Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942) (27 page)

 
          
“And
Uncle Zeb knows where the treasure is?”

 
          
He
smiled into her sparkling eyes. “No, it isn’t
so
easy
as that; he has certain indications, but it may take time.” His tone grew
warmer. “I hope it does.”

 
          
She
reddened a little under his ardent gaze. “But why
is it
necessary to search for tracks; they cannot be Red Rufe’s.”

 
          
“No,
others have got wind of our enterprise and stolen a march upon us; we want to
know where they are bound for. You see, success means everything to your uncle.
I have had a lean time for several years, and he is heavily in debt.”

 
          
“Poor
Uncle Zeb,” she said. “I always thought him wealthy.”

 
          
“Most
people think so—he has his pride,” Garstone returned. “I have a great regard
for him, and after the fine fight he has put up against overwhelming odds, it
will be too terrible if he should lose the Wagon-wheel.”

 
          
“Is
it as bad as that?”

 
          
“Yes,”
he replied gravely. “And your uncle has ideas for the development of Rainbow;
it will break him up if he is not able to carry them out. He doesn’t talk of
these things, but I am in his confidence.”

 
          
“Who
are the others you spoke of?”

 
          
“Who but the Circle Dot?
Dover would sell his soul to see
your uncle ruined,”
came
the bitter reply.

 
          
She
did not doubt it; Dan had shown his animosity plainly enough. “We must find
that treasure,” she said.

 
          
“We
certainly will,” he assured her. “I’m prepared to do anything rather than let
Zeb go under.”

 
          
“I’m
sure we all feel like that,” she agreed.

 
          
This
being the admission he was waiting for, he dropped the subject, satisfied that
he had done a good day’s work for his employer, and a better one for himself.
Which was as it should be, according to the ethics of Chesney Garstone.

 
          
Sudden
was the culprit. He it was who devised those vexatious and time-eating problems
which were exercising the wits of the bearded man, and fraying the tempers of
his companions.

 
          
The
Circle Dot puncher had little expectations of throwing the pursuers entirely
off the trail, but the greater the distance between the parties, the more
chance there was of doing so. So, whenever they encountered a rivulet, they
splashed along it, either up or down, before crossing; patches of hard ground, which
would record no hoof-prints, were traversed diagonally at the widest points,
and once the tracks led straight to the edge of a morass and ended, with no
turn to right or left.

 
          
This
apparent miracle was accomplished by patience and the alternate use of
blankets, of which each man carried a couple; the first was spread—from the
saddle—at right angles from the trail, and the horse led on to it, then the
second, and before the animal moved from that, the first again. By this means,
Sudden, who took the lead, covered a considerable space without leaving a mark,
and the others followed his actions exactly. When they had all reached him, he
returned on foot, with a pair of blankets, and brought the pack-horse. The
operation took time, but would cost those who followed much more.

 
          
“That
was a smart ruse, Jim,” Malachi complimented, as they went on their way. “Do
you think it will baffle them?”

 
          
“It’s
an old Injun caper,” the puncher replied. “If Trenton has a real tracker with
him, he’ll guess it, but they’ve still to find our trail again.”

 
          
Soon
afterwards they reached the verdure-clad foothills and, plunging into the
welcome shade, began a gradual rise. Hunch, jogging steadily along at Sudden’s
elbow, spoke never a word, but his usually lack-lustre eyes were a little
brighter as they neared his beloved forests.

 
          
Through
an occasional break in the trees they caught a glimpse of the distant
snow-capped peak of Old Cloudy, thrusting up into the azure sky.

 
          
As
Dover had warned the doctor, they were breaking their own trail, winding in and
out through thick brush, along stony ravines, climbing up-flung ridges of rock,
yet making for a definite point. Once or twice, Sudden spoke to the old man,
but getting only a gesture for answer, made no further attempt; his Indian
training had taught him the value of silence.

 
          
Mile
after mile they paced on, treading at times a tortuous path through tall
timber, in
a twilight
due to the matted, leafy roof
overhead. Frequently they had to turn aside to avoid a prone monarch of the
forest, snapped off and thrown down to rot by a greater monarch—King Storm.
Only in places where the trees thinned a shaft of sunlight came to tell them it
was still day. There was little life in these dim solitudes.

 
          
The
nearness of night found them on a grassy ledge hemmed in by vegetation, save at
the back where a plinth of gaunt, grey stone rose straight up for a hundred
feet. Here Sudden called a halt.

 
          
“Best
camp here, Dan,” he said. “There’s feed for the hosses an’ the smoke of a fire
won’t show against that bluff.’ The beasts were picketed, lest a prowling bear
or mountain lion should stampede them. Hunch and Yorky soon had the fire
blazing, and the music—to hungry men—of sizzling bacon mingled with the odour
of boiling coffee.

 
          
“Likin’
it, son?” Sudden asked, as Yorky passed him with an armful of dead wood for
fuel.

 
          
“I’ll
say I am,” was the enthusiastic answer.
“Why, Jim, this beats
a dance all ter blazes.”

 
          
During
the meal, Sudden asked how they were getting on.

