Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) (5 page)

 
          
“Gray
goes on the prod, but it ain’t no use, so he starts hellin’ round, an’ Mary’s
legacy musta bin mighty near dissipated—an’ that’s the correct word—when,
months later, he’s picked up at the bottom of a gully with a broken neck. It’s
s’posed his hoss threw him, but he was a good rider, even when in liquor.” The
marshal had listened in frowning silence to the tragic tale. Now he said, “Mebbe
the of
man was set on the idea of a Sark followin’ him
at the ranch?” Sloppy snorted. “Amos was tough as tanned hide, an’ there warn’t
a dime’s worth o’ sentiment in his body.”

 
          
“Yu
knew him?”

 
          
“No,
but that was his reputation.” Sudden was considering another angle. “So they’re
cousins, an’ he won’t help her?”

 
          
“You’ve
seen him,” Sloppy returned. “There’s on’y one person in this world Jesse’d
help, that’s hisself, an’ he’s good at it.”

 
          
THE
marshal was contemplating a modest announcement above the Widow’s front window
informing the inhabitants of Welcome that meals could be obtained there. Having
decided to give the new enterprise a trial, he was about to step in when an
angry-looking, red-faced fellow whom he knew to be a friend of Mullins swung
out, viciously slamming the door behind him.

 
          
“Say,
don’t eat there ‘less you wanta be pizened,” he warned. “Can’t cook no more’n a
dead Injun,
that ”

 
          
“Lady,”
Sudden suggested. “Mebbe yu ain’t a judge o’ cookin’, Toler. I am; I’ll take a
chance an’ let yu have my opinion. Till then, don’t chatter.” The blue eyes
were frosty and there was a threat in the even voice. The disgruntled citizen
had an answer all ready, but decided that silence might be safer. So he scowled
and departed.

 
          
The
marshal went in to find the proprietress near to tears. An overturned chair and
a half-eaten plate of meat betokened the abruptness of a customer’s exit. He
replaced the furniture and surveyed the spotless tablecloth and shining cutlery
approvingly.

 
          
“Pearls
afore swine,” was his comment.
” ‘Pears to have stampeded one
o’ yore patrons, ma’am.”

 
          
“The
only one, and he—went without paying,” she confessed. The marshal made a mental
note. “He said I couldn’t cook, and it’s the one thing I can do.” Sudden shook
his head. “No, there’s another,” he corrected. “You can—smile.” She made a
brave attempt, and retreated to the kitchen, returning presently with a
sizzling steak and fried potatoes. It looked perfect, and the marshal attacked
it with the vigour of a hungry man. The Widow, fearful of witnessing another
disappointment, vanished, and thereby earned the diner’s gratitude. For the
first touch of the knife had told him that the meat was incredibly tough, even
to one accustomed to camp-fare on the range.

 
          
“This
would shorely tear the teeth out’n a circular saw,” he murmured, as he hacked
and slashed.

 
          
But
he was determined to eat it, and by the application of sheer muscular power,
and at the risk of breaking both knife and plate, he contrived to sever
fragments which he swallowed almost unchewed, to the future discomfort of his
internal economy; the unshed tears in those brown eyes should not fall if he
could help it. He had almost completed the sacrifice when the Widow—unable to
bear the suspense any longer—came in.

 
          
“Is
it—all right?” she asked tremulously.

 
          
The
martyr bolted the last lump whole and told the truth. “I never ate a steak like
it, ma’am.” The smile which lit up her face reminded him of the sun suddenly
emerging from rain-laden clouds. “I’m so glad,” she said. “I hope my pastry
will be as good.” It had been in the customer’s mind to decline anything more
than the plea that he had already eaten enough but, with inward misgiving, he
tackled the wedge of dried-apple pie she placed before him. It proved to be
delicious, and she watched delightedly while he devoured every morsel.

 
          
“Pie
like mother made,” he complimented, and this time no subtlety was needed. “Ma’am,
yu certainly can handle flour.” He paid the modest score and left her happy.
Strolling casually along the street, he paused at the emporium of Welcome’s
only butcher, one Cleaver, universally referred to as “Clever,” a sarcastic
contortion which reflected upon his intelligence.

 
          
“I’ve
been feedin’ at the Widow Gray’s,” the marshal opened. “Whyfor do yu sell yore
beef with the hide on?” The man stared at him. “I don’t,” he replied. “Sell the
skins separate.”

 
          
Then,
as the implication dawned upon him, “If you get hard meat it’s ‘cause she can’t
cook.”

 
          
“Now
I wonder who told yu that?” the marshal mused. “Did I see Toler here a while
back?” The butcher’s face contradicted the too hasty denial. “Well, I must get
some better glasses. I’d ‘a’
sworn ”

 
          
“Now
I think again, he did stop as he was passin’,” Cleaver corrected, but the other
appeared to have lost interest in Mister Toler’s movements.

 
          
“Mrs.
Gray is a good cook, but the finest in the world couldn’t make boot-leather
appetizin’,” he remarked. “Yu supply Mullins, don’t you?”

 
          
“Yeah,
but I don’t play favourites.”

 
          
“Shore,
but it would help him if got the prime cuts an’ she on’y had the leavin’s,” the
marshal reflected aloud. He saw that he had hit the mark, and added meaningly, “I’m
aimin’ to feed reg’lar at the Widow’s, an’ my teeth ain’t made o’ steel.
Understan’?”

