Sudden--Strikes Back (A Sudden Western #1) (24 page)

‘
Amen to that,’ chimed in Ben Dobbs.

‘
Gentlemen,’ began de Witt, ‘and ladies.’ This with a slight
bow towards Grace Tate and the widow Mulvaney. ‘As you all know,
the bank was recently robbed. Our insurance did not cover us
against this eventuality, and since I had commitments which I could
not avoid, it became necessary to call in such outstanding debts as
the Bank had. I myself,’ he coughed modestly, ‘have done what I
could. It was, of course, nothing like enough to meet the Bank’s
commitments and I was therefore reluctantly compelled to call in
the mortgages of the Slash 8. The ranch was given ample opportunity
to pay off its debt but has been unable to do so. I am, therefore,
about to place the ranch on the market at auction. Before I do so,
Sheriff Brady will distribute among you leaflets which give full
details of the ranch, its boundaries, stock, and so forth.’ Brady
was, in fact, already sweatily handing out the posters. ‘I propose
now to commence the business of auctioning the Slash 8. The first
question I must ask is of Miss Tate here. Have you been able to
raise the capital to pay off your debt?’

Grace
shook her head wordlessly. Judge Pringle sat with his head
bowed.

‘
Very well,’ said de Witt. ‘The amount outstanding is three
thousand dollars. The bidding will start at that
figure.’

A gasp
escaped the assembled crowd. While three thousand dollars was a
large amount of money, there was no doubt at all in the minds of
those present that the Slash 8 was worth well over five times that
amount without so much as a steer or a log cabin upon
it.

‘
Do I hear three thousand dollars?’ de Witt called.

There
was a pregnant silence. A small disturbance at the edges of the
crowd was observed as someone pushed through to the front. It was
Barclay. He made his way to the table at which Grace Tate was
sitting and bent to whisper to her.

‘
Yu won’t reconsider?’

Grace
shook her head. ‘I would prefer to lose the ranch,’ she said
coldly. Barclay’s face went dark with rage and he thrust Dave
Haynes aside roughly and stood glowering for a moment before
calling out, ‘I’ll bid three thousand dollars?

‘
Mr. Barclay of the Box B has bid three thousand dollars,’ de
Witt called. ‘Do I hear more?’ De Witt looked around sharply as
judge Pringle rose to his feet slowly. ‘Do you wish to bid,
sir?’

‘
No,’ said Pringle shortly. ‘I wish to give you the opportunity
of withdrawing from this farce with dignity. I do not relish mining
you in public.’

A
puzzled hum arose among the onlookers. What could the old boy mean?
They were not long in finding out.

‘
Withdraw?’ De Witt’s voice grew shrill, his eyes
panicky.

‘
What do you mean?

‘
Mr. de Witt, I regret that you force me to do this. You know,
and I know that you know, the mortgage document you showed to Miss
Tate is a blatant forgery!’

A babble
of excited speculation burst forth; people pushed forward to try to
see the banker clearly and watch his reaction to this astonishing
accusation. De Witt’s face was as white as chalk, and he pointed a
quivering finger at Pringle. ‘You—you don’t know what you’re
saying. I’ll—’

‘
You’ll do what, Mr. de Witt?’ asked Pringle icily. ‘I suggest
that you will do nothing. I have here’—he opened his document case
and held up a sheet of paper—‘a signed and notarized copy of a
mortgage deed effected between you and George Tate. It is dated two
months before his death. The amount upon this document is one
thousand five hundred dollars. What have you to say to
that?’

This
time a veritable uproar surged through the room. The nearest
spectators craned forward trying to see the incriminating document,
others pushing from behind. Brady pounded ineffectually upon a
table with the butt of his revolver for order. After a moment, the
Judge began to speak again, and the crowd’s uproar stilled as they
strained to hear what he said to the cringing banker.

‘
De Witt, you deliberately forged a document for personal gain.
It takes only the stroke of a pen to change a figure one to a
figure four. I suggest that you did this forgery solely to further
the interests of Zachary Barclay, who, it appears, is the only
person interested in acquiring the Slash 8 ranch?