 
          
“I
reckon we’re about halfway, but it’s on’y a guess,” Dan told him. “What d’you
think, Hunch?” He got the invariable nod for reply, and in a lower tone
continued, “I believe he came up here with Dad, though he wouldn’t know for
what purpose; that’s one o’ the reasons why I fetched him along.
How you feelin’, Phil?”

 
          
“Tired,
but never better,” Malachi smiled. “A few weeks of this and I’ll give up
rolling pills to ride for you.”

 
          
“You
could do a lot wuss,” Tiny told him. “Plenty o’ fresh air, exercise, an’ four
squares a day, when yo’re to home—which ain’t offen. What more does a fella
want?”

 
          
“A
stated number o’ dollars per month an’ time off to throw ‘em away, I find,” the
rancher grinned. “An’ let me tell you, when Tiny does miss a meal, he makes up
for it at the next. Pleased to have you, Phil,
so
long
as you don’t give the boys anythin’ to improve their appetites.”

 
          
Soon
afterwards, one by one, they rolled up in their blankets; it had been a long
and strenuous day, and their surroundings held out no hope for a less arduous one
on the morrow.

 
          
Only
Sudden remained awake, squatting cross-legged by the fire, his Winchester by
his side.

 
          
Though
every sense was alert for any sound he could not explain, his mind was on the
curious enterprise to which he found himself committed. He fell to considering
the men of the other faction. That Trenton was following he had no doubt; the
rancher was an astute and unscrupulous man, aggressive and intolerant of
opposition. Bundy he dismissed with a gesture of disdain, a common enough
rogue, who would commit any crime for sufficient gain. Garstone he had not yet
fathomed; one thing seemed certain—he was not the type to serve as jackal to
one of the rancher’s calibre. What was the fellow doing so far from the East?
He could hit upon no satisfactory answer, and presently, when Tiny—rubbing his
eyes—came to relieve him, he sought sleep.

 
          
At
a camp some fifteen miles away, much the same procedure had taken place, save
that there were two fires—one for the rancher, his niece, and Garstone, the
other for the men. Bundy had protested against this arrangement, but had been
curtly ordered to do as he was told. The fires were sufficiently far apart to
prevent conversation being overheard, and near one of them stood the small tent
in which the girl was to sleep. Despite the fact of their slow progress,
Trenton was in high spirits.

 
          
“Well,
Beth, how does roughing it in the open appeal to you?” he asked.

 
          
“Very
much indeed—it’s so thrilling,” she replied. “Do you really think we shall
succeed?”

 
          
Neither
of the men answered until Rattray—who was acting as cook, and serving them—had
retired to his own fire, and then Garstone said:

 
          
“I
told Miss Trenton of our main object in coming here; she is very interested.”

 
          
“Indeed
I am,” she agreed eagerly. “But very sorry it should be—necessary.”

 
          
“That’s
all right, my dear,” Trenton said heartily. “Every man who gets anywhere has to
face up to a stiff fight now and then. We’ll make the grade.”

 
          
“To
be sure,” Garstone supplemented. “That red-headed rascal, Rufe, is going to put
us all on the top of the world.”

 
          
“Had
he red hair?” she queried.

 
          
“I
really don’t know,” the big man prevaricated. “I presumed it to be the origin
of his nickname.”

 
          
“He
might have got that as a killer,” Trenton suggested, in a voice which had
suddenly lost its geniality. A burst of laughter from the region of the other
fire seemed to remind him of something. “Bundy expected to feed with us—he’s
been gettin’ uppity lately. I had to remind him that I’m boss.”

 
          
“Quite
right,” Garstone concurred. That the foreman and his employer should not be on
the best of terms might well further the nebulous schemes beginning to take
shape in his brain.

 
          
“He
appears to have got over his grouch.”

 
          
“Just as well.
People who work for me have to obey, without
question.”

 
          
The
Easterner did not subscribe to this sentiment quite so entirely, and said
nothing; it sounded too much like a hint to
himself
.
And he felt convinced that the foreman had not forgotten.

 
          
In
this he was right, for even as the rancher spoke, Bundy was inwardly brooding
over what he regarded as an insult, and vowing it should be paid for.
Nevertheless, having been driven to “herd with the hands,” as he phrased it, he
might as well be comfortable, and so devoted himself first of all to smoothing
the ruffled plumage of the newcomer.

 
          
“Well,
Lake, I’m allus ready to own up when I’m wrong, an’ I was ‘bout you,” he
commenced. “You shore can read sign; that dodge they tried at the bog would ‘a’
razzle-dazzled an Injun.”

 
          
It
gave us a lot o’ trouble,” the tracker said modestly.

 
          
“Warn’t
yore fault; you tumbled to the trick; it was pickin’ up the trail agin that
cost the time.”

 
          
The
bearded man was not proof against this fulsome flattery. The foreman, he
thought, was after all not such a bad chap. So prone are we humans to approve
those who approve us.

 
          
“Thanks,
friend,” he said. “But there’s one puzzle ‘bout this trip I can’t find the
answer to, an’ mebbe you—as foreman—can tell me.”