Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (19 page)

 
          
Along
the eastern trail a rider was approaching at breakneck speed; they could see
the rise and fall of his arm as he plied the quirt to the flanks of a horse
already doing its best.

 
          
“Year
or so back you mighta guessed Injuns, but they’ve bin quiet a goodish while
now,” the last speaker continued.

 
          
“Shucks!
It’s Riley, o’ the Circle B; reckon he’s on’y thirsty.”

 
          
By
this time the panting pony had rocketed along the street and, in a shower of