Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942) (36 page)

 
          
“Twenty
thousand bucks,” Bundy said thickly. “That bag ain’t empty yet.”

 
          
“I’m
aware of the fact,” Garstone replied, “But the dollars should more than satisfy
our claim, and the rest belongs to Trenton.”

 
          
“To
hell with Trenton,” the foreman growled. “We found, an’ we keep it.”

 
          
“That
goes,” Lake added.
“Out with it—Boss.”

 
          
The
last word was a palpable jeer, and Garstone knew it. He looked at Flint, but
saw no support in that quarter. There was nothing for it but to continue. A
thick wad of paper currency came next, bills of large denomination mostly, all
of which had to be duly counted; they amounted to forty thousand dollars. Then,
two at a time, Garstone handed out small buckskin bags, heavy, and tightly
tied. He opened one, and gloated over the yellow dust within. Gold! His lips
curled into a sneer as he reflected that men had sweated under a blistering sun
to fill those bags, only to throw them away on the turn of a card. The men
passed them round, hefting them, and grinning widely; they were in high good
humour.

 
          
“Can’t
tell what they’re worth without scales, but I’d guess all o’ ten thousand,”
Bundy remarked. “We can take three apiece.”

 
          
Garstone
began to replace the treasure in the satchel. “It will be handier to carry in
this,” he said. “We can divide later, after cleaning up here.”

 
          
Rather
to his surprise, they made no protest, and the fact caused him some inquietude.

 
          
Had
they a secret understanding to obtain his share? Well, that was a game at which
more than one could play. He looked round.
“Any suggestions
for dealing with our friends yonder?”

 
          
“Send
‘em to look for Rattray,” Bundy proposed.

 
          
Garstone,
who saw at once that such an infamous
act
would leave
him at the mercy of his companions, promptly objected. “I am opposed to violent
measures unless they are necessary, and safe,” he said. “This would be
dangerous—very dangerous. No, when wee go, they will remain—alive. Of course,
they will free themselves, but with no weapons or horses, and three sick people
to tend, it will be -a long time before they return to Rainbow, and then it
will be too late—our story will have been told, and we shall be in possession.”

 
          
“You
don’t suggest we should burden ourselves with a dying man?”

 
          
“Shore
not, but we gotta do some explainin’.”

 
          
“Quite
simple,” was the reply. “We came in search of the Cache, and found it. The
Circle Dot—of whose presence in the mountains we were, of course,
ignorant—attacked and tried to rob us. They killed Trenton, his niece, and
Rattray. We beat them off.”

 
          
“Straight
as a string,” Flint grinned.

 
          
“How
come they wiped out the gal?” Bundy wanted to know.

 
          
“She
tried to escape in the fight, Green pursued her, and they ran into trouble.”

 
          
“Which
fits the facts,” Lake put in. “Yo’re a pretty neat liar, Garstone; I gotta hand
it to you.”

 
          
The
Easterner forgot to thank him for the compliment, but did not fail to note that
the fellow had regained his air of insolent familiarity; it was another
danger-signal.

 
          
“What’s
come o’ that damn doctor?” Bundy asked. Garstone strode over to the prisoners.

 
          
“Where’s
Malachi?”

 
          
“Haven’t
a notion, an’ if I had, I shouldn’t tell you,” Dan replied.

 
          
“Sore,
eh?” the big man gibed. “So would I be, after sitting on the top of seventy
thousand dollars for over a week, and losing it.” His contemptuous gaze went to
the trussed-up form of Yorky. “Makes you hunger for your open road again,
doesn’t it, hobo?”

 
          
The
boy did not reply—he had no desire to be booted—but as the bully turned away,
he muttered, “Aw, go an’ swaller yoreself an’ be sick, ye …” He trailed off
into a brief biography of Garstone, whose origin, appearance, habits, and
future were luridly described.

 
          
“If
cussin’ would help, you’d be a whole team an’ a spare hoss,” was Dover’s dry
comment, when the tirade ended.

 
          
“It
eases a fella some,” Yorky excused. “Do you figure th’ Doc has skipped, Boss?”

 
          
“He’s
no quitter,” Dan told him.

 
          
“What
they goin’ to do with us?”

 
          
“Can’t say.
Scared, son?”

 
          
“I
dunno,” Yorky admitted. “Couple o’ months back I wouldn’t ‘a’ cared, but now …”
He was silent for a moment. “A man must take his medicine, Jim allus said.”

 
          
The
disappearance of the doctor caused some consternation, to Bundy in particular.
Flint and Lake were despatched to find him, and Garstone seized the opportunity
for a quiet word with the foreman.

 
          
“Splitting
the dollars four ways doesn’t help our plans,” he commenced meaningly. “We
won’t have enough between us to get the Circle Dot, much less the Wagon-wheel.”

 
          
Bundy
realized that he was needed. “They ain’t done much,” he said.
“Oughta be well satisfied with five thousand apiece.”

 
          
“That
or—nothing,” Garstone said deliberately. “You agree?”

