Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 06 - Sudden Gold-Seeker(1937) (3 page)

 
          
“Here’s
the fella yo’re honin’ to slay. Fly at it.” This invitation seemed no more to
the liking of the short man than the previous one. He shrugged his enormous
shoulders and managed to achieve a heavy sneer.

 
          
“Play-actin’,”
he said.
“Dime novel stuff.
I’ll argue with both o’
you when yo’re growed up.” He put away the drawn gun, thrust his hands into his
pockets, and slouched away. The black-haired cowboy’s voice followed him:

 
          
“Yella
right through, like I figured,” he said, and shook a finger at the man he had
assisted. “Don’t yu give him another chance like
that.
”

 
          
“It
was shorely a fool thing to do,” the other confessed. “I reckon I have to thank
yu—”

 
          
“Yu
don’t have to do no such thing,” was the smiling reply. “Let’s get acquainted.
I’m Jim Green. I live mostly under my hat, an’ I ain’t got a friend in the
world.”

 
          
“I
hate to call yu a liar so soon but I know of one, anyways,” the boy grinned,
and shoved out a fist. “I’m Gerry Mason. All my relations died off on me, I got
tired punchin’ cows, an’ here I am. I guessed I’d grab me a gold-mine.”

 
          
“Why,
that’s one good idea,” Green responded, as if the notion was entirely novel. “I’m
foot-loose my own self just now.”

 
          
“We
might double-team it,” Mason said eagerly, “that is, if—”

 
          
“Yu
decide to go,” the other helped him out. He had divined the possible obstacle
which had quelled the boy’s enthusiasm —a certain slim, black-robed form. “There
ain’t
no
need for haste. We’ll have to fix things.”
The statement brought a look of relief to Mason’s face, and Green smiled
understandingly; if the girl remained in Wayside, he would lose his new friend,
for he himself must be moving on.

 
          
When
Mary Ducane, having removed the dust of travel from her person, came downstairs
again, she found a meal and Paul Lesurge awaiting her in the parlour of the
hotel. His eyes regarded the healthy freshness of her with discreet approval.

 
          
“You
must be in need of something, and as I am a fellow guest here, I hope you won’t
mind if we eat together,” he said.

 
          
Mary
did not mind, and said so. She was feeling very lonely in this far-off spot on
the plains, and the stranger’s solicitude for her comfort was welcome. He was,
too, a new experience, for though her life had been spent among rough,
uncultured people, she had all a woman’s appetite for the niceties of
existence. And Lesurge was far too astute to allow the least suggestion of
gallantry to appear.

 
          
They
spoke seldom until the business of feeding was over, but he gathered that she
was alone in the world save for an uncle whom she had come to Wayside to find.
Lesurge started to his feet.

 
          
“But
how stupid of me to bring you here,” he cried. “We should have gone in search
of your relative at once.” His contrition was so very evident that any lurking
doubt the girl may have entertained, vanished, and she hastened to explain the
situation.

 
          
“My
uncle does not know I am coming, and may even have left Wayside. He was my
father’s brother and came
West
long before I was born.
Dad used to say, ‘Phil was the restless one.’”

 
          
“But
you have seen him?” Lesurge asked.

 
          
Mary
shook her head. “He never visited us, and for years we heard nothing. Then,
about seven months ago, a letter came, saying that he had discovered a rich
mine and asking my father to join him. Dad decided to do so, sold our farm, and
then …” Her voice broke and her eyes became misty.

 
          
Lesurge
nodded sympathetically. “I understand,” he murmured. “He died.”

 
          
“He
was—murdered,” she said bitterly. “Stabbed in the dark on his way home; it was
known he had sold his land—poor Dad could never keep a secret—and I suppose
they were after the money.”

 
          
“I
hope they didn’t get it.”

 
          
“No.
It was in the bank, but when everything was settled up there was little more
than enough to bring me here, so”—she smiled bravely—“I shall have to find my
uncle, or some work.

 
          
You
have not heard the name?”

 
          
“No,
but I have been here but a little while myself, and there are outlying settlers
I may not have come in contact with. I will make inquiries at once. Of course,
it is possible he is not using his own name, but we won’t anticipate difficulty.”
He saw a tiny crease in her smooth forehead, and asked, “Anything else
troubling you?”

 
          
“I
was wondering if I left Mister Mason rather abruptly—the young cowboy who was
holding my bag,” she explained. “He was very kind during the journey, he protected
me …”

 
          
“Protected
you?” Lesurge repeated.

 
          
“Yes,
the other passenger was—unpleasant,” she replied. “I should not like to be
deemed ungrateful.”

 
          
“I’ll
put that right,” he assured her. “Naturally you were a little flustered. These
cowboys have pretty tough hides, anyway. As for the other fellow, I’ll have a
word with him too; you won’t have any more trouble in that quarter, I promise you.
” He cut short her thanks with a wave of the hand. Then, raving suggested that
it would be best to keep her affairs to herself for the present, he went out to
find Philip Ducane. A few paces from the hotel he met the “unpleasant”
passenger, who greeted him with a scowl; he had been at the bottle again. “Hell
of a time yore friends have to wait for you when here’s a skirt around,” he
growled.

