Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 07 - Sudden Rides Again(1938) (4 page)

 
          
“Nonsense,
her cake alone is worth riding ten miles for,” she smiled, and stepped towards
the exit.

 
          
She
wanted to get away. Though she did not know the men, she recognized the badge,
and was uneasy. They had been silent since her entrance, but their bold eyes
told their admiration plain—too plainly, even for her unsophisticated mind.

 
          
There
was every excuse, for she was indeed good to gaze upon. Not yet twenty, of
medium height, her slim, straight body, with its ease of movement, had the
lissom grace of a fawn. Her neat shirt-waist, riding-skirt, and spurred boots
suited her youthful figure admirably, while, from beneath the wide-hrimmed felt
hat,
peeped
curls of pale gold. Deep blue eyes, a
short nose, and well-shaped mouth completed a picture most men would find more
than attractive. The scar-faced rogue was no exception, and she had only taken
one pace when he stepped in front of her.

 
          
“Wait
a minute,” he growled, and stood, hands on hips, surveying her from head to
foot with bloodshot, leering eyes. “So
yo’re
Ken
Keith’s gal, huh? I’ve heard o’ you.”

 
          
Though
her heart was beating faster than usual, her cold look and steady voice did not
betray the fact.

 
          
“Then
you have the advantage of me, sir,” she replied.

 
          
“Mebbe,
but we can put that right. My name’s Roden, an’ if I’d knowed there was
anythin’ like you to be found in this one-eyed burg, I’d ‘a’ spent more time in
it. C’mon, le’s have a drink an’ git acquainted.”

 
          
The
girl’s cheeks flushed, but she kept her temper. “I have no desire to know you,”
she said. “Kindly allow me to pass.” He did not move, and to her dismay, she
saw his
companions .
close
in
behind him. “If any of our riders were here they would give you a lesson in
manners.” she added.

 
          
“But
as they ain’t, yo’re havin’ one instead,” he responded. “To start with, yo’re
goin’ to give me a li’l kiss.”

 
          
For
the first time fear showed in her eyes as she realized that the brute meant
what he said. Inflamed by liquor and the passion her beauty had aroused in him,
he leant towards her, a bestial grin on his contorted lips. Desperately she
sent an appealing look to Black Sam, but the
negro
was
palsied by terror; he knew that he would be shot without hesitation if he
interfered. Scar’s claw-like fingers were about to close on the shrinking
girl’s shoulders when a quiet voice intervened:

 
          
“I—just—wouldn’t,”
it drawled. “Men
is
bigger’n spiders, an’ I could lay
out the four o’ yu in as many seconds. Trouble is
,
skunks stink just as bad when they’re dead.”

 
          
The
stranger, whose presence they had forgotten, was still sitting in his tilted
chair, a gun levelled over his knees. Scar, who had an unpleasant conviction
that it was aimed at
himself
, drew back his hands,
whereupon the interrupter remarked meaningly:

 
          
“Just in time, hombre.
Any other move an’ yu’d ‘a’ been
missin’ from our midst a whole lot.”

 
          
“What
you hornin’ in for?” Scar snarled. “It’s none o’ yore business.”

 
          
“Shore
it’s none o’ my business—it’s a pleasure,” Sudden replied, and to the girl, “Go
ahead, ma’am; if anyone gets in yore way yu’ll on’y have to step over him.”

 
          
The
cutting edge on the last three words procured a clear path for her, and with a
smile of thanks to her champion, she walked to the door. Black Sam went with
her, mumbling excuses. When he returned, the stranger’s weapon was still
dominating the situation. Scar had a bright idea; the girl could not have got
far away.

 
          
“Now
the bird has flown I s’pose we can git goin’?” he asked.

 
          
The
black-haired man in the chair chuckled. “
yu
must
figure i’m dumb,” he said. “Besides, yu ain’t settled for yore liquor.”

 
          
“Pay—Black—Sam?”
Scar gasped. “Well, I’m—”

 
          
“It
go
on de slate, sah,” the saloon-keeper said
anxiously. “This is one time it don’t do
no
such
thing,” Sudden told him. “Four rounds at twenty-five a throw is four dollars.
Ante up.”

 
          
“Twenty-five?
Whisky is fifteen,” one protested. “This is
good stuff—twenty-five goes for yu.”

 
          
“We
ain’t got a cent anyways—Sam’ll have to trust us, as usual,” Scar contributed.

 
          
“Suah,
sah—” the
negro
began.

 
          
“Like
hell he will—not,” Sudden said brusquely. “Yu can hock yore hardware.”

 
          
This
astounding proposition hit them like a blow. “Four guns for four measly
dollars?” a cross-eyed fellow named “Squint” exploded. “You got a nerve.”

 
          
“I
got a gun, too,” the puncher reminded. “An’
it ain’t a matter
o’ four dollars neither
; it’ll cost yu ten apiece—I’m bettin’ there’s
some back payments. Get busy, Sam.”

 
          
Little
as he liked the task of depriving his customers of their weapons, the
saloon-keeper obeyed; he was beginning to realize that this saturnine guest was
not to be argued with. Sullenly the victims submitted, and then their leader
offered a comment:

 
          
“Fella
with the drop can allus call the tune,” he sneered. “If you didn’t have—”

 
          
The
front legs of the lounger’s seat thudded on the floor. In three seconds he was
at the bar, handing over his own guns. His smooth-shaven, tanned face was hard,
his eyes threatening.