 
          
“Shore
I do,” was the reply.
“Nothin’—for choice.”

 
          
The
men under discussion came in at that moment. “Can’t find a trace of him,” Flint
reported. “We combed the gorge thorough. All their horses
is
gone too—they had ‘em picketed further along; looks like someone stampeded
‘em.”

 
          
“That
cursed sawbones,” Bundy exploded. “Wish I’d put his light out earlier.”

 
          
“Well,
they won’t see the horses again, and it’s a long walk to Rainbow,” the
Easterner said. “But it makes one difference: with that fellow at large, we
can’t leave Trenton here.”

 
          
Beth
sat down; daylight was a very welcome experience after the long lack of it, and
she was terribly tired. Soon, however, sex asserted itself, and the task of
neatening her appearance occupied her. Sudden too, inured as he was to physical
exertion, found a rest acceptable; sitting cross-legged, he rolled a cigarette,
wondering the while where the twistings of the tunnel had brought them. On
their right towered the great head of Old Cloudy, and far away to the left the
sky glowed faintly red, telling of the coming sunrise. Below, a sea of purple
mist eddied and swirled.

 
          
The
girl was studying this grave-faced, saturnine man who, having saved her life,
had not hesitated to risk it again in the presence of another threat. The
memory of that fearful leap sickened yet thrilled. What were they to do now?
She put the question.

 
          
“Wait
till it clears lower down,” he said. “I reckon we’ve both had enough o’ walkin’
blindfold.”

 
          
“I
am anxious to get back to my uncle,” she pointed out. “I shall never forgive
myself for running away.”

 
          
“Natural
enough—yu been raised different,” he excused. “The cave can’t be far off; we’ll
find it.”

 
          
“You
think they will remain there?”

 
          
“I
reckon,” he told her, a wisp of a smile on his lips. “They won’t find that
Cache, ‘less Trenton has talked, which ain’t likely.”

 
          
“He
did talk—to me, though I don’t think he knew I was there,” she confessed. “I
told Mister Garstone.”

 
          
“The devil!”
His bleak expression alarmed her.

 
          
“My
uncle needed that money urgently,” she explained.

 
          
“So
did
Dover,
an’ he had a right to it, which Trenton did
not,” Sudden said sternly. “Red Rufe was Old Man Dover’s brother.”

 
          
The
statement shook her, but she was loyal to her kin. “Then I am sure Uncle Zeb
was ignorant of it.”

 
          
“For
years it has been common knowledge in the town.”

 
          
“My
uncle would not do anything dishonourable,” she replied stubbornly.

 
          
“If
that goes for his men, mebbe it’s no good tellin’ yu somethin’ else,” he
returned.

 
          
“Trenton
was shot from behind.” Her eyes flamed. “I don’t believe it; you’re just trying
to prejudice me, and whatever I may owe you—

 
          
“Which
is nothin’ a-tall,” he broke in. “Ask Doc Malachi.” And as if to end the
matter,

 
          
“There’s
somethin’ worth lookin’ at.”

 
          
Away
on the eastern horizon, the grey had given way to a rosy glow, deepening
towards its source, the flame-red disc of the sun, moving majestically up from
behind the rim of the world. A growing golden light spread its radiance over
the earth, softening the harsh outlines of crag and cliff.

 
          
“It’s
wonderful,” the girl breathed.

 
          
“Shore
is,” the puncher replied. “Pity we humans can’t grade up to the beauty o’ the
universe we live in.”

 
          
“Some
of it is ugly,” she protested.

 
          
“On’y
where man has interfered,” he said cynically. “All nature has beauty of some
kind.”

 
          
“When
I came to Rainbow we crossed a hideous desert, nothing but sand, cactus, and
desolation.”

 
          
“See
that same desert by moonlight an’ it’ll beat the finest picture yu ever saw—if
yu ain’t thirsty,” he added whimsically. “That scurry ‘pears to be on the move;
we’ll start.”

 
          
Side
by side, they set off down the slope. The coarse grass, dotted with patches of
greasewood, stunted mesquite, and cactus, made progress difficult and speed
impossible. Before they had travelled far, a harsh warning rattle sounded, and
from a bush just in front of Beth, a repulsive flat head shot up and swayed
back to strike. Almost before she could cry out, a flash and roar came from her
companion’s hip and the reptile subsided, its head smashed by a bullet.

 
          
Sudden
drew out the empty shell, reloaded, and holstered the weapon. The girl stared
at him in amazement.

 
          
“You
were—so quick,” she murmured, speaking her thought. He grinned at her, and, in
that instant, seemed almost boyish. “No time to waste when Mister Rattler goes
on the prod—he’s a fast worker.”

 
          
“I
have—to thank you—again,” she said.

 
          
“Shucks,”
he replied impatiently. “I sorta got yu into the mess, an’ it’s up to me to
look after you.”

 
          
This
brought Dover into her mind. She would never understand these Western men; they
resented any expression of gratitude, and could even be rude about it.