Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 07 - Sudden Rides Again(1938) (21 page)

 
          
Sudden’s
demeanour when he reached Dugout was anything but that of a fugitive. He
procured the needed meal at Black Sam’s, and learned that though the raid on
the ranches was the one subject of conversation, his own supposed share in it
was not known. This was fortunate, the town being indignant at the spoliation
of its two best customers.

 
          
“Couple
o’ hundred head at one lick,” Jansen said. “Real money, that is. I’ll wager
Keith is some difficult to live with.”

 
          
“He’s
takin’ it hard,” the puncher admitted.

 
          
“Beats
me why him an’ Merry don’t team up an’ drive them rats out’n their hole,”
Naylor remarked. “Some of us would give a hand.”

 
          
“Ever
bin in Hell City?” Birt asked. “I have–on business,” he added hastily. ” ‘Less
yo’re a bird, there’s but two ways in, an’ four men with rifles would hold the
pair of ‘em agin ten times their number.”

 
          
Sudden
left them arguing, and rode in the direction of the place he had been warned to
avoid. He was less than halfway when he met Miss Dalroy, riding a horse he
recognized. At the sight of him she pulled up, anger and scorn in her eyes.

 
          
“You
are going back?” she cried.

 
          
“Shore
looks thataway,” he replied, and then, “So he lets yu ride his hoss? He’s a
beauty—the hoss, I mean.”

 
          
He
leant over and stroked the shiny muzzle, his hand straying upwards, pushing the
short hair aside to find traces of white paint at the roots.

 
          
“I
tried to see the Chief night afore last,” he said casually. “Silver said he
warn’t there.”

 
          
She
looked sharply at him. “What are you trying to find out?”

 
          
He
shrugged.
“Just whether it was an excuse or not.
There
can’t be any mystery ‘bout his movements, anyway, an’yo’re forgettin’—this.” He
pointed to the badge he had donned after leaving Dugout.

 
          
“He
was abroad,” she admitted. “If you had any sense at all you’d throw that thing
away and—ride.”

 
          
“Why
not take yore own advice?” he smiled. “What keeps yu in Hell City?”

 
          
“The
reason we all have—necessity,” she replied, and in a burst of bitterness, “I
killed a brute, and because I was a woman, they called it murder and would have
hanged me; at the best, it meant a life sentence. Jeff contrived my escape, and
brought me here.”

 
          
“One good deed to his credit.”

 
          
“Don’t
think it. Many of his men owe him the same debt, and that gives him absolute
power over them.”

 
          
“Ever
seen him without the mask?” Sudden asked casually.

 
          
“No,
but once he showed me a photograph; it was signed `Jefferson Keith.’ “

 
          
“Odd
that a fella should hide his face from the woman he cares for,” the puncher
murmured. “Shucks, I shouldn’t ‘a’ said that; musta been thinkin’ aloud.”

 
          
Her
laugh did not ring true. “If you’re meaning me, you’d better think again,” she
said scornfully. “I’m just his property, to pet or punish at his pleasure. He
is incapable of any passion, save hate, and to satisfy that will stoop to the
vilest deeds, and yet …” she broke off with an impatient gesture, and then, “In
some way you have offended him.” She saw his little smile of tolerance, and
touched her horse with the spur. “Oh, well, a wilful man must learn his
lesson.”

 
          
“I’m
shore grateful, ma’am,” he said gravely, and resumed his journey.

 
          
Apart
from proof that Satan was in the plot to discredit him at the Double K he had discovered
nothing. Belle Dalroy he had already classed as a fugitive from the law.
Wayward, impetuous, and quick-tempered, she was not to be trusted. He smiled
thinly at the thought that in this place to which he was going there was not
one person on whom he could rely. The woman, Anita, perhaps, but promises made
in the stress of emotion were not wont to be lasting. He consoled himself with
a philosophical reflection:

 
          
“Playin’
a lone hand has one good point—yu on’y got yoreself to worry about.”

 
          
Satan
welcomed the puncher with a satirical smile. “Back so soon?” he cried.

 
          
“Yeah.
Don’t tell me yo’re surprised.”

 
          
“I
said yesterday that you would be. I take it they were not pleased to see you at
the Double K?”

 
          
“Pleased
don’t express it; I was a dream come true. I had to tear myself away,” Sudden
told him. “Why, Steve wanted to waste a new rope on me.”

 
          
He
gave an account of his escape, and the change in the masked man’s expression
was amazing.

 
          
“I
told him you were not to be harmed,” he rapped out. “Damn his soul, he’s
getting ”
He stopped, conscious of betraying himself, and
then, “Well, it doesn’t matter, no hurt was done. Still, it’s a pity you stole
those cows.”

 
          
“So
I did take ‘em?”

 
          
“Certainly,
so far as the country round is concerned, and my men believe the same,” came
the cool reply. “You see, I wanted to make sure of you, Sudden, and as this is
now the only place where you will be safe, I think I’ve done it. Do you follow
me?”

