Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942) (11 page)

 
          
“Well,
of all the fool plays I ever happened on.”

 
          
Angrily
she jerked her mount round and saw one of the men of whom she had been
thinking. Lolling in his saddle, hat pushed back, he was regarding her with
unconcealed disapproval.

 
          
“It
pleases you to be rude, sir,” she said, with an attempt at dignity.

 
          
“It
don’t
please me to see a hoss punished for showin’
more sense than its rider,” he replied brusquely. “What in blazes made you want
a second dose o’ that deathtrap?”

 
          
“I
didn’t, but I was curious to find out if the animal remembered,” she said
stiffly.

 
          
“An’
if he’d lost his head an’ rushed into the water, you’d ‘a’ been in the same
pretty mess.”

 
          
“From
which you, as a gallant gentleman, would doubtless have extricated me.”

 
          
“Yeah,
at the end of a rope,” Dan retorted. “You’d ‘a’ come out lookin’ like a
dish-rag, an’ lost yore pony.”

 
          
“Ah,
yes, your clever friend not being with you.” The gibe brought a flush, and her
next remark deepened it. “What, may I ask, is your business on my uncle’s
land?”

 
          
The
young man smothered his mounting wrath; after all, she was a stranger, and
damnably pretty; and even as he loved spirit in a horse, he could appreciate it
in this girl, lash him as she might.

 
          
“The
land is mine,” he told her quietly. “That rib o’ rock is the Trenton boundary.”

 
          
She
did not doubt him, and the knowledge that he had scored in their verbal battle
brought an added tinge of red to her cheeks, and took some of the harshness
from her tone.

 
          
“Then
I am trespassing?”

 
          
“You
can come when you please, but that don’t go for them other skunks at the
Wagon-wheel.”

 
          
Instantly
he knew the slip had delivered him into her hands; the slow smile had begun,
and it was too late to retract that one superfluous word.

 
          
“Other
skunks,” she said sweetly. “That means—”

 
          
“Yore
uncle an’ his outfit,” Dan finished.

 
          
“Also—myself,”
she added, and waited for his apology.

 
          
She
had mistaken her man; he was far too angry now, both with himself and her, to
do anything of the kind. “Mebbe I ain’t clever at stringin’ words together, but
I’m tellin’ you this: on’y a skunk can live with a skunk,” he retorted, and
with an ironical sweep of his hat, spurred his horse, and was gone.

 
          
Beth
Trenton stared after him in dumb amazement, and then—she laughed. “Maybe I did
rowel him quite a lot,” she murmured. “And I was a fool about the pony. All the
same, you must pay for that, Dan Dover.”

 
          
The
Wagon-wheel ranch-house was a roomy, rambling one-storey building, standing at
the top of a scrub-covered slope through which some sort of a road had been
cut. It was flanked by the usual bunkhouse, barns, and corrals. A raised
veranda extended along the front. On this, the ranch-owner was sitting when
Beth, having handed her mount to a boy, approached the house.

 
          
“Where
you been this mornin’, girl?” he asked.

 
          
“Re-visiting
the scene of my misadventure—I wanted another shiver,” she smiled. “By the way,
Uncle, did you thank those men?”

 
          
“I’ve
seen Green, an’ offered him a job here at twice what he’s gettin’,” Trenton
replied.

 
          
“He—”

 
          
“Refused,”
she said.

 
          
“How
do you know that?” he asked sharply.

 
          
“Just
a guess—he didn’t seem the sort to be bribed.”

 
          
“No
question of that; he’d done me a service an’ it was one way of payin’ him; I
didn’t want the fella. As for that whelp, Dover—”

 
          
“He
risked his life,” she reminded.

 
          
Trenton
laughed sneeringly. “I wish he’d lost it,” he said savagely. “He’ll rot in his
boots before he gets a word of gratitude from me.”

 
          
The
girl did not argue; she was beginning to discover unknown depths in this only
relative who had befriended her since the passing of her father some years
earlier, paid for her education, and was now giving her a home. Evidently the feud
between the two ranches was
more bitter
than she had
suspected. The knowledge both saddened and dismayed her.

 
          
Trenton,
Garstone, and the foreman were closeted in a small room used by the rancher as
an office.

 
          
“So
Green turned you down?” Garstone remarked. “It’s a pity—we could do with him.”

 
          
“An’
we can do without him,” Bundy growled. “There’s other an’ cheaper ways o’
dealin’ with his kind if he gits awkward.”

 
          
“I’ll
have no bushwhackin’, Bundy,” Trenton said curtly. “There’s been too much
already, an’ it’s a game two can play.”

 
          
“I
warn’t sayin’ any different,” the man lied. “But this fella man-handled Flint a
hit back an’ if he tries to level up that’s no business of ourn.”

 
          
Trenton
took his pipe from his mouth and spoke through clenched teeth: “If he does, an’
I know it, I’ll hand him over to the sheriff right away.”

