Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942) (13 page)

 
          
“Shore,
but I never took much stock in it,” Burke replied.

 
          
“It’s
true,” Dan said, and went to an old desk in a corner of the room. They heard a
click, and he returned with a creased half-sheet of paper. “Here’s what it sez:
`Dear Dave,—I’ve made a lot o’ money an’ a good few enemies. In case one o’
these last gets me, I’m lettin’ you know that my pile is cached in the hills.
When you reach the bowl on Ol’ Cloudy’s knees, watch out. West is north, an’
north is noon, one half after will be too soon. I’m sendin’ the rest o’ the
instructions by another hand.
Yore brother, Rufe.’
That was the last news we had of him, some three years ago.”

 
          
“An’
the second messenger never arrived?” Sudden asked. “I dunno. A stranger was
found two-three miles out on the Cloudy trail a little while later; he’d been
shot an’ robbed. The first chap got drunk in the town an’ may’ve talked some.
Anyway, the story of the cache oozed out, an’ there’s been more than one try to
find it, but Cloudy is big an’ hard country.”

 
          
“Yore
father didn’t attempt it?”

 
          
“I
ain’t shore; he was away for a week or more several times, but without the rest
o’ the directions, it’s almost hopeless.”

 
          
“An’
it was this paper that—”

 
          
“Dad
was killed for,” Dan said gruffly. “Yeah, someone has the other. I figure Flint
was sent here to steal it.”

 
          
“That
means Trenton has the other?”

 
          
“That’s
my belief, but I’ve no proof,” the rancher admitted. “Yeah, I guess I could
find this place the paper mentions, but without the further instructions …” He
shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

 
          
“Well,
it’s a forlorn hope, like yu said, Dan,” Sudden remarked. “We gotta keep eyes
an’ ears open. One good pointto bite on is that whoever has the second message
is wuss off than we are—he don’t know where to begin.”

 
          
“If
on’y we could put our paws on that missin’ paper,” the foreman lamented.

 
          
“If—that’s
one hell of a word, ol’-timer,” Sudden smiled.
“Just the most
provokin’ one in the whole darn dictionary.”

 
          
The
evening of the dance arrived and found the Circle Dot bunkhouse in a state of
feverish activity. Shirts had been washed, boots polished, and war-bags were
being searched for a hoarded neckerchief or cherished tie, which was not always
found in the possession of its rightful owner.

 
          
“Hi,
who’s rustled my red silk wipe?” Lidgett wanted to know, and then, detecting
Noisy in the act of slipping the missing article out of sight, pounced upon it.

 
          
“Why,
you gave it me,” protested the silent one.

 
          
“It
was on’y lent, you chatterin’ son of a cock-eyed coyote,” Lid retorted. “Think
I got nothin’ to do with my earnin’s but
keep
you in
clothes?”

 
          
“You
don’t earn a cent—what Dan gives you is part o’ our pay,” Noisy grinned. “We do
the work.”

 
          
Paddy,
the cook, pestered by demands for hot irons to take the creases from
seldom-worn coats, and the loan of his razor, which was known to possess an
edge, energetically damned the dance and the fools who were going to it. He was
remaining at the ranch.

 
          
“An’,
thank Hiven, it’s a peaceful night I’ll be enjoyin’ for once in me loife.”

 
          
“It’s
a mercy you ain’t comin’—there’d be no space for anybody else,” Slim unwisely
told him.

 
          
“Shure
an’ there wud for you if the room was full, ye slice o’ nothin’,” the fat man
retorted. “Yer partner’ll think she’s dancin’
wi
’ a
flag-pole.”

 
          
Before
Slim, who really did justify his name, could hit upon an adequate reply,
Blister cut in. “They say the Trenton dame is awful pretty; wonder if she’ll
take a turn with any of us?”

 
          
“Zeb’ll
‘tend to that,” Tiny said. “I’m told the banker’s girl ain’t exactly a grief to
look at.

 
          
I’ve
most near
forgot
how to waltz; let’s try her out,
Blister.”

 
          
It
was an unfortunate rehearsal—for someone else. The two wash-basins were in
great demand, and Slocombe, despairing of getting one, had brought in a bucket
of water, and, stripped to the waist, was bending over it, sluicing his face,
when the disciples of Terpsichore collided heavily with his rear. Head jammed
in the bucket, the outraged victim rose to his feet, the soapy contents
cascading down his person, and literally drowning the muffled maledictions
which came from the interior of the utensil. Tiny, eager to make amends, tore
the strange headgear from the wearer’s head. The effort was well-meant, but
Tiny
was a tall man, his snatch was upward, and he forgot
the dangling handle. With an agonized yell, Slocombe grabbed the offending
pail, hurled it with a crash of glass through a window, and clutching his
almost fractured jaw with both hands, capered around the room spitting out
lather and profanity with every leap. The paralysed outfit fought its mirth—one
laugh might have turned the comedy into a tragedy. Tiny broke the silence:

 
          
“Which
I’m damn sorry,
Slow
,” he said, and his voice
contained no hint of the laughter bubbling within him. “We didn’t go for to do
it; we never saw you.”

 
          
“Sorry?”
Slocombe cried. “You lumberin’, club-footed elephant—they oughta hang a bell on
you to tell folks when yo’re movin’ around; yo’re a danger to the c’munity, an’
why in hell did you try to slice the face off’n me with that sanguinary
handle?”