De Witt
cringed back still further against the bar, his hands twitching at
his lapels. ‘I couldn’t help it,’ he whined. ‘He made me do it.
Barclay made me do it!’ His out flung finger pin-pointed the Box B
man, who stood thunderstruck by this accusation hurled at him, from
so completely unexpected a source.

‘
It was all Barclay, I tell you,’ screeched De Witt. ‘He
threatened he’d send that gunman Linkham to torture me. He robbed
the bank. He—’

Swirls
of motion ran through the crowd as an ugly movement towards the
burly figure of Barclay changed the character of the crowd into
that of a mob. Barclay reacted classically to de Witt’s accusation.
Before the astonished spectators could move towards him, he growled
an oath and stepped forward in front of de Witt.

‘
Yu lyin’, sneakin’ connivin’, double-crosser!’ he
hissed.

‘
Yu’ve played me for a fool. I’ll—’ His hand moved towards his
hip.

Like a
skulking lizard, the banker’s hand, a second before twitching on
his lapels, darted inside his jacket, and reappeared holding a
squat, deadly Derringer. The wicked little weapon boomed in the
swift-fallen silence, and Zachary Barclay rocked backwards on his
heels as the heavy slug tore through his heart. He fell like a
log.

In a
trice, several miners had rushed forward and disarmed de Witt, who
made no struggle, but stood unresisting in their grasp while
Sheriff Brady bent over the body of Zachary Barclay.

‘
Dead as a mackerel,’ he announced. He rose to his feet,
dusting his knees. ‘Mr. de Witt, yu didn’t orta done that,’ he said
heavily. ‘If Barclay was up to somethin’, he shoulda been held for
trial.’

‘
You saw what happened!’ de Witt snapped. ‘If I had not acted,
he would have killed me where I stood. I shot in
self-defense!’

A murmur
of approval rumbled from the watching crowd, and Brady, never slow
to bend to public opinion, relinquished his hold upon the banker
and motioned the miners to do likewise. De Witt looked around.
Judge Pringle was still on his feet.

‘
Sheriff,’ he called. ‘Mr. de Witt said something just now
about Barclay having robbed the bank, and forcing him to commit
forgery. Since we cannot interrogate Barclay, I would like the
opportunity of asking Mr. de Witt a few questions.’

De Witt
mentally cursed the old lawyer, but his mind was spinning like a
dynamo. With Barclay out of the way, Linkham would do as he was
told. Parr would be dead. The others were only in it for money.
Nobody could contradict him if he told his story well. It might
mean the loss of the Slash 8 for the present, but there was still
just enough time. The girl would have to be killed now, of course,
but Linkham would … He dragged his wild thoughts back to the
present, and resumed his cringing stance.

‘
It was all Barclay, you see,’ he told them. ‘He had sworn that
he would own this valley, and when George Tate defied him, he
decided to use any method to force Tate to sell.’

‘
How did you know all this?’ asked Pringle,
casually.

‘
Barclay told me,’ de Witt explained, ‘after he knew that I was
in his power. I did not know at first, of course. I treated Barclay
like the bank’s best customer, which was what he was. Oh, there was
talk about him; I attributed that to jealousy. As far as I could
tell he was a successful man, and successful men are always envied.
Even when those ranchers were murdered it seemed impossible that he
could be in any way involved.’

‘
But something happened to change your thinking?