 
          
Lesurge
surveyed him with cool contempt. “If you weren’t trunk you wouldn’t have the
presumption to refer to me as a friend,” he said bitingly. “Get this; you are
merely a tool
[ use
, and throw away if it proves
inefficient. I learn that you made yourself ‘unpleasant’ to Miss Ducane on the
way here. [
f
that happens again, I shall make myself ‘unpleasant’
to you” A sudden thought occurred to him. “You haven’t told anyone here that
you know me?” He saw the lie on the other’s lip. “You would. Of all the
blundering blockheads … I suppose the whole town knows?”

 
          
“I
on’y mentioned it to that cowpunch fella, Mason, what come with us,” the man
grumbled.

 
          
“And
he’ll pass it on to the girl, of course,” Lesurge said disgustedly. “Well, we
must deal with him. Didn’t you tell me that Miss Ducane’s father—died?”

 
          
“So
he did,” Fagan replied.

 
          
“Yes,
a man is apt to with four inches of steel in his throat,” Paul said acidly, and
caught the furtive look of fear in the other’s eyes. That was good; he liked to
have a hold over those he employed; it lessened the risk.

 
          
“She
talked then,” Fagan ventured.

 
          
“Quite
a lot,” was the meaning reply. “What was her father like?”

 
          
“Short,
dark fella, goin’ grey, with a scar over the left eye—claimed he got it fallin’
off a fence. No snap to him, but middlin’ chattersome. Farmed a quarter
section
but I don’t reckon he made much.”

 
          
“What
was his name? The girl only referred to him as `Dad
..’
”

 
          
“George,
but he was generally knowed as `Squint’—him bein’ a bit cross-eyed.”

 
          
“Excellent.
Well, I’ve been busy here trying to get on the track of Philip Ducane. I think
I’ve talked with every man within ten miles of this place but no one appears to
have heard of anyone who might be the fellow, which is fortunate for us.” Fagan’s
face expressed astonishment.

 
          
“You
got me guessin’,” he admitted.

 
          
“That
surprises me, of course,” was the sarcastic rejoinder. “Obviously, since the
real uncle is missing, we must supply one—can’t let a lady travel all this way
to be disappointed, can we? She has never seen this relative, and with the
facts you found out and what she let slip to me, we can prime our man so that
he’ll pass muster. The only difficulty is to find a person to play the part.”

 
          
“Seems
a lot o’ trouble,” Fagan objected. “If she’s got the letter tellin’ how to find
the mine, that’s all we want.”

 
          
“Unfortunately,
the matter is not nearly so simple, owing to the fact that the letter no longer
exists. Ducane apparently considered there was risk and destroyed it,
he
and the girl first committing the important part to
memory. That’s why you didn’t find it on the body.”

 
          
“I
tell you I…”

 
          
“Don’t
trouble; for a rogue you’re the poorest liar I ever met,” Lesurge interrupted.

 
          
“Anyway,
the past is done with; we have to deal with the future. Where can we find our
man? He must be about the right age, devoid of scruples, and know a great deal
about gold-mining—by heaven! I’ve got it—Snowy.”

 
          
“That
lyin’ of soak I see in the saloon?” Fagan gibed. “Why, he’s on’y a half-wit.”

 
          
“And
at that he’ll have more sense than you.” The brutal retort pierced even the
calloused consciousness of the man to whom it was directed.

 
          
“See
here, Paul,” he protested. “You’ve been handlin’ me pretty rough with that
tongue o’ yores; I expect to be treated like
a
‘uman
bein’, not the mat you wipe your boots on. Don’t forget I put you up to this
racket.”

 
          
“Because you couldn’t handle it yourself.”

 
          
“Mebbe,
but if I choose to chatter
… ”
For an instant the
other lost control and his usually placid features were distorted by a venomous
fury before which Fagan, hard-boiled as he was, quailed.

 
          
“I’m
boss, and I’ll treat you as I please,” Lesurge gritted. “Double-cross me and I’ll
make this world so hot for you that you’ll shiver when you land in hell. It’s
been tried, and by cleverer men, and you know what happened to them.” The spate
of passion went as quickly as it had come and the mask was back. “Don’t be a
fool, Fagan. If Ducane told the truth, this is the biggest thing I have ever attempted;
success should put us on Easy Street for life. Think of it, you’ll be able to
live—I should say—spend, like a gentleman.” The ruffian did not resent the
bitter gibe; the prospect of gain was alluring, and moreover, he knew the
fiendish nature of this man and feared him. Paul Lesurge had an evil reputation
among his “friends.”

 
          
“What
d’you want
me to do?” he asked, submissively enough.

 
          
“Get
hold of that cowboy, Mason, and find out how much the girl has told him.” Fagan
looked uncomfortable. “
Him an’ me
ain’t on the best o’
terms—he got uppity on the journey, over the gal—an’ we had a ruckus.” Knowing
that the other man must hear of it, he told the story, his own way. “Took me
unawares, blast his soul, an’ if the other guy hadn’t sat in, we wouldn’t have
had to trouble about Mister Mason,” he concluded vindictively.

 
          
Lesurge
took the news calmly. “It’s a pity,” he said.

 
          
“Shore
is,” Fagan agreed. “I’d ‘a’ blowed him to bits.”

 
          
“I
wasn’t meaning that, but you may be right,” was the reply. “Well, it can’t be
helped; I’ll tackle Mason myself. That other cowboy may prove troublesome too;
an awkward customer, I fancy.”