 
          
“I
can fix that by sendin’ her a special for you,” the tradesman said eagerly.

 
          
“Fix
nothin’—yu don’t play favourites—an’ I ain’t askin’ yu to. Yu’ll make ‘em all
specials.”

 
          
“But
Jake’s my biggest buyer.”

 
          
“Mrs.
Gray’ll be that soon, an’ if she
don’t
get good meat
in future, I’ll have to go into the butcherin’ husiness my own self.” On the
following morning, soon after noon, Sudden contrived to meet Toler on his way
to the eating-house. With a surly look, the man would have brushed past, but
the officer stopped him.

 
          
“Jake’ll
have to do without yore custom to-day,” he said. “Yo’re feedin’ at the Widow’s.”

 
          
“Like
hell I am,” was the retort. “I’ve had some.”

 
          
“An’
left without payin’, which is dishonest.”

 
          
“I didn’t eat nothin’.”

 
          
“Yu
bent that steak considerable—just naturally ruined it, in fact,” the marshal
said gravely.

 
          
“Bent
it, yeah, an’ that was hard to do,” Toler replied. “A dawg couldn’t ‘a’ got
teeth into it.”

 
          
“
Which accounts for yore failure.
Anyways, yu ordered a meal
an’ she supplied one; what yu do with it is yore affair. Yu likewise caused a
ruckus an’ come near bustin’ a chair, thus committin’ a breach o’ the peace.
Now, either yu apologize, pay for that meal an’ eat another, or, well, the
calaboose is empty an’ I’m afraid yu’ll find it lonesome.”

 
          
“I’ll
see you”

 
          
“Resistin’
the law—that entitles me to blow yore light out,” the marshal said.
“March.”

 
          
The
badgered man’s eyes bulged; in some mysterious manner one of the speaker’s guns
had leapt from its holster and was pointed at the pit of his stomach. If the
thumb holding back the hammer was relaxed—the marshal had no use for triggers.
. Toler did not pursue the thought. The lady’s eyes widened when they entered,
but her welcoming smile was for both.

 
          
“Mister
Toler figures he was a mite hasty in his judgment; I’ve persuaded him to give
yu another trial,” Sudden explained.

 
          
Nothing
more was said until the business of feeding was finished, and then the
unwilling customer sat back with a sigh of satisfaction.

 
          
“That’s
the best feed I’ve had in years, an’ I’m right sorry I was rude to you, ma’am,”
he said. “I expect I did oughta blamed yore butcher.” The little woman’s face
flushed with pleasure.

 
          
“Please
don’t say another word,” she begged. “Perhaps it was conceit, but I did think I
could prepare a meal.”

 
          
“I’ll
wallop the linin’ out’n any fella who sez different,” he told her.

 
          
In
the street, the convert pushed out a paw and said gruffly, “Marshal, I’m
thankin’ you. Fur as I’m concerned, Jake must do his own dirty work.”

 
          
“That’s
good hearin’,” Sudden replied. “Persecutin’ a woman is somethin’ Welcome won’t
stand for.” Later in the afternoon Sloppy came into the office wearing a broad
grin. “What you done to Toler?” he asked. “Yestiddy he was tellin’ the world
Mrs. Gray couldn’t cook an’ now he sez she’s the best ever.”

 
          
“Why
put it on to me? Can’t a fella change his mind without my help?” Sudden fenced.

 
          
“Some
folks is fussy ‘bout food, ‘
specially
if their livers
ain’t actin’ right.”

 
          
“Meanin’
no offence, yo’re a pore liar,” Sloppy replied. “You oughta see Jake’s face.”

 
          
“Sooner
see his back, any time,” the marshal said.

 
          
He
was very satisfied with the way things were going. If Toler, one of her rival’s
intimates, spoke in her praise, the Widow would get support. It was working out
better than he had hoped.

 
          
As
the days went by, the fame of the new eating-place grew, and Mullins had the
mortification of seeing his customers drop away until only a handful of friends
remained. Well aware to whom he owed this state of
affairs,
he vainly sought a means of striking back. He had sent to verify what he had
been told of the marshal, but his messenger had not yet returned. His attempt
to bully the butcher failed dismally.

 
          
The
climax came when Reddy and his bunkie, Shorty, rode in and were promptly
convoyed by the marshal to the new establishment. While the meal was in
preparation, they were permitted to tiptoe into the bedroom to see the baby.
The pudgy, red-faced, blue-eyed morsel of humanity regarded them stolidly.

 
          
“What
is it?” Shorty wanted to know.

 
          
“What
indeed,” the mother repeated, with pretty indignation. “It’s a boy.” And then
laughed at
her own
slip.

 
          
Reddy
thrust out a thumb and the infant’s tiny fingers closed on it. “He’ll shore be
a go-getter, ma’am,” the cowboy said. “What’s his name?”

 
          
“David, after my father.”
The marshal’s face clouded. “I
knowed a Dave—once,” he said.

 
          
“
Them
steaks must be mighty close to done.” An hour later,
three fully-fed men stepped again into the street. The cowboys were loud in
their approval.

 
          
Jake’s
savage eyes watched them enter the Red Light. This was the final blow.
Hitherto, the Bar O boys had always given their patronage, but now … A tempest
of passion possessed and made him reckless. When the cowboys came out and were
crossing the street, he met them; the marshal had stayed behind a moment,
talking to Nippert.

 
          
“Ain’t
you fellas fed yet?” Mullins began.