 
          
“I
acted for the best, Slow, honest I did,” the big man replied, but his contrite
expression was too much for the audience and a storm of merriment broke out.

 
          
Slow
looked murder for a moment, and then—being a good sport—joined in. The
appearance of Sudden stilled the tumult, and he had to be told the story.

 
          
“Yo’re
dead right, Slow,” was his decision. “Tiny oughta have a corral all to
hisself.”

 
          
“You’ll
be late, Jim, won’t you?” Blister asked, noting that the puncher had made no
preparations.

 
          
“I
ain’t goin’,” was the reply. “Someone has to stay an’ keep house, if on’y to
see that nobody steals our cook.”

 
          
“Huh,
they’d have to fetch a wagon to take him away,” Slim chimed in.

 
          
“We’ll
cut the cards to see who stays home ‘stead o’ you,” Tiny said, and the rest
voiced approval.

 
          
“Mighty
good o’ yu, but it’s all settled,” Sudden repliedt “An’ I don’t care for
dancin’, anyways.”

 
          
Later,
as Dan mounted to follow his men, he said, “Why not come along, Jim. Paddy can
hold down the ranch.”

 
          
“I’m
playin’ a hunch; mebbe there’s nothin’ in it.”

 
          
When
the hilarious whoops died away in the distance, he had an idea. Returning to
the living-room, he opened the desk. Knowing where to look, it did not take him
long to find the hidden drawer. Then, the paper in hand, he pondered. On a
shelf, amid a dusty litter of odds and ends, was a spike file of paid bills.
Sudden removed half, thrust on Rufe Dover’s letter, and replaced them. Then he
saddled his horse, leaving it picketed just outside the corral. These
preparations made, he returned to his lonely vigil. Paddy was singing in the
kitchen, and away over the plain the weird call of a prowling coyote came to
him.

 
          
“The
boys would say there ain’t
no
difference, an’ they’d
be damn near right,” he chuckled, as he lit a cigarette and settled down in his
chair by the fire.

 
          
The
hours crept by and the watcher was beginning to think he had foregone an
evening’s amusement vainly when a rifle-shot brought him to his feet; something
was happening on the range. He stepped swiftly to the kitchen and awoke the
drowsing cook.

 
          
“Get
a gun an’ keep yore eyes peeled,” he said.
“Somethin’ odd
goin’ on.”

 
          
He
hurried to the hut by the wood-pile; its occupant was squatting by the fire.

 
          
“Hunch,
I want yu to fork a hoss an’ fetch Dan an’ the boys; they’re at the schoolhouse
in Rainbow. Say there’s trouble, an’ hurry. Understand?”

 
          
The
old man nodded, and the puncher wasted no more time. He reached his horse,
coiled the picket-rope as he ran, mounted, and spurred into the open. He had
not gone far when he saw a flash, followed by a crack—this time, of a
revolver—and the bellow of a frightened steer.

 
          
Rustlers!
Sudden clamped his teeth on an oath and slowed down—he had no desire to run
into a trap. Soon he could hear the beat of galloping hooves, and discern
shadowy forms scurrying to and fro in the gloom. They were rounding up cattle
in readiness to drive.

 
          
Sudden
dragged out his Winchester, waited until he could see one of the vague figures,
and squeezed the trigger. The crash of the gun was succeeded by a muttered
curse which brought balm to the marksman; the bullet had not been entirely
wasted. Three fingers of flame stabbed the darkness, but the Circle Dot man had
moved immediately he had fired, and the lead hummed harmlessly past him. He
replied, aiming at the flashes, three quick shots from different positions, to
convey the impression that he was not alone. Apparently he succeeded, for a
hoarse voice said:

 
          
“Better
be movin’—we’ve given ‘em time enough. C’mon.” The puncher sent a couple of
slugs to hasten their departure and then rode forward. A dark blot on the
ground proved to be a dead horse from which the saddle had been removed. Nearby
about a score of steers were milling. Sudden broke and scattered them; if the
rustlers returned, they would have to start all over again. But he did not
think they would; the remark, “given ‘em time enough” was sticking in his mind,
and realizing the impossibility of running down the raiders in the dark, he
headed for the ranch-house.

 
          
Approaching
quietly, he dismounted and slipped in by the back door. On the floor of the
kitchen the cook was lying senseless. Sudden dashed into the living-room in
search of whisky.

 
          
The
place might have been struck by a cyclone. Chairs and table overturned, the
desk and secret drawer open, rug thrown aside, papers and other articles
scattered broadcast. Sudden grinned as he saw that the shelf and its dusty
burden had not been touched. There was no whisky, and a smashed bottle on the
hearth supplied the reason. He was looking at this when a voice came from the
doorway:

 
          
“Don’t
stir if you wanta go on breathin’.”

 
          
There
was no need to turn; a small mirror over the fireplace told him that a masked
man, with a levelled gun, had followed him in from the darkened passage
without. Sudden obeyed a further order, but did not raise his hands very high.

 
          
“Where’s
the letter from Rufe Dover?” the unknown barked.

 
          
“On
the shelf behind me—there’s a file,” the puncher said.

 
          
In
the glass he watched the fellow move, noted that as he reached for the shelf,
his eyes instinctively followed his hand.

 
          
This
was the moment Sudden was waiting for. His own right dropped, whisked out a
gun, reversed it, and fired over his shoulder, the whole action taking seconds
only. He saw the intruder stagger under the impact of the bullet, drop his
weapon, and lunge from the room. At the same moment a voice outside the window
said: