Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 07 - Sudden Rides Again(1938) (3 page)

 
          
“The
world is shore a small place,” he offered.

 
          
“I’m
right distressed,” Sudden answered, “but not bein’ cock-eyed I can’t see round
corners.”

 
          
“Me
too,” the other said. “Nature does play favourites,
don’t
she? The fella with the squint has all the luck.” He grinned expansively. “Yu
don’t happen to be lost, do yu?”

 
          
“I
am unless this is the right way to the thrivin’ an’ populous city o’ Dugout.”

 
          
“Shore
is. Might yu be plannin’ to spend the night there?”

 
          
“Yeah, if I can find a ho-tel to take me in.”

 
          
The
stranger chortled. “They’ll all do that, but I’d try Black Sam’s—he’s liable to
take yu in less’n the others; barrin’ his hide, he’s white, an’ that wife o’
his can certainly cook. Gosh!
ain’t
it hot?”

 
          
He
removed his hat and fanned himself, watching slyly. Sudden stared in amazement,
for though he could not be much over twenty, his hair was grey-white, that of
an old man.

 
          
“I’m
obliged to yu—Frosty,” Sudden said.

 
          
It
was the other’s turn for surprise. “How in hell did yu know that?” he asked.

 
          
“I
didn’t, but yore ha’r …”

 
          
The
youngster laughed. “Well, yu guess pretty
good
. I
s’pose I’ll have to tell yu ‘bout that. Injuns done it, raided our cabin way
back an’ scalped my parents before my eyes. Then a brave grabs my golden locks
an’ flourishes his knife, but when they turns white in his hand—which they does
from fright, yu understand—he yells an’ drops everythin’, figurin’ I’m a sort
o’ spirit. I
snatches
the weapon an’ drives it into
his heart. I’m five years old at the time.”

 
          
“An’
I expect they were the on’y parents yu ever had,” Sudden said solemnly.

 
          
The
white-head grinned with delight and shoved out a paw. “Stranger, I like yu more
every minute,” he cried. “If yu aim to infest these parts a-tall, I’m hopin’
we’ll be friends.”

 
          
“That
goes for me, too,” Sudden rejoined, as their hands met. “I reckon the Double K
ain’t so fur away.” He had already noted the brand on the other’s pony.

 
          
“On’y
ten
mile
. Ask for Rud Homer—that’s me—though Frosty
will do just as well.”

 
          
“My
name is Jim, but I add Green to it when I go a’visitin’. Black Sam’s, I think
yu said?”

 
          
“Yeah,”
Frosty replied, and looked uncomfortable. “See here, I was stringin’ yu; that’s
the on’y ho-tel—there ain’t
no
more. Dugout is rightly
named, a mud-hole, nothin’ else. I’m sorry.”

 
          
“Forget
it,” Sudden grinned. “Losin’ yore parents thataway—”

 
          
But
Frosty threw up his hands, spurred his pony, and vanished round the bend in a
whirl of dust. The rider of the black went on. He had made an enemy, but that
was far too common an occurrence in his turbulent life to give him any concern;
he had also, he believed, made a friend, and this was a source of satisfaction.

 
          
“Lagley
is bad medicine,” he mused. “I’ll have trouble there. As for Frosty, I’ll make
him wish them parents had been scalped before he was born.” He laughed as he
recalled the gay, impudent face of the youth who had tried to foist that
amazing fabrication upon him. “I’ll bet he keeps his outfit guessin’.” A new
thought came. “Wonder what either of em would ‘a’ said if I’d asked the way to
Hell City?”

 
          
Emerging
from the canopied shadow of a pine forest, Sudden saw an open stretch of plain
and in the midst of it, buildings, dotted about on either side of the
wagon-road to form some sort of a street. They were primitive in character,
constructed of hewn timber, ‘dobe, and mere earth-roofed shacks. He saw no one,
but as he splashed through a little creek and rode into the place, he had a
feeling that he was watched.

 
          
He
passed a store, a smithy, and then found what he was seeking. It was the
largest of the buildings, two-storied, and formed of stout logs, with a raised
and roofed verandah in front which was reached by steps. A board over the entrance
bore the words, “Black Sam’s Saloon.” A pony with the Double K brand was
hitched outside. Sudden dismounted and entered.

 
          
After
the glare of the sun, he found the comparative darkness refreshing. It was a
typical Western saloon. A long bar, with shelves of shining bottles, extended
almost across the back, and on the boarded, sanded space in front were tables
and stools. Hanging kerosene lamps provided light and there were mirrors and
pictures of a crude description on the walls. The place was empty save for a
big
negro
, whose face expanded in a broad grin at the
sight of a customer.

 
          
“Howdy,
sah, I suah am pleased to welcome yo’ to Dugout,” he boomed.

 
          
The
traveller returned the smile and put down a dollar. “Whisky,” he said. “Good
whisky.”

 
          
“Yo’
don’ git nuthin’ else heah, sah,” the darkie replied.

 
          
“Good
licker, grub, beds, an’ civil’ty, dat’s in.
:,
Black
Sam.”

 
          
Sudden
sampled his drink and found that it was indeed superior to the rotgut so
frequently retailed in the West. “I heard as much from Rud Homer,” he said, his
keen eyes on the other.

