Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) (6 page)

       
“Shore, over at the Widow’s,” Reddy
replied.

 
          
“Her
cookin’ is bad.”

 
          
“If
that’s so, an’ it ain’t, yu never oughta touch a pan,” Shorty said bluntly.

 
          
Jake
gave him an ugly look, but the man he burned to quarrel with was now joining
them.

 
          
“So
the marshal raked you in, huh?” he sneered. “
He
shore
knows how to fill his pockets at the expense of his friends.”

 
          
“Meanin’?”
Reddy asked.

 
          
“That
he’s back o’ the Widow, o’ course. She does the work an’ he corrals the coin,
sorta sleepin’ pardner, in more ways than one.” He chuckled at the vile
aspersion. “An’ there’s others, even that bum,
Sloppy ”
He got no further. One long stride, a lightning blow, and the traducer
was
hurled headlong. The marshal’s eyes were blazing.

 
          
“Yo’re
a foul-minded, dirty liar,” their owner said through his clenched teeth.
Wallowing in the dust, Jake was groping for his gun. “Don’t do it, or I’ll kill
yu an’ cheat the rope that’s waitin’ for yore rotten neck. Take his shootin’-iron,
boys.” Despite his struggles and curses, he was soon deprived of his weapon,
and allowed to stand up. By this time an eager crowd had collected, questioning
and wondering. For days past it had been seen that a clash between the two was
inevitable; Jake had made no secret of his enmity, but after the shooting
match .
.

 
          
Mullins,
his hot eyes glaring at his opponent, his features twisted in a savage grimace,
had something to say:

 
          
“Well,
you got my gun, so you needn’t be afeard to pull yore own on me.” For a single
pulsating second it seemed that the taunted man was about to do that very
thing,
and Jake’s heart missed a beat—he was not tired of
life. Then he breathed again as first one and then the other weapon was handed
to Reddy.

 
          
“Which
is what yu’d have done,” Sudden said coldly, answering the jeer. “We’re even
matched now. Yu have in suited a lady this town admires an’ respects. For that
yo’re gettin’ a hidin’—one yu’ll remember as long as the world has to put up
with yu.” Into the ruffian’s eyes came a gleam of satisfaction; this was
something different. Though they were about the same height, he was fully a
stone heavier, and had experience in the rough-and-tumble form of fighting, in
which anything save the use of a weapon was permissible. The marshal’s friends
were not pleased; they knew the other man’s reputation.

 
          
“See
here, Jim, you don’t have to do this,” Nippert expostulated. “Clap him in the
calaboose, an’ we’ll deal with him.”

 
          
“An’
tell
all the
town I’m scared?” Sudden smiled. “Shucks,
you’re jokin’, Ned.”

 
          
“He’s
one hell of a scrapper,” the saloon-keeper said dubiously. “If he licks you …”

 
          
“He
was one hell of a shot too,” the marshal reminded. “This ain’t a duty, but a
pleasure.”

 
          
Removing
his hat, spectacles, and vest, he stepped into the ring which had been formed.
Jake, his rolled-up shirtsleeves displaying hairy, muscular arms, was awaiting
him, fists bunched in malignant eagerness. Silence fell on the crowd as the men
faced one another.

 
          
For
a moment they stood motionless, and then Mullins, unable to restrain his
passion, rushed forward and flung a furious blow which might have done real
damage had it landed. But Sudden swayed away and before the striker could
recover his balance, moved in with a straight left which jolted the other’s
head back and should have taught him a lesson. Dominated, however, by his
anger, Jake continued his blind charges, only to encounter that stinging left
which stopped him like a brick wall.

 
          
The
officer, calm, inscrutable, was almost untouched, while Jake was already badly
marked, and only exhausting himself with the violence of his efforts to deliver
a smashing blow.

 
          
“Stan’
up an’ fight, you white-livered cur,” Jake grated. “Where are you?” His fist
hurtled through the air as he spoke, but Sudden saw it coming, moved his head
so that the vengeful knuckles merely grazed his cheek, and drove his left, not
to the jaw this time, but just above the belt.

 
          
“I’m
right here,” he replied grimly.

 
          
Jake
was incapable of making any retort; the terrible, paralysing punch had driven
all the breath from his body, leaving him doubled up, gasping and grunting with
pain. Sudden sprang in, his right drawn back for the blow which should end the
battle; he had the fellow at his mercy and there was nothing of that in his
hard face. Even as he swung to strike, his foot slipped in the churned-up,
loose sand of the roadway, and he lost his balance. Instantly Jake saw his
opportunity, leapt for the floundering man, and they went down into the dust
together. This swift reversal of the situation was all to the liking of the
bully’s supporters; he might be no match for the marshal with his fists, but
when it came to wrestling, biting, and gouging, it was another matter. They
yelled encouragement.

 
          
“You
got him, boy,” cried one. “Throttle the” Sloppy, dancing about in a fever of
anxiety, appealed to the saloon-keeper. “That ain’t fair scrappin’, he’s got
Jim by the throat,” he protested. “For a busted
nickel ”

 
          
“Keep
outa this,” Nippert said sternly. “
Nobody can’t do nothin’
—it’s
their affair. Jim was unlucky, damn it.” Sloppy had reason to be fearful, for
his benefactor was truly in a parlous position. The impact of Jake’s body had
floored him, and before he could prevent it, the claw-like hands had fastened
on his neck. Madly he strove to tear them away, to throw off the weight which
held him pinned to the ground and wellnigh powerless, but the pitiless thumbs
pressing on his windpipe sank deeper and he felt his strength failing. Above
him, out of that evil mask, triumphant eyes gloated, and the thin lips were
animal-like in their savagery.

