Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 07 - Sudden Rides Again(1938) (9 page)

 
          
Frosty
surveyed them with lifted eyebrows. Diamond,” he said. “That’s odd.”

 
          
“Shore
is,” Sudden agreed gravely.
“But why?”

 
          
His
friend laughed. “We fit so well together that I keep forgettin’
yo’re
a stranger,” he explained. “Yu see, there is a Twin
Diamond range, an’ part of it runs cheek by jowl with our’n south-west o’ here.
The odd thing is that the owner, Martin Merry, is mighty fond o’ Keith, an’ the
least likely to rustle his cattle.”

 
          
“It
could be an attempt to make trouble atween ‘em,” Sudden surmised, and pointed
to one of the altered brands. “Pretty raw work; even when it’s healed up, a kid
could see it had been tampered with.”

 
          
“I
reckon yu got it,” Frosty assented. “Merry’s cows never stray this far—the feed
is poor—an’ his men would have to do some explainin’. What’s our move?”

 
          
“Drive
these four to the Twin Diamond an’ let ‘em
see
we ain’t
romancin’. That’ll put a crimp in the game.”

 
          
The
idea seemed sound, and having bunched the four animals which had been operated
upon, and sent the others scampering into the open, they set out. To a question
about burying the dead rustlers, Sudden replied harshly, “D’yu reckon they’d
‘a’ done that for us? Besides,
buzzards has
to live.”

 
          
One
look at the stern face and Frosty said no more. Brief as was their
acquaintance, he had already divined that here was a man who, though not much
older than himself in years, was immeasurably so in experience. Hazing their
little herd ahead of them they rode in silence for a while. Then Sudden spoke:

 
          
“
Them
three skunks who skedaddled were Scar an’ two o’ the
fellas I flung outa Black Sam’s. How did they know I was comin’ here?”

 
          
“They
couldn’t have—it just happened so,” the other replied.
“Though
it is claimed that Satan hombre is a wizard.”

 
          
Sudden
grinned in derision. “Yu
ain’t believin’
it, are yu?”

 
          
“Mebbe
not, but it’s amazin’ the things he finds out,” was the dubious answer, and
then, “Why, damn it, nobody ‘mowed till we started out this mornin’.”

 
          
“On’y
the man who sent us,”
came
the sardonic reminder.
Frosty’s eyes widened.
“Oh, hell, Jim.
I don’t like
Steve, but he wouldn’t …”

 
          
“Mebbe
not, an’ then again,
lie
might.
Worth
rememberin’, anyways.
What’s Merry like?”

 
          
“Short,
fat, an’ got the easiest laugh I ever heard—might ‘a’ been made to fit his
name. He’s ‘bout the on’y fella around here who can talk back to the Colonel,
but when he scores yu he does it with a smile that takes the sting out. His
outfit swears by him.”

 
          
“That
tells me plenty,” Sudden said.

 
          
Two
hours later they halted their charges in front of a long, squat timber edifice
which was sadly in need of repair. Cracked, even broken, curtainless windows
gaped at them, and in several places the roof quite evidently was a poor
protection from the elements. The bunkhouse, barns, and corrals were in little
better shape. Frosty noted his companion’s surprise.

 
          
“One
o’ these days the scrap-heap will tumble in an’ Merry will crawl out’n the
ruins an’ just tell the boys to build another,” he said. “No, there ain’t a
female on the premises, as yu might guess; he’s got a Chink cook.” He raised
his voice in a cry of “Hello, the house!”

 
          
In
response, a man nearly as broad as he was high, with a huge sombrero tilted
back from his round, red face, came waddling out. His mouth split into a wide
grin when he saw the visitors.

 
          
“Why,
Frosty, what’s fetched yu here?” he bellowed.
“Light an’ rest
yore saddles.”

 
          
They
got down and seated themselves on a bench by the ranch-house door. The cattle,
tired by the long tramp, were contentedly cropping the sparse brown herbage.
Frosty duly presented his companion. The rancher studied the young man in
silence for a moment, and then, with twinkling eyes, remarked:

 
          
“Pleased
to know yu, Green. Yu got the second best boss in the country; if he don’t
treat yu right, come an’ see the best.”

 
          
The
Double K puncher chuckled. “I told yu he was a modest fella, Jim,” he remarked.

 
          
“Well,
boys, spill the beans, or mebbe yore throats need irrigatin’,” Merry said, and
when Frosty promptly retorted that they did, he shouted, “Hi, Chang, there’s a
couple o’ thirsty gents here; fetch a jug o’ water.”

 
          
For
a moment the cowboy’s face fell, but resumed its grin when he saw that the
water was accompanied by a bottle. They sampled the contents, and then Frosty
told his story. Merry spoke only when it was ended.

 
          
“Good
notion o’ yores to bring ‘em here. I’m obliged.”

 
          
“Warn’t
mine—Jim thought o’ that. He figured that if the rustlers were aimin’ to put yu
in wrong with
Keith, that
would crab the deal.”

 
          
The
fat man nodded. “I’m obliged to both o’ yu. If Green could rope an’ throw one
o’ them cows …”

 
          
He
watched narrowly as the puncher stepped into his saddle and walked the horse
towards the grazing brutes. At the moment they began to move, the black leapt
forward, the rope circled through the air, the loop dropping neatly over the
horns of the nearest steer. A flip of the lariat to the right and a swerve to
the left by the horse threw the captive on its side and a turn of the rider’s
wrist sent a couple of coils along the rope which effectually snared the
kicking hind legs. “Knows his job,” the rancher remarked to his companion, as
they stepped to where the victim of the cowboy’s dexterity awaited them. “It
ain’t every wrastler can throw an’ hobble from the saddle.”

