Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 07 - Sudden Rides Again(1938) (8 page)

 
          
“Yo’re
ruinin’ my night’s rest,” was the facetious rejoinder.
“What
we doin’ tomorrow?”

 
          
“Dunno,
but I’ll lay we have the rottenest an’ riskiest work he can find.”

 
          
Breakfast
at the Double K was a serious business, and there was little of the gaiety
which enlivened the evening meal. Its place was taken by the rattle of knives
and forks and picturesque appeals to the badgered cook for the replenishment of
quickly-emptied platters. A long day in the saddle had to be prepared for,
and—as one jocularly expressed it, “Starvation is a horrible death, Cookie
darlin’.”

 
          
The
perspiring purveyor promptly countered with, “How many weeks d’yu expect to be
away?”

 
          
Going
to the corral for his horse, Sudden encountered Lagley.

 
          
“I
wanted a word with yu,” the foreman said. “So far, the cyards have come yore
way; don’t overplay ‘em. I ain’t the fella to nurse a grudge; an’ if yu do yore
work an’ don’t chatter, yu an’
me’ll
git along fine.”

 
          
“Suits
me,” the new hand replied.

 
          
Frosty,
red-faced and profane, emerged from the corral leading a wiry, wicked-eyed dun
pony. “C’mon,
Cactus,
ain’t yu ever goin’ to git any
sense?” he panted. “One o’ these bright mornin’s I’ll take an’ bust yore slats
in.” He looked at Lagley. “What yu want me to do?”

 
          
“Yu
an’ Green ride the northern line. I was along there yestiddy an’ it struck me
cows was missin’.”

 
          
“Right,
git yore bronc, Jim,” Frosty said, and as
Sudden
stepped forward, added, “Don’t yu want yore rope?”

 
          
The
reply was a low whistle, and instantly the big black separated itself from the
milling band of horses. Sudden lifted down the top bar of the entrance, Nigger
leapt lightly over the others and stood, thrusting a velvety muzzle forward for
the customary biscuit.

 
          
“Trick
horse, huh?” the foreman sneered.

 
          
“Yeah,”
its owner replied. “One of ‘em is pretendin’ to lose his footin’ on a slope; yu
did oughta see him do that.”

 
          
He
cinched his saddle, got up, and sat watching the battle between Cactus and its
master. “Want any help?” he asked solicitously.

 
          
Frosty
did not, and said so, with emphasis. “This chunk o’ mischief has gotta learn
I’m boss,” he gritted.

 
          
Presently
he was ready and they loped away. The look Lagley sent after them was the
reverse of pleasant. “An’ I shore hope them fellas got my message,” he
muttered.

 
          
Turvey
strolled up. “They make a fine pair, ridin’ side by side, don’t they?” he
queried, his eyes full of malice.

 
          
“They’d
be just as fine lyin’ side by side,” Lagley retorted.

 
          
Turvey’s
bent shoulders went up. “I don’t give a damn either way, but I would like to
find that black
hess
.”

 
          
“An’
be pitched into hell the first time yu straddled him.”

 
          
“Don’t
think it, Steve; I ain’t so easy got rid of,” was the meaning reply.

 
          
The
foreman scowled, saddled his own beast, and rode to the ranch-house to report
the day’s work he had set in motion.

 
          
“What
have you done with the new man?” Keith enquired.
“Sent him
an’ Homer to look at the northern boundary.
We’ve bin losin’ cattle
there lately.”

 
          
“Lately?”
repeated the rancher scornfully. “You speak as if it were something new.”

 
          
“That’s
the roughest part o’ the range,” Lagley reminded. “Steers are bound to stray.”

 
          
“Especially with riders behind them—riders who are allowed a free
hand.”

 
          
“We
lost one man an’ had two others crippled out there,” the foreman protested. “Yu
ain’t forgettin’ that?”

 
          
“I
am not likely to, with the bill still unpaid,” Keith said bitterly.

 
          
Meanwhile,
the two cowboys were heading steadily northwards. The first few miles, over the
open, rolling grassland, were covered in silence. Then Frosty spoke.

 
          
“Didn’t
I tell yu we’d git the worst job?”

 
          
“What’s
the matter with it? Routin’ out strays ain’t so much.”

 
          
“It
is when there’s a chance o’ runnin’ into hot lead any minute.”

 
          
“How come?”
Sudden demanded. “We’ll be on our own range.”

 
          
“Yeah,
but that
scum in Hell City figure
it belongs to them,
an’ act accordin’.”

 
          
“Meanin’?”

 
          
“One
of our boys—Tim Jellis—was wiped out an’ two more wounded less’n three months
back doin’ the very thing we’ve bin sent to do,” Frosty explained.
“Rustlers?
Yeah, an’ wearin’ the devil’s own brand.”

 
          
“Why
not build a line-house an’ have a coupla men stay out there allatime?”

 
          
“We
tried it, but the durned place catched fire an’ burned down—green wood at
that.”

