Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942) (38 page)

 
          
“Don’t
we accompany them?”

 
          
“No,
we have to go on.” He saw mutiny in her eyes and chin. “It is of vital
importance to Trenton, and his wish, that we should get to Rainbow with all
speed. You won’t mind spending a day or so in the forest with me, Beth, will
you?”

 
          
“I
very much mind further separation from Uncle Zeb,” she fenced.

 
          
“It
cannot be helped,” he replied, a touch of hardness in his tone. “I have a duty
to him, and intend to fulfil it.”

 
          
Which
highly virtuous sentiment produced less effect than he had
hoped.
However, she said no more. Truth to tell, physical weariness, anxiety about the
old man who had been good to her, incipient doubts, and a sense of
disappointment in one she had almost decided to link her life with, had, for
the time, broken the girl’s spirit. Certainly, Garstone’s welcome had been less
warm than she expected, in fact, at that first moment of meeting, he might have
been sorry to see her. She told herself that this was absurd, that the shock of
encountering a person one had mourned as dead would be numbing, but the feeling
remained.

 
          
Having
disposed of the dead man, Bundy and Lake prepared for their journey. The girl
watched them impatiently as they stowed food in the saddle-bags. Fortunately
for her peace of mind, she could not hear their conversation.

 
          
“Think
we can trust him?” Lake asked.

 
          
“No,
but I guess we can handle him if he doublecrosses us,” the foreman replied.
“An’ mebbe we’ll catch ‘em.”

 
          
“Totin’
a sick man?”
Incredulously.

 
          
“I
didn’t say that.”

 
          
Lake
digested this. “Even then they’ll have a good start.”

 
          
“Oh,
yeah,” Bundy grimaced. “Garstone an’ the gal are both from the East.
How long afore they lose theirselves?”

 
          
“An’ our money.”

 
          
“We
can trail ‘em, an’ there’s going to be on’y two sharin’you an’ me, Babe?” Bundy
rasped. “Then the Circle Dot an’ the Wagon-wheel can go to hell. I’m for
California. With seventy thousand bucks—between us—we don’t wanta fool with
cattle.”

 
          
Lake
regarded him through narrowed lids; he had noted the interjected words, and
they gave material for thought. But all he said was, “Sounds good to me.”

 
          
When
they had gone, Bundy having pointed out, tongue in cheek, the route Garstone
should take, the latter returned to his companion. He was in a much more
cheerful mood.

 
          
“Well,
that’s that,” he said, “I’ll get a fire started, and I hope you can cook—we’ll
have to fend for ourselves. This isn’t the way I hoped we’d begin housekeeping
together, but we’ll get along.”

 
          
She
did not respond to his elephantine playfulness, and his clumsy attempts to help
prepare a meal only reminded her, oddly enough, not of the efficient cavalier
she had parted from, but of his friend, Dan Dover. Would he be pleased she had
not perished, even though she was a Trenton? She stifled the thought
resolutely, and busied herself brewing coffee.

 
          
The
bound men in the cave watched the preparations for departure and wondered what
was to happen to them. They saw the wounded rancher carried out, and Dan’s
protest that he was not fit to be moved was ignored. When their weapons and
stock of provisions were also taken it began to look grave. A remembrance of
Sudden’s description of the gulf in the tunnel was not comforting. When all was
in readiness, Garstone strolled over, and stood, contemplating Dover with
malignant contentment.

 
          
“You
have lost everything, or nearly,” he said. “Treasure, ranch, and paid gunman;
only your life remains. Well, I give you that; violence is not to my liking.”

 
          
The
suave, insolent voice made the young man indifferent to consequences. “Yo’re
tellin’ me,” he flung back. “Even when you rob a train, you pick the safe
job—the men on the engine
ain’t never
armed.”

 
          
It
was a guess, but a good one, and the gibe went home. But Garstone was a winner,
and could afford to laugh; he did not.

 
          
“Keep
clear of Rainbow, if you’re wise,” he warned. “And if you meet Malachi, tell
him my promise will be kept.”

 
          
“He
won’t believe me,” Dan replied.

 
          
Garstone
shrugged away the insult and looked at Yorky. “And you, get back to your sewer,
you rat.”

 
          
“Rats
has
teeth an’ can bite,” the boy spat out, and waited
for the expected kick.

 
          
It
did not come and, despite his hardihood, Yorky breathed more easily when the
bully had vanished through the exit from the cave. He was silent for a time,
wresting with some problem, and then asked, “Does the mails from these yer hick
towns ever git lost?”

 
          
“I
reckon, now an’ then,” Dan replied. “Why?”

 
          
“Ain’t
heard from me uncle in Noo York—”

 
          
“Don’t
you pull that stuff on me, son,” the rancher cut in. “Hello, who’s that?”

 
          
A
slight figure had slid cautiously into the cave; it was Malachi. “So the
buzzards have flown,” he greeted. “And how are my patients?”

 
          
“Yo’re
one shy—they took Trenton,” Dan told him. “Damnation!
it
will probably finish him,” Malachi exploded, and busied himself with their
bonds.

 
          
“They’ve
also collared our food, weapons, an’ I s’pose, hosses.”