 
          
“Take
care o’ those, Sam, an’ don’t interfere,” he ordered. “I can handle these
coyotes my own self.” He faced round. “Well, got any ideas?” he asked.

 
          
For
a moment it seemed they had not; the confident audacity of the challenger had a
paralysing effect; they could not credit that, facing odds of four to one, he
had willingly placed himself at a disadvantage. Scar was the first to recover.
His eyes gleamed.

 
          
“Fancyin’
yoreself, huh?” he said. “C’mon, boys, we’ll soon trim this young cock’s comb
for him.”

 
          
With
muttered oaths, they began to move towards the man leaning indolently against
the bar. He did not wait for them. One swift stride brought him to the nearest,
his right fist shot out with all the momentum of the movement behind it.
to
land with a dull thud on the fellow’s jaw. As though
kicked by a mule, he tottered on his heels for an instant and crashed
senseless.

 
          
“Tally
one,” the cowboy called, and stepped lightly to the middle of the room, where
they would be unable to hem him in. “On with the dance, hombres, or do I have
to fetch yu one at a time?”

 
          
The
jeer brought about the result he desired—they made a concerted charge, rushing
blindly forward, only to receive another lesson. Jumping back, Sudden
overturned a table in their path, which not only checked but split up the
attack. Scar and Squint elected to pass the obstacle on one side; the third man
took the other, to his own undoing, for Sudden—expecting just such a
move—sprang in, drove a left to the face, and, as the recipient’s head snapped
back, followed up with a perfect punch on the solar plexus. Under that venomous
blow the man collapsed like a hinge and rolled in agony on the ground, gasping
for breath.

 
          
“Tally
two,” the cowboy chanted grimly.

 
          
This
further depletion of their force produced
a certain
hesitancy on the part of the attackers, and then Squint evolved what he
regarded as an inspiration. Stooping behind his comrade’s back, he snatched up
and hurled one of theheavy stools. Sudden saw it coming, ducked, and the
missile struck the log wall and became kindling-wood. That was a game two could
play at, however, and Sudden’s stool came so swiftly that Squint, unable to
dodge, was rapped sharply on the forehead by one of the whirling legs, and
ceased to take any further interest in the proceedings.

 
          
“Tally
three,” Sudden grinned. “Sorta evens things up, huh? Come an’ get yores,
crooked face.”

 
          
Staggered
as he was by this speedy removal of his supporters, Scar did not refuse the
invitation. So far the stranger had sprung the surprises; now it was his turn.
But he advanced slowly, and sideways, stepping on the balls of his feet in case
retreat became necessary. Sudden watched him edging closer, wondering what the
game was. A cry from Black Sam told him.

 
          
“Min’ de knife, sah.”

 
          
So
that was it? The curious crab-like approach had enabled the ruffian to keep his
right hand out of sight, so concealing the six-inch blade gripped in it.

 
          
The
warning came only just in time, for at the very moment it was
uttered,
Scar flung himself forward and struck. A swift
snatch and Sudden caught the descending wrist with his left hand, thrusting it
upwards, while his right fist impacted on the other’s chin with the force of a battering-ram.
The knife sang on the boards, the owner’s head swayed on his shoulders, and
another raking right sent him down in an untidy heap. The
negro
,
his eyes like saucers, came from behind the bar to survey the battlefield.

 
          
“Sam,
a little more an’ I’d ‘a’ lost my temper,” the victor confessed.

 
          
“My
lan’, sah, I done think yo’ kill ‘em all,” Sam said, in an awed tone.

 
          
“Shucks,
they ain’t hurt—much,” Sudden replied, returning to his belt the guns the
saloon-keeper had brought him. “They’re comin’ round a’ready, but I figure
they’ve had enough. Well, seein’ I made the mess, I s’pose I gotta clear it
up.”

 
          
The
prostrate forms on the floor were showing signs of life, and the man whose
internal economy had been so rudely assailed had already climbed slowly to an
upright position. He had no more than achieved this when he felt himself seized
by collar and belt, propelled to the door, and hurled down the steps into the
street, the soft sand of which he ploughed with his face, a feat which evoked
ironical cheers from a group of loungers who witnessed it.

 
          
The
applause brought others, popping out of their holes like rabbits, to learn what
was happening. They arrived in time to see a second form catapulted from the
saloon entrance.

 
          
“Black
Sam has hired a bouncer, an’ boy, does he know his job?” one of them exclaimed
admiringly.

 
          
A
third figure thudded into the sand, then a fourth, and when this last scrambled
to his feet and shook a furious fist, he was recognized and the enjoyment of
the onlookers gave way to an expression of unease.

 
          
“Scar
Roden,” the blacksmith, Naylor, muttered. “That fella can’t know what he’s
takin’ on. This’ll mean trouble for Dugout.”

 
          
The
puncher had appeared, standing in the doorway, his thumbs hooked in his belt.
The saloon-keeper was hovering fearfully in the background. Sudden had a word
to say:

 
          
“I’m
stayin’ in this neck o’ the woods a piece an’ I’m givin’ notice that if
anythin’ unpleasant happens to Sam here, I’ll send yu four misfits to hell so
fast yu’ll singe on the way. Now, beat it.”

 
          
He
watched until they disappeared among the low hills which masked the western
approach to the town, and then turned to his host.”I reckon I’ve lost yu four
customers,” he said, but his grin was anything but repentant.