 
          
They
had left the open range and were traversing a sandy waste broken only by
patches of scrub and bunchgrass. In front of them the ground rose gradually
towards a range of barren hills, the slopes of which were gashed by steep-sided
gorges. Sagebrush, mesquite, and an occasional juniper were the only trees;
here and there a giant cactus flung wide its arms as though to bar their
progress. Frosty pointed to the grey, forbidding heights ahead of them.

 
          
“Somewheres
in there is Hell City,” he informed.

 
          
“Too far for a visit?”

 
          
“No,
too dangerous,” was the reply. “Also, we got work to d Hullo, what’s that
mean?”

 
          
Sudden
followed the levelled finger; less than a mile away a tiny column of smoke was
spiralling into the clear air, and then came a faint bellow.

 
          
“Damnation!”
Frosty swore. “They’re swappin’ brands right under our noses. C’mon.”

 
          
He
dragged his Winchester from the sheath under the fender of his saddle, and was
about to spur his pony when Sudden interposed:

 
          
“Wait,
we’ll take a peek at these hombres first; that smoke might be there for us to
see.”

 
          
Crouching
in their saddles and keeping, when possible, under cover of the scrub, they
rode to within a couple of hundred yards of the telltale fire. Here they left
the horses and stole forward on foot until they reached the mouth of a shallow
gully, the wall on one side of which afforded an excellent view. One glance
told the story. Two riders were holding a bunch of twenty steers, from’ which a
third was clumsily roping and dragging one at a time to the fire, where another
pair awaited it. One of these, when the animal had been thrown, tied it, and
his companion, drawing a glowing iron from the embers, bent over the prostrate
beast. The pungent smell of burning hair assailed the nostrils of the watchers.

 
          
“This
is a trap we mighty near ran our fool heads right into,” Sudden said. “On’y
them
two at the fire know anythin’ ‘bout cattle. They were
waitin’ for us, an’ where’s the other jasper?”

 
          
He
pointed to three saddled ponies standing apart. The spiteful crack of a rifle,
the bullet from which perforated the crown of his hat, provided the answer. A
spreading puff of smoke from the higher ground on the other side of the gully completed
their information. Sudden flattened himself behind a slight upward slope and
swore when a second shot hummed past his ears.

 
          
“Hell’s
bells, he’s above us an’ we can’t see him,” he said. “But we can stop the
brand-blottin’.”

 
          
He
pressed the trigger as he spoke and the man with the iron spun round and
dropped. His companion was already running when Frosty fired and whooped when
the target stumbled and pitched headlong, to move no more. At the first shot,
the three with the herd abandoned their charge and spurred their mounts up the
gully, leaving their look-out to fend for
himself
. A
steady stream of lead showed that he was still attending to business.

 
          
“He’s
behind that big stone on the point,” Sudden decided. “First, we’ll set him
afoot.” A thought came. “Any chance o’ them others circlin’ round an’ takin’ a
hand in the game?”

 
          
“Not
one,” Frosty assured. “Thisyer gorge is ‘bout three mile long an’ the sides is
straight up.”

 
          
A
couple of bullets into the ground beneath their feet sent the ponies careering
wildly out across the plain, and the hidden rustler expressed his opinion of
the proceeding with a miniature hurricane of lead which tore up the ground all
round the cowboys.

 
          
“I’m
suspectin’ he ain’t fond o’ walkin’.” Sudden remarked, adding grimly, “Well,
mebbe he won’t have any to do. See that rock to the right o’ the one he’s
usin’? The face slopes back towards him an’ there’s just a chance a slug might
angle off in his direction. Let’s try her out.”

 
          
They
made the experiment, painstakingly bespattering the stone Sudden had pointed
out. The unknown replied vigorously, but the two men had dug themselves in and
he did no damage. From time to time, a jeering shout commented upon what the
utterer evidently regarded as poor marksmanship. Then one of these was cut
short by an oath and the bombardment from the boulder ceased. For a while they
waited, suspecting a ruse, and then Sudden cautiously pushed his empty hat into
sight; no shot came.

 
          
“We
might ‘a’ got him, or mebbe he’s slipped away,” he said. He rose to his feet
and nothing happened. “We’ll take a look.”

 
          
They
descended to the floor of the gully, where the body of the brand-blotter
sprawled unnaturally by the fire, the running-iron still clutched in his hand.
A few yards away
was
his assistant, and both had
ceased to breathe. They were Mexicans of the peon class, and on the breast of
each was Satan’s sign, the little red imp. Sudden drew his knife and cut the
stitches which secured the symbol.

 
          
“Get
the other,” he told Frosty.
“Might come in useful one time.”

 
          
They
climbed laboriously to the top of the bluff, only to find the boulder which had
sheltered the enemy deserted. The ground behind it was littered with cigarette
stubs and empty shells, while the other stone was splashed with the marks of
their bullets.

 
          
“We
scared him out, anyways,” Frosty decided.

 
          
Sudden
was staring at a red stain some paces away; there were others further on, with
zigzagging footprints and an uneven furrow which might well have been made by a
trailed rifle-butt. He did not follow them.

 
          
They
went down, fetched their horses, and rounded up the steers, on four of which
the brand had already been changed.