Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942) (41 page)

 
          
The
cowboy’s protest was instant and emphatic. “Say, Doc, I could ride afore I
could walk. With one leg an’ two arms, I’d stay on top of a blizzard.”

 
          
“That
leaves Zeb,” Dover said.

 
          
“He’s
picked up wonderfully, and is in a fever to go,” the doctor admitted. “I fancy
it may do him just as much harm to wait. With short stages and long rests, we
might manage it.”

 
          
“Ain’t
there a nearer way, Dan?” Sudden questioned.

 
          
“Yeah,
we took a twisty trail comin’ to fog any who might follow. That place you
struck on gettin’ outa the tunnel must ‘a’ been Rainbow Canyon. The stream
tannin’ through it forks a piece
along,
an’ the right
arm is our river. If we keep by that, I reckon we’ll cut down the distance
quite a bit, which would make up for slow-movin’.”

 
          
It
was decided that,’ if the rancher were no worse, the journey should begin in
the morning.

 
          
Dame
Fortune was frowning upon the foreman of the Wagon-wheel. On the morning after
he had left the lifeless body of Lake lying in the tent, and set out hot-foot
in pursuit of Garstone, a calamity which threatened to thwart his schemes
befell him. Slithering down the sandy side of a ravine, his horse trod on a
loose rock, lurched and went over, Bundy jumped clear, landing on hands and
knees. He rose with an evil look, grabbed the rein and savagely jerked at it.
The beast struggled to regain its feet, but could not, one leg had snapped.
With an oath the man pulled out his gun and sent a bullet crashing into its
brain.

 
          
“Damn
an’ blast the mouldy luck,” he growled, as, carrying his saddle and rifle, he
resumed his way. “Satan hisself must be workin’ for Garstone, but I’ll beat him
yet.”

 
          
Further
reverses were to come. His own cunning—after the manner of a boomerang—returned
to hit him; the roundabout route he had foisted on the Easterner now meant weary
miles afoot for
himself
. And since the cattleman’s
fondness for humping a saddle is about equal to that of the Devil for holy
water, a few hours saw the article hurled into the brush with a curse.

 
          
He
had little difficulty in following the trail, for Garstone had not the skill to
conceal it.

 
          
This
ignorance, however, frequently drove the foreman to frenzy, for the big man had
blundered through places hard for a horseman, and doubly so to a pedestrian.
Often also, Bundy found himself tramping long miles which he knew were taking
him no nearer to Rainbow.

 
          
“Hell
burn
him,” he muttered. “I told the fool to head for
the sun, but if he’s goin’ to do it allatime, he’ll finish where he started.”

 
          
Four
days passed, and in the early afternoon another blow fell—he lost the trail. It
had led him to the verge of a large pine forest. There were no hoof-prints,
right or
left,
and he could only conclude that they
had kept on through the gloomy aisles of the trees; but the deep mat of
pine-needles would retain no tracks. He spent hours circling the forest in the
hope of finding where they had emerged, but without success. Sitting down to
rest, he arrived at a decision.

 
          
“I’ll
get me to the Wagon-wheel an’ deal with Mister Garstone there. Anyways,
thirty-five thousand is a sizeable
stake,
an’ mebbe …”
A sinister scowl ended the sentence, and then, “The Rainbow River comes out’n
these hills. I gotta find it; I’m fair sick o’ traipsin’ this Gawd-damned
wilderness.”

 
          
He
picked up his rifle and blanket-roll containing his scanty supply of food, and
set out, heading south-east. An hour later he was standing on a high bench
screened by bushes, whence the ground dropped abruptly, flattening as it
reached a great crack in the surface which he guessed to be Rainbow Canyon. He
was about to descend and verify this when a horseman came in view. Bundy swore,
and ducked under cover; it was Dover. Peering through the sheltering foliage,
he watched Tiny, Hunch, and Yorky follow, with a pack animal. Then, after a
brief interval, Malachi, with a companion at whom the foreman gazed with
bulging eyes.

 
          
“Trenton,”
he whispered, as though afraid they might hear though they were nearly a
thousand yards away. The man he had left for dead, riding to Rainbow, with
his—Bundy’s enemies. Trenton would know all, the murder of Lake, and his own
duplicity. The completeness of the catastrophe stunned him. But stay, the
rancher might have been unconscious during that last visit to the tent. But if
not, they would hang him in Rainbow; Trenton would see to that. It was too big
a risk to run.

 
          
“I’ll
have to close yore trap, Zeb,” he growled. “Anythin’ you’ve told them others
don’t signify, an’
Garstone can’t prove nothin’
. But
this ain’t the place; I gotta have a good getaway.

 
          
Rifle
in hand, he slunk along after the unsuspecting travellers below, his callous
brain at work. With the rancher silenced, he must again seek Garstone.

 
          
“Couple
o’ slugs’ll give me the dollars an’ a pair o’ hosses to carry me out’n the
Territory,” he told himself. “My luck must ‘a’ turned or I’d ‘a’ walked right
into Rainbow to git mine.”

 
          
Considerably
cheered by this reflection, he began to watch for a suitable spot. He had no
difficulty in keeping up, for the quarry was moving slowly. Presently he
noticed that the bench was dipping and bringing him nearer to his target.
Gripping his rifle in feverish eagerness, malignant eyes on the man he meant to
slay, he suddenly saw the opportunity slipping away. The horsemen had reached a
point where the walls of the canyon closed to within forty yards of one another
and abruptly widened again. This narrow gap was spanned by a natural bridge of
rock, bare, and offering no cover. If they decided to cross this, trailing them
would be well-nigh impossible, the land on the far side of the river being
open, and almost treeless, offering few chances’ of concealment. As he had
feared, they turned.

 
          
The
sight spurred him to action; it must be now or never. The passage across the
gulf was narrow, the surface rough; they would ride it in single file. This
would give him time to get close—there must be no mistake. He scrambled down
from the bench, fighting his way through the scrub until he reached the edge.
There he knelt, panting, weapon levelled; he was only two hundred yards
distant.

 
          
“I’ll
hold off till they’re all over,” he decided. “If any o’ the rest git curious, I
can send ‘em after Zeb, one at a lick.”

 
          
He
watched them negotiate the bridge, singly, as he expected, and his lips drew
back in an ugly snarl of satisfaction when he saw that Trenton was the last.
Sighting full at the broad, bowed shoulders, he steadied himself and pulled the
trigger. Through the smoke of the discharge he saw the rancher fall forward on
the neck of his horse, which, startled by the report, leapt onwards.

 
          
“Got
him,” he gritted.

 
          
Even
as he spoke, two quick reports rang out; a bullet shattered twigs just above
his head, and a second smashed into the breech of his rifle and ruined the
mechanism. With an oath he threw aside the useless weapon and turned his eyes
to the right, whence the shots had come. A black horse was thundering down upon
him, and the rider, standing in his stirrups, was assiduously pumping lead from
his Winchester. Sudden, staying behind with the idea of obtaining fresh
meat,
had come on the scene just as the assassin fired.

 
          
The
foreman shivered; he hated, but also feared the hard-featured puncher who had
thrashed him so severely. In the moment of triumph, he had met disaster. He
must do something.

 
          
Escape
through the brush was hopeless against a mounted
man,
he would be ridden down, trampled under those iron hooves. The drumming beat
grew
louder,
bullets were humming past his ears; in a
moment or two… A desperate device suggested itself. The widening of the canyon
below the bridge brought the rim of it within a hundred yards. If he could
reach that, the cowboy’s horse became useless; they would be on equal terms
.—
Keeping under cover as long as possible, he then abruptly
swerved into the open and raced for the canyon, zigzagging to avoid being
picked off. He reached the edge
safely,
saw, some
fifteen feet below, a narrow ledge running along the rock face. A break in the
rim enabled him to clamber down and breathe again; he could not be seen from
above.

 
          
So
quickly had the whole affair happened that when he looked across the canyon the
rancher’s companions were only then lifting him from his
saddle.
But a bullet which chipped the cliff below showed that he had been observed. It
would also tell the pursuer where he was.

 
          
Bundy
pulled his gun.

 
          
“If
Green follers me here, I’ll nail him,” he grated. “An’ with his hoss an’ rifle
…”

 
          
During
the brief suspense, doubt crept in. His foe was fast—terribly fast. Bundy
remembered that other time, when a lightning draw had foiled a foul trick which
few men would have survived, and death had stared at him out of grey-blue eyes.
What was it like to die? The violent jarr of the bullet, seconds —perhaps
moments—of merciless pain, and then—nothingness.

 
          
The
look of blank amaze on Lake’s face returned to him. Would he too—? He strangled
the thought. His mind raced. Seventy thousand bucks; there must be a way.

 
          
A
fiendish look told that he had found one. Changing his gun to his left hand, he
picked up a chunk of rock with his right, leaned limply against the cliff so
that the missile was hidden, and waited. The scrape of slipping boot-heels on a
hard surface warned him that the puncher was descending. A moment and he
appeared, six-shooter levelled. The foreman’s face was a pasty yellow; he made
no attempt to raise his weapon, seeming to be exhausted.

 
          
“Don’t
shoot, Green,” he cried hoarsely. “I give in.”

 
          
“Chuck
yore gun towards me, an’ put yore paws up,” Sudden said sternly.

 
          
Bundy
obeyed, lifting the left arm only. “Can’t manage the other,” he whined. “Damn
bronc fell, bustin’ a leg an’ my collar-bone. I had to finish him.”

 
          
The
story was plausible enough; the man was apparently minus mount and rifle. All
the same, the cowboy was not convinced. Unhurriedly he moved forward and
half-stopped to lift the surrendered weapon. Like a flash, Bundy’s “injured”
arm flew up and down. Too late, Sudden detected the action and straightened;
the great stone struck him on the chest instead of the head.

 
          
Reeling
back under the force of the blow, he lost his foothold on a slippery incline
and vanished into the abyss.

 
          
Bundy,
beads of cold sweat on his forehead, heard a shout of rage from the distant
spectators, but no bullets came. Wondering at this, he secured his revolver,
and creeping to the edge of the ledge, peered over. What he saw nearly sent him
after his victim. Twenty feet below Sudden was clinging to a dwarfed mesquite
growing from a tiny cleft in the rock. For a moment the astounding sight
paralysed him; then, with a blasphemous imprecation, he prepared to deal the finishing
stroke. Sudden saw the threatening muzzle, and nerved himself for an effort of
despair.

 
          
“Might
as well go one way as another,” he muttered.

 
          
He
still had his left-hand gun, and hanging by his right arm only, he swept it out
and drove a slug into the evil, gloating face above just as Bundy fired. Sudden
felt the wind of the bullet, and then saw the ruffian’s body dive past him into
the depths. But he was not out of the woods yet. His friends were coming to
help him, but an upward glance told that they could not be in time—the root
upon which his life depended was loosening. He looked down; there was another
bush a little lower, in a direct line; if he could grab that as he fell … Far
below, he could see the red-brown river raging along the bottom of the canyon,
hurling itself at the jagged, tooth-like boulders which strove to bar its
progress.