 
          
“That’ll
shore scare him most to death,” Bundy rejoined, with an impudent leer.

 
          
Garstone
gave a gesture of impatience. “You said you had some news for us, Trenton,” he
reminded.

 
          
“I
have information which may be of value—if we can use it,” the rancher said. “It
comes from Maitland, the new manager of the bank here. As you know, the cattle
industry has had a rough time for some years, an’ we’re all working on borrowed
money. The Circle Dot is in so deep that the bank holds a mortgage on the whole
shebang, an’ it runs out in less than two months’ time.”

 
          
Garstone
looked sceptical. “They’ll renew—these small-town concerns have to take risks.”

 
          
“I
doubt it; Maitland is scared—every rancher around owes him money, includin’
myself.”

 
          
He
smiled grimly. “Dave Dover
gone,
an’ an inexperienced
boy in the saddle makes all the difference. I guess he’d be glad to sell that
mortgage.”

 
          
Garstone
sat up. “That’s an idea, Zeb,” he conceded. “What’s the figure?”

 
          
“Forty thousand.”

 
          
“Dave
Dover must have been mad.”

 
          
“No,
the Circle Dot is worth more than that, an’ he gambled on Lawson—the old
manager—remainin’; they were good friends.”

 
          
“Where’s
the coin coming from,” Garstone wanted to know.

 
          
The
rancher shrugged. “We’ve nearly a couple of months to raise it.”

 
          
“And
so has young Dover. Does he know?”

 
          
“I
believe not, an’ I suggested to Maitland, casually, that he might let the lad
get over his father’s death before pressin’ him.”

 
          
“Damn
it, that was clever of you, Zeb,” the Easterner complimented.
“Gives us a start in the race, anyhow.”

 
          
Yorky’s
new attire was as big a surprise to the outfit as it had been to him, and he
had to endure a considerable amount of banter. But it was of the good-natured
character—the kind they inflicted upon each other—for the boy’s health aroused
only pity in their robust natures. Also, Yorky’s tongue had a razor edge, and,
as Tiny once put it, “the li’l runt was shore raised on brimstone.”

 
          
When
Blister and Noisy rode in and beheld the resplendent figure leaning carelessly
against the veranda rail, they gave a passable imitation of falling from their
horses.

 
          
“D’you
see what I see, Noisy?” Blister cried. “Dan has done sold the ranch from under us,
an’ there’s the noo owner. I’m askin’ for my time; I ain’t ridin’ for
no
dude.”

 
          
Noisy
nodded. They pulled up about ten yards away, removed their hats, and sat in
silent admiration. A moment later, Tiny, Slocombe, and Lidgett arrived, and
without a word, lined up beside them. Yorky, who was enjoying the sensation he
was causing, spoke:

 
          
“Howdy, fellers.”

 
          
“It
can talk,” Blister said in an awed tone. “An’ somehow the voice seems
familiar.”

 
          
The
voice continued to talk. It began by describing them as a bunch of locoed
sheep-herders, and went on to become even more familiar, referring, with
fluency of adjective, to the personal habits of each one in turn.
All this with a grin on the sallow face.

 
          
“Why,
it’s Yorky!”
Slow pretended to discover.
“Sufferin’
serpents, boy, where did you git them bee-yu-ti-ful clothes?”

 
          
“Bought
‘em outa his savin’s on smokin’,” Tiny suggested. “Couldn’t be did in the
time,”

 
          
Blister
said. “Yorky don’t earn more’n a dollar a week.”

 
          
“He
does, but he
don’t
git more,” the boy corrected. “I
b’lieve he’s robbed a store,” Lidgett laughed.

 
          
“Aw,
go chase yerself,” Yorky countered. “Me rich uncle in Noo York—”

 
          
A
howl of merriment cut short the explanation; extravagant tales of this mythical
relative had amused them on more than one occasion. Sudden had joined the
group.

 
          
“Don’t
yu mind ‘em—they’re just jealous,” he said. “Yu’ll be the best-dressed Circle
Dot fella at the dance.”

 
          
“What
dance?” several voices asked.

 
          
“I
hear the town is holdin’ one, at the schoolhouse, tickets a dollar a head-to
approved applicants.”

 
          
“That
last oughta shut out them Wagon-wheel felons,” was Tiny’s comment. “When’s she
due to happen, this fandango?”

 
          
“Middlin’
soon, but the date ain’t fixed.”

 
          
“It’s
two long weeks to pay-day, an’ we couldn’t raise a dollar in the outfit,”
Blister wailed.

 
          
“Shucks!
Dan’s got a slate, ain’t he?” Sudden grinned. That evening he told his news to
Dover and the foreman, both of whom were inclined to be sceptical.

 
          
“Rainbow
must be wakin’ up,” was the rancher’s opinion. “How did you get the glad
tidin’s, Jim?”

 
          
“Met Malachi on his way up here.
No, he warn’t lit up, but I
wouldn’t say he was enjoyin’ the ride. He’s unusual, that hombre.”