curly hair to which the sun imparted
coppery gleams, she seemed still a girl. He was covertly admiring her as she
passed; to his surprise and dismay, she stopped.

 
          
“You
are the new marshal,” she began. “I am Mrs. Gray, and I want to thank you.”

 
          
Sudden
snatched off his hat. “I am shore glad to meet yu, ma’am, but yu got me guessin’,”
he stammered.

 
          
“The
Bar O boys are apt to be noisy when they come to town,” she reminded.

 
          
“Shucks!”
he said confusedly. “Does the marshal get blamed for everythin’ in this burg?”

 
          
She
smiled delightedly. “If he deserves it,” she replied. “Sloppy—I hate calling
him that, but he won’t come to any other name—tells me.”

 
          
“His
tongue is hung on a hair-trigger,” he interposed.

 
          
“He
is a different being since you came,” she said gravely. “The women have been
very kind, but they have their own work, and I don’t know how I would have
managed if he hadn’t done my chores, but it troubles me that he won’t accept
any payment.”

 
          
“He’s
dead right, ma’am,” Sudden said soberly
… .

 
          
Sloppy
was pottering about the marshal’s domicile. His grin of greeting faded when he
saw the owner’s expression.

 
          
“Didn’t
I say for yu to keep yore trap shut to Mrs. Gray?”

 
          
“I done it; Nippert telled her.”

 
          
“She’s
complainin” ‘bout yu,” Sudden went on sternly, and chuckled inwardly at the
resultant look of dismay.
“Says yu been workin’ for her and
refused to take any pay.”
Sloppy detected the twinkle behind the
spectacles. “I told her I’d ‘tend to it. From now on I’m doublin’ what I give
yu for doin’ nothin’, an’ if yore sinful pride suggests refusin’ it …”

 
          
“
Ain’t got no
pride—can’t afford it,” the little man
sniggered. “I’m thankin’ you, marshal; that’ll whoop up my
savin’s
.”

 
          
“Savin’s?
To qualify for the calaboose
again?”

 
          
“I’ve
quit liquor—for a while, anyways.” Sloppy jerked a thumb in the direction of
the widow’s abode. “That li’l shaver’ll be needin’ playthin’s presently.”

 
          
“Well,
I’ll be darned,” Sudden breathed, and then, “Too bad she should have to work
like that.”

 
          
“You
bet it is, when she oughta
be ownin’
the Dumbbell
range.” The marshal, lounging in a tilted chair, straightened with a jerk. “Are
yu loco?” he asked

 
          
“Not
any,” Sloppy replied. “It’s a queer yarn.”

 
          
“I
love ‘em—the queerer the better.”

 
          
“Where
will I start?”

 
          
“The
beginnin’ is considered a good place,” Sudden told him solemnly.

 
          
“Well,
Amos Sark owned the Dumbbell range. He was a bachelor, an’ all the relations he
had was a sister an’ younger brother, both of ‘em havin’ lost their pardners.
When the sister passes out, Amos has her daughter, Mary, to live with him, but
some years later, when Ray—the brother—vanishes complete leaving a growed-up
son, he ain’t interested, havin’ disowned him a considerable while. Time tags
along, an’ nothin’ is heard o’ Ray or his boy. Mary sprouts up into a mighty
pretty gal an’
the of
man thinks the world of her.
Even when she falls for one of his riders, a good-looker named
Gray,
he makes the best of it, though he knows the fella is
a waster.

 
          
Then
Amos is murdered.”

 
          
“The
devil yu
say !
” The narrator nodded. “He starts out
early one mornin’ to pay a visit to Drywash. Two-three hours later, his pony
sifts back to the ranch, showin’ there’s somethin’ wrong. A search is made and
they find him all spraddled out on the trail with a couple o’ slugs in his
back, dead as Moses.
Thiswas ‘bout a year gone, just before I
come here.
Ain’t nothin’ to show who done it, but Gray gits some hard
looks, it bein’ figured his wife’ll have the ranch. But it
don’t
work out that way. Right soon after the killin’, a lawyer chap from Drywash,
Seth Lyman—‘Slimy’ they call him, an’ it fits him like his skin—turns up with a
will drawed out by him an’ signed by the deceased. It gives a thousand cash to
Mary an’ everythin’ else to Jesse Sark, son o’ the younger brother.