 
          
Black
Sam’s grin was again in evidence. “Ah, dat Frosty,” he replied. “For onct he
tell
de trufe.”

 
          
“Well,
I’m lookin’ for all them things yu mentioned, an’ one other—a corral.”

 
          
“Behin’ de house, sah.
I tak yo hoss—”

 
          
“I’m
thankin’ yu, but mebbe yore wife wouldn’t feel equal to cookin’ me a meal if
she was a widow,” Sudden said whimsically. “I can find it.”

 
          
He
returned presently bearing his saddle, rifle and blanket, which,
preceded
by the host, he carried up to his room. He had no
more than put the things down when the sound of a shot from below sent both of
them racing downstairs again. They found four men lined up at the bar, one with
a smoking pistol in his hand. He greeted the
negro
with a scowl.

 
          
“What’s
the idea, you black scum, keepin’ us waitin’?” he growled. “I’ve a mind to blow
you apart.”

 
          
Black
Sam quivered, but whether with fear or rage, Sudden could not determine. He
mumbled something about showing the newcomer his room, and produced a bottle
and glasses. The puncher sat down and occupied
himself
with the construction of a cigarette, while covertly observing his company. The
type was common enough: swaggering, hard-faced ruffians, driven by their own
misdeeds to dwell in a land where the law was not, and ready to slit a throat
for a few dollars. Their garb was that of the country, a coarse flannel shirt,
homespun pants tucked into the tops of high boots, slouched hat, and a belt
from which protruded the butt of a heavy revolver. On the breast of each,
fashioned from leatherstained blood-red, was a small presentment of a devil,
complete with horns and tail. A ghost of a smile passed over Sudden’s lips when
he saw it.

 
          
“Play-actin’,”
he murmured scornfully.

 
          
The
man who had bullied the saloon-keeper, apparently their leader, was a
particularly repulsive specimen. Snaky black hair framed a bloated face, the
left side deeply seamed from chin to brow by a knife-wound, which, in healing,
had drawn his mouth awry. The others addressed him as “Scar.”

 
          
They
filled their glasses, drank and filled again, lolling on the bar, and sending
contemptuous glances in his direction. He noticed that they did not offer to
pay.

 
          
“Well,
nigger, what’s the news?” Scar asked.

 
          
“Ain’t
no
news, sah.
Town’s pow’ful quiet.”

 
          
The
man grinned at his companions. “Want’s livenin’ up, huh? We shore oughta come
in off’ener, boys.”

 
          
“Yo’re
whistlin’, Scar,” one agreed. “Sam here’d be glad to entertain us, eh?”

 
          
He
shot the question at the saloon-keeper and got the stammered reply, “Allus
pleased to see trade, sah.”

 
          
This
produced a burst of laughter, and the fellow who had put the query slapped Scar
on the back, and cried, “Hark to him.
Trade !
He calls
us trade. We must have one on that. No, it’s my turn not to pay.”

 
          
He
grabbed the bottle and slopped liquor into the glasses, careless whether he
spilled it. They drank, and the leader turned again to Black Sam.

 
          
“So
you got nothin’ to tell us? Well, I ain’t agreein’. Who’s this stranger stayin’
here an’ what’s he after?”

 
          
The
four bullies had their eyes on the victim, enjoying his obvious embarrassment.
Then a shot rang out and Scar clapped a hand to the back of his neck and spun
round.

 
          
“What
th’ hell?” he shouted.

 
          
The
man about whom he was enquiring had tilted his chair against the wall and was
sitting, long legs dangling, a mocking smile on his lips. From the gun levelled
at his hip the smoke curled lazily upward.

 
          
“There
was a yellow-jacket on yore neck,” he explained. “I don’t like ‘em m’self—they
got red-hot tails. Sufferin’ cats, there’s a spider, too.” Without any movement
the gun spoke again and the amazed spectators saw a smear of red and bits of
limbs where the bullet embedded itself in the wall. “Say, mister,” the marksman
called to his landlord, “yore shebang seems pretty well fixed for vermin.”

 
          
He
was looking at the four as he spoke, but they chose not to notice the fact. The
other three had not seen the yellow-jacket on their companion, but a man who,
seated and without apparent aim, could smash spiders at ten paces, was not to
be doubted—by sane people. Scar contented himself with a frown.

 
          
“That
was a fool trick, stranger,” he said. “You might ‘a’ killed me.”

 
          
“Shore
I might, if I’d wanted to,” Sudden replied. “Did I hear yu bein’ curious ‘bout
me?”

 
          
“Naw,
I ain’t interested in you
none
whatever,” the bully
lied.

 
          
“I’m
obliged to yu,”
came
the instant retort.

 
          
Scar
addressed his next remark to the saloon-keeper, who had watched the scene with
bulging eyes. “Where’s the rider that Double K pony outside?”

 
          
Before
the question could be answered, the door at the end of the bar opened and a
girl appeared. At the sight of the company she hesitated a mere moment, and
then, with a lift of her head, came forward.

 
          
“I
must be going now, Sam,” she said. “Daddy Ken will he worrying—you know how he
is.”

 
          
“Suah
do, Miss Joan,” he replied. “De Kunnel
am
debestest
worrier in de worl’ bout yo’self.
I’se mighty grateful to yo’
for comin’ to see Mandy.”