 
          
One
glance at the altered brand and Merry’s laugh rang out. “Clever work,” he said.
“Even a tenderfoot could see that cow ain’t wearin’ its proper monogram, an’
that’s what they wanted. Tell Ken I’m buyin’ these beasts—that’ll save yu the
trouble o’ drivin’ ‘em back, an’ put things straight.”

 
          
Leaving
Sudden to release his prisoner, they returned to the ranch-house, for a thrown
steer is apt to be resentful and has no fear of a man on foot.

 
          
“Hear
about the stranger rough-housin’ four o’ them Hell City outlaws at Black
Sam’s?” Merry asked, and without waiting for an answer, “I sent word I’d like
to see him, but he’d
went
, cuss it.”

 
          
“Allasame,
yu’ve got yore wish,” Frosty grinned, his eyes on Sudden, who, having deftly
freed and coiled his rope, smacked the outraged beast on the rump, and swung
round to rejoin them.

 
          
“Yu
tellin’ me that’s the fella?” the rancher demanded. “Well, I’ll be tee-totally
damned. So Ken got ahead o’ me? What was his idea takin’ on a stranger?”

 
          
“First
off, he wanted to thank him, I expect,” the other replied, and told how the
trouble at Black Sam’s had started.

 
          
Merry
nodded, and when Sudden returned, said, “Green, it ‘pears I’m more obliged to
yu than I guessed. Miss Joan is a particular friend o’ mine, an’ if I hadn’t
been born so darned early, I’d be ha’ntin’ the Double K pretty persistent. I
ain’t forgettin’ what yu did for her, an’ I’ll be pleased to see yu here any
time, which, o’ course, goes for yu, too, Frosty.

 
          
Tell
Ken to keep me posted. I’ll bet that hell-hound in the hills is plannin’ some
devilment right now.”

 
          
On
the way back to the Double K, Frosty was inquisitive. “What
d’yu
think
of him?”

 
          
“He
keeps good whisky,” was all the answer.

 
          
Hell
City was difficult of access. A rough, narrow wagon-way, winding serpent-like
among the foothills, ever climbing, and walled in by rock on one side
and—towards the end —a precipice on the other, formed the only approach from
the direction of Dugout. It terminated in a heavy gate of timber which was
always guarded. Within was a kind of street running between vertical cliffs
which bulged out and then curved in again, almost meeting. Here was another
gate—the western entrance. In the stone walls of this oval an ancient people
had fashioned a place to live. The present inhabitants had, in fact, adopted
and adapted a Hopi Indian cliff-settlement. There were a few wooden buildings scattered
about, among them a store and a saloon, but most of the newcomers were content
with the caves they had found there, which required no more than the provision
of door or window to make them habitable.

 
          
It
was outside one of these that Scar and his two companions halted their tired
mounts at the end of the ignominious retreat from the scene of the rustling.
All wore a look of unease.

 
          
“Gotta
report, I s’pose,” the leader said.

 
          
“You
bet,” one of them retorted. “He’ll find out, mebbe knows a’ready, like’ he did
that Dugout doin’.”

 
          
“Who’s
to tell him?” Scar argued. “The blasted cowboys won’t, the Greasers is cashed,
an’ Squint must be, or he’d ‘a’ showed up.”

 
          
“He’ll
git wise, I tell you,” the other persisted, “an’ then what? We’ve lost out an’
there’s no sense in makin’ it wuss.”

 
          
“Daggs
is right,” the third man put in. “We gotta take our medicine.”

 
          
“You
said it, Coger,” Scar replied.
“Git ready for a stiff dose.”

 
          
They
followed along a short tunnel in the rock and reached a door on which the
leader rapped. It was thrown back by a creature
who
,
in the half-light, appeared to be a mixture of man and beast. Not more than
five feet in height, it possessed a barrel of a body set on stunted, inadequate
legs, enormous shoulders, and abnormally long arms. The animal resemblance was
increased by a face almost covered with shaggy hair from which a large nose
protruded.

 
          
“Hello,
Silver,” Scar greeted. “We wanta see the Chief.”

 
          
The
freak’s mouth opened in a malicious grin, showing teeth like yellow fangs. “
He’s wantin’
to see you,” he said.

 
          
Apprehension
was on their faces as they filed in. It was a spacious room, and despite the
bare walls only partly concealed by gaudy Navajo blankets, and the two unglazed
holes which served as windows, to them it represented luxury. Rich rugs in
which the feet sank dotted the rock floor, costly articles of furniture were
spread about, and on a chair covered with a great bearskin sat the owner of all
this magnificence.

 
          
That
he was young—well under thirty—was evident, notwithstanding the slitted,
crimson velvet mask which veiled his face down to the supercilious, almost
bloodless lips. Though wearing cowboy attire, his silken shirt, goatskin chaps,
and high-heeled boots were of the finest quality. A pair of ivory-handled,
silver-mounted Colts hung in a cartridge-studded belt round his middle. The men
had entered with hats on, but one glance from the cold, washed-out blue eyes
led to their furtive removal.

 
          
“So
you failed again?” The voice was low, devoid of passion, yet menacing. Scar
began a mumbling explanation but was not allowed to finish. “Don’t trouble to
lie—I know the details. The first time there were four of you; on this
occasion, six. How strong do you have to be to beat one man?”