 
          
“I’ve
got you where I wanted to, Mister Methodis’,” the man panted. “This is yore
farewell, you interferin’ houn’.” Sudden’s clouding brain was still
functioning; where strength could not avail, craft might. He ceased to resist,
his form becoming slack, his hands slipping limply to the earth beside him.
With a hideous grin of satisfaction, the man on top bent to peer at his victim,
only to receive a handful of fine sand full in the eyes. Blinded and smarting,
he instinctively
recoiled,
lessening the pressure, and
immediately Sudden’s right fist shot up from below and landed just over the
heart. It was a fell stroke, one which might well have killed a weaker man, and
for the moment, Jake was helpless. Sudden thrust him aside and stood up—waiting.

 
          
“Finish
him off,” someone urged.

 
          
The
marshal smiled lopsidedly—that was not his way. Besides, he had some breathing
to make up, and his neck felt as though he had been half-hanged. He watched his
antagonist stagger to his feet and rub the grit from his bloodshot eyes. The
spectators waited too, silent for the most part; they were witnessing something
they had never seen before—a man holding back when he had his enemy almost
hopelessly beaten. Few of them could comprehend it.

 
          
“Well,
Mister Mullins, shall we continue our li’l argument or have yu had enough?”

 
          
Sudden
inquired.

 
          
“Enough?
Not by a damn sight—I ain’t started on you yet?” the other growled.

 
          
The
onlookers closed in as the combatants moved forward. This time Jake made no
swift advance; he had learned his lesson, and the pain of his swollen features—the
work of that straight left—was a constant reminder. He knew well that but for a
nearly fatal slip, he would have been knocked cold, but the brute in his nature
buoyed him up with the hope of a similar mischance, and then … So he held back,
letting his foe come to him, tactics which his admirers misunderstood.

 
          
“Git
yore paws on him,” one advised. “He can’t stand the rough stuff.”

 
          
“Who’s scrappin’—you or me?”
Jake spat over his shoulder.

 
          
“Neither
of us,” was the disgusted retort, and the crowd laughed.

 
          
The
pair circled the ring, the marshal following his man and driving a fist home
whenever he was within reach, which, owing to his opponent’s caution, was
seldom.

 
          
“It’s
a runnin’ match, an’ Jake’s got the legs of him,”
came
another sarcastic comment.

 
          
For
one second, the taunted man’s gaze went in search of the speaker, and Sudden
saw his chance. He flashed in, raining blows with both hands to the body and
face in such rapid succession that Jake was forced to stand and fight back, and
at once the nature of the contest had again changed. Drenched with
perspiration, battered, bruised, and blood-smeared, the two men hammered away
with beast-like ferocity, taking what punishment came, and with but one
conscious thought—to inflict hurt. Slipping, staggering in the treacherous
sand, hemmed in by the swaying ring of enthralled spectators who cheered as
fists thudded on flesh or bone, they battled on. But the terrific strain was
taking toll.

 
          
“Jake’s
weakenin’—his punches ain’t got
no
power,” Shorty
muttered. “He’s outa condition—too much liquor.” It was true, and the marshal
sensed it. He himself was in little better case; his frame felt as if it had
been stretched on a rack for endless hours, and every movement brought a
protest from tired muscles. But the spate of fury which had swept him away was
past, and again he fought methodically, dourly determined to end the business
at the first opportunity.

 
          
It
came soon. Jake, with the same intention, finding his foe seeming to give way,
tried one of his former bull-like charges. Sudden broke ground, avoiding the
flailing arm, and darting in, sent an uppercut to the jaw. It was a devastating
blow, perfectly timed, coming up from the hip with all the power of the moving
body behind it. But once more Jake was
lucky,
it just
missed the vital spot, and though flung to the floor as by a giant hand, he
retained his senses. For a moment he
lay
there, murder
in his mad eyes, and then slowly raised himself.

 
          
“By
God, I’ll git you if I hang for it,” he mumbled thickly.

 
          
Half-crouching,
he lurched to where the marshal, again disdaining to follow up his advantage,
was standing, and suddenly straightening, leapt, right arm aloft. Swift as the
action was, Sudden had glimpsed the gleam of steel, and catching the descending
wrist, wrenched the weapon from his grasp, and struck—with the haft of the
knife only; the assassin dropped like a pole-axed steer. The fight was over.

 
          
“If
you’d put that sticker in his dirty neck it would ‘a’ saved a lot o’ trouble,”
was Nippert’s comment.

 
          
“I
know it, but killin’ skunks is a stinkin’ job,” the marshal replied. “I reckon
he’ll drift.”

 
          
THE
marshal was wrong; the beaten man remained—having other cards to play. For a
few days, however, he deemed it wise to stay in his shack, nursing his hurts
and what—to those who came to see him—he described as grievances.

 
          
“The
game ain’t finished yet,” he told them darkly. “I’m goin’ to make some o’ the
smarties in thisyer burg look an’ feel middlin’ sick.
you
wait—it won’t be long. You can leave that to me; all I want is for you to back
my play.” Late one evening, two riders arrived, and having put their horses in
the pole corral behind the eating-house, went in by the back door. One was the
awaited messenger, known as “Dutch,” who assisted Mullins in the conduct of the
business; his eyes widened when they rested on the damaged features of his
employer.