 
          
“I’m
treadin’ close on yore heels.”

 
          
“I
credit you with courage and intelligence. I need such a man to be my

 
          
“Pardner?”

 
          
“Right
hand, I was about to say, but it may lead to the other. Those animals outside
can execute but are incapable of thinking, for me or for
themselves
.
You will take orders from me, and they from you.”

 
          
“I’m
a stranger; mebbe they won’t stand for that.”

 
          
“Are
those guns of yours ornaments?” was the cynical query. “There is only one man
who may prove really awkward, since you will be succeeding him.”

 
          
“Ain’t
meanin’ Steve, are yu?”

 
          
“That clod?”
Satan sneered. “No, this is a fellow called
`Butch’—short for butcher, I imagine, he being a slayer of some note. Have you
heard of him?”

 
          
Despite
the indifferent tone, the puncher was aware of the other’s scrutiny.

 
          
“Not
any,” he replied nonchalantly.

 
          
“I
shall leave you to deal with him, as you choose,” the bandit said meaningly.
“He is in the town now. You understand?”

 
          
“Why
don’t yu tell him to pull his freight?” Sudden asked bluntly.

 
          
“Knowing
what he does, he would be a menace. Also, I need someone to take his place, and
that someone must be the better man. Now do you see?”

 
          
Sudden
did, all too clearly; he had again been jockeyed into false position. Butch, a
dangerous tool who had transgressed, must be got rid of, and he—probably
regarded in the same light, was to do the work. He could see no way out, save
to abandon his mission.

 
          
“I
get yu,” he said.

 
          
“Right.
How about quarters?”

 
          
“The
saloon ain’t so bad. Don’t cotton much to these holes in the ground; make me
feel like a gopher.”

 
          
“One
gets used to them.”

 
          
Sudden
glanced round. “Yu oughta be middlin’ comfortable,” he said. “That’s a han’some
picture.”

 
          
Standing
on the floor, where the light was poorest, he had not noticed it on his
previous visits. A large
canvas,
depicted the
life-size figure of a gunman. The half-crouch pointing pistol, and malignant
expression on the face, produced an amazing effect of reality.

 
          
“The
subject should appeal to you.”

 
          
“Yeah,”
Sudden agreed. “The gun is wrong—he’d be dead afore he got it that high.
Allasame, it’s mighty clever–I could ‘a’ sworn I saw the eyes move.”

 
          
Satan
laughed. “That’s a common illusion,” he returned. “Well, I wish you luck.”

 
          
“The
fella who depends on luck has a poor pardner,” the cowboy said, and went out.

 
          
A
few moments passed and then the masked man said quietly, “You can come out,
Butch.”

 
          
In
response to the invitation, a man emerged from behind the picture. His
appearance was not formidable. Untended, greying hair showed beneath his
slouched hat, a black coat hung loosely from his rounded shoulders, giving him
a pronounced stoop. But his lined, dissipated face, with its bloodless lips and
heavy-lidded eyes, told a different tale. Here was one to whom cruelty was a
commonplace, who would slay without compunction.

 
          
“So
that’s the pilgrim?” he asked. “Why didn’t you let me salivate him right away;
it would ‘a’ bin easy.”

 
          
“Yes,
too easy—for him,” Chief retorted. “I could have done that myself, but I want
him shamed before others, beaten at his own game. Let him see death coming, and
wait for it, suffering those few seconds of agony which turn a man into a
white-livered cur and make him sweat blood. Do you understand?”

 
          
His
voice trembled with the virulence of his passion, and it made Butch think a
little. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “You mean you don’t like him—much, but has it
occurred to you that he might get me?”

 
          
Satan’s
expression was an insult. “You don’t expect to pick up five hundred dollars
without some risk, I suppose?” he said coldly. “Of course, if he’s quicker than
you …”

 
          
The
gunman leered. “I guess not, but you hadn’t mentioned the dinero,” he replied.
“Well, that’s fixed; I’ll be on my way.” He had a word as he went, “Hell
, t’o’re
a good hater, ain’t you?”

 
          
Had
he heard the valediction which followed him he would have been less satisfied
with the vile bargain he had
made.

 
          
“Yes,
I’m a good hater,” Satan repeated. “Go, you dog, and kill or be killed; either
way, I gain.”

 
          
Sudden
was glad to find himself in the sunlight; he had meant what he said—these
dismal caverns in the rock, the homes of a dead and gone race, depressed him,
and the interview had intensified this feeling. He smiled mirthlessly as he
recalled the incident of the picture; there had been no illusion, the moving
eyes were those of a hidden marksman, ready to shoot him down at a sign. He did
not suspect it was the man he had to meet, and—subdue, but it warned him that
the bandit was not taking risks regarding his own safety.

 
          
“An’
two-three times I came near to puffin’ on him,” he reflected ruefully. “Oughta
guessed
that dealin’ with the scum he has to he’d have a
card up his sleeve.
If `fools for luck’ is right, I must be a
prize specimen.”