 
          
“No,
I set them adrift—thought it was a bright idea at the time, but afterwards I
wasn’t so stuck on it,” the doctor said ruefully. “I forgot they’d be lost for
us, too.”

 
          
“You
did yore best, Phil, an’ there’s a chance some will drift back. Grub is goin’
to be the worry—we’ll have to trap. By the way, Garstone said for me to tell
you he would keep his promise. What was it?”

 
          
“Oh,
nothing of consequence,” Malachi smiled. “I was to be shot if I made any use of
my liberty: Just a bluff.”

 
          
He
went away to attend to the hurt men, and the rancher’s eyes followed him with a
new expression.
“A bluff.
Huh? But you had the nerve
to call it, Phil,” he said softly.

 
          
After
a while the doctor came back. “They’re both going on well, but I can’t
understand Hunch,” he reported. “That crack on his skull isn’t serious, but it
seems to have destroyed his memory.”

 
          
“What, again?”

 
          
“Odd,
isn’t it? But he failed to recognize me, and appears to have no recollection of
the Circle Dot, or how he came to be here.”

 
          
“Mebbe
the big axe would start his rememberin’ machinery,” Dan suggested.

 
          
“I
tried that, but he just stared as though he’d never seen it before. Physically,
he’s perfectly sound.”

 
          
“Well,
Tiny’ll keep us tied here for a spell,” the rancher said. “Hi, Yorky, rustle
some fodder for the fire; I’m goin’ to see if I can knock over a cottontail or
two.”

 
          
“We’ll
be awright when Jim comes along—he’s got his guns.”

 
          
“He’d
shorely be a cure for sore eyes,” Dan replied moodily. He could not share the
boy’s confidence.

 
          
“Stranger
things have happened,” Malachi said. “The blackest moment is the turning-point,
you know.”

 
          
Meanwhile,
the man of whom they were speaking was not many miles distant. The gully in
which the Wagon-wheel party had surprised him was, he had discovered,
considerably east of the one he was making for, but with Old Cloudy in sight
again, he had a mark to steer by. He did not fear pursuit; they had the
treasure. He wondered where
was Trenton
.
Behind, perhaps, in the charge of Flint.
But how were they
transporting him? His mind went to his late fellow-traveller.

 
          
A
nice girl, he admitted, but somewhat lacking in savvy.

 
          
“Young
women is apt to take a fella at face-value,” he mused, and then came the
cynical addition, “Wouldn’t take ‘em a-tall if they didn’t, I s’pose.”

 
          
Sudden
was no misogynist, but so far the fair sex had not figured largely in his life.
He was to meet his fate, but the time was not yet.

 
          
He
trudged on, crossing ridges, threading arroyos, circling thickets of impassable
brush, steadily advancing towards the mountain. The sun was still high in the
heavens when, in a strip of sandy soil, he noticed hoof-prints. They pointed
eastwards, and a careful scrutiny revealed five different sets. The prints of
his own horse, Nigger—which he could recognize at a glance—were not among them.

 
          
“Four
riders, one of ‘em Garstone,” he deduced, “an’ a pack-hors. Or mebbe they’ve
distributed the baggage an’ tied Trenton on the fifth.”

 
          
The
the tracks were not those of his friends he was quite sure. Exactly what had
happened to Malachi and Hunch he did not know, but he had seen Tiny shot down,
and it was most improbable that he would be able to sit a saddle so soon.

 
          
He
set himself to follow the trail, and at the end of an hour’s hard work reached
what he knew must be the deserted Wagon-wheel camp. Standing in a small grove
of trees, and sheltered by a cliff, was a canvas tent; only the presence of a woman
could account for such a thing in that place. The ashes of the two fires were
cold. Hanging from a branch was most of the carcase of a newly slain deer. He
stepped to the opening of the tent and peeped in. A man, swathed in blankets,
was lying on the floor. The puncher did not need two guesses—it was Zeb
Trenton.

 
          
“The
murderin’ swine,” he muttered. “They leave him here, helpless, an’ to cinch it,
hang
a bait
outside that would fetch any mountain cat
gettin’ scent of it.” He bent over the rancher.

 
          
“Trenton,
its Jim Green.”

 
          
The
eyes remained closed and there was no movement. Sudden seized one of the
ice-cold hands; a faint flutter of the pulse informed him that the flame of
life still flickered. A quantity of stores, flour, bacon, coffee, caught his
eye, and the packages seemed familiar.
With them, guns and
six-shooters, thrown in an untidy pile on the ground.
He picked up one
of the rifles; it was Yorky’s prized Winchester, and he understood; this was
the loot from the cavern. What had become of his friends? Only in one way could
he find the answer, and, granite-faced, he set out, carrying his own
rifle—which he had found among the rest, and the boy’s. Exhausted and hungry as
he was, his magnificent muscles did not fail him. Moving with the effortless
swinging stride of an Indian on the trail, he crossed the basin, and entered
the gorge. Apprehension grimmed his mouth as he approached the cave.

 
          
“Hello,
the house,” he hailed.

 
          
“It’s
Jim,” he heard Yorky yell. “Didn’t I tell yer he’d make it?”

 
          
The
boy was the first to reach him, closely followed by Dan and Malachi. Judged by
the standards of the East, their welcome was little more than casual, but Sudden
was a Westerner himself, and he understood.