‘
Yes, yes. It was about a week before the bank was robbed.
Barclay came to the bank late one evening—I am often there late,
working on figures—and I let him in. He acted very mysteriously,
requested that I draw the shades, lock the doors, all of which I
did. He told me I was very lucky; he was going to let me share his
wealth when I made it possible for him to own Sweetwater Valley. I
did not understand. He told me that he was going to rob the
bank-and that I was going to help. He told me he would break George
Tate or kill him, and he didn’t care which. I laughed at him. I
thought he was joking. I soon found out my error. He hit me. He hit
me again … and again. He had a riding whip. He beat me .... ’ De
Witt made his voice break. The utter silence in the saloon showed
that he had the listeners hanging on his every word, and he laughed
silently at their stupidity. ‘Finally, he made me sign a paper
saying that I had embezzled twenty thousand dollars of the bank’s
money to pay gambling debts. He told me that if I did not cooperate
he would send the paper to my employers, and, as a touch of refined
cruelty, to my aged parents. Gentlemen, I could not allow him to do
that. The shock would have killed them.’ He paused for effect, and
a sly glance from beneath lowered lids showed him nothing but
expressions of sympathy on the faces of most of the onlookers.
‘Fools!’ He gloated. ‘Sentimental, idiotic fools! I shall succeed
yet! The robbery was to force Miss Tate to raise money for the
mortgage,’ he went on. ‘Barclay planned to steal the cattle she was
driving as well, but Green, the Slash 8 foreman, prevented him from
succeeding. He realized that having sold the cattle Miss Tate would
be able to pay off her mortgage. It was then that he forced me to
change the papers, and to give her no extra time to pay off the
loan. There was no need for the loan to be called at all. Extra
resources from the East had already arrived.’

A
threatening mutter passed through the crowd at these evidences of
the late Box B man’s perfidy. De Witt looked about him. ‘I had no
choice, then. It was either do what he said or be ruined, bring
grief and perhaps tragedy to my family. And then, no doubt, he
would have killed me, too. I am not a man of violence. But I swore
that he would not succeed. I am glad that I killed him. I am glad
he is dead!’ So vehement was this speech, and so sincere-for de
Witt was certainly not acting as he spoke his last words that one
of the spectators called out,

‘
Good for yu, banker!’ and several others murmured audible
agreement. Judge Pringle’s voice cut through the
chatter.

‘
Why didn’t you tell Sheriff Brady about this? Or contact your
Head Office?’

‘
But don’t you see how cunning Barclay was?’ de Witt
cried.

‘
He could have denied everything. I hadn’t a shred of proof
against him. The documents were forged in my hand. I had acted
apparently independently of Barclay. Who would have believed me
when he brought out that IOU for twenty thousand dollars? I would
have been ruined, gentlemen. None of you would ever have believed
me.’

This was
a telling point, and de Witt felt he could almost warm his hands at
the glow of approval which came from the crowd. He turned to Grace
Tate. ‘Miss Tate, I can’t tell you how sorry I am for all that has
passed; for all your unhappiness. I am glad to tell you that your
ranch is free and clear of all debt. And all threat, I might
add,’

Grace
Tate found herself convinced against her will. She thrust out her
hand, despite the detaining arm judge Pringle laid upon her arm,
and shook the banker’s limp fingers. ‘Let us start afresh, Mr. de
Witt,’ she said, her pretty face glowing with happiness at the
thought that the Slash 8 would now belong to her in her own right.
Her shining eyes met Dave’s.

It was
at this moment that the Judge drew her back to her chair, and stood
up himself, thundering, ‘Mr. de Witt. There are still some
unanswered questions!’ The general conversations, which had begun
at the apparent termination of the explanations the banker had
made, came to an abrupt halt. ‘You have not yet told us anything
about the outlaw gang which you claim Barclay led-the Shadows. Who
are they? And where is the money which they stole from the
Bank?’

De Witt
looked around him at the curious, not unfriendly faces of the
people ringing the room. Mentally he sneered at them, sheep that
they were. They could never know. Linkham would never talk. He
suddenly knew, with a heady sense of power, that he was to these
poor fools as man is to the reptiles. And so he made his
mistake.

‘
I know nothing of them whatsoever,’ he told Pringle. ‘Perhaps
we shall never know.’

One
second later, sheer, ice cold terror slid into his veins as a
well-remembered voice, cold with disdain, called flatly across the
room. ‘Liar!’

De Witt
looked frantically towards the door. And there, a cold smile on his
face, stood the foreman of the Slash 8.

‘
Liar!’

The word
hung in the silence like a pronouncement of death; and no one in
the room was more affected by it than the man to whom it was
addressed. He wheeled to present a pleading face to Brady, but the
Sheriff had already bustled across towards Green.

‘
Now see here, Green,’ he bumbled, ‘yu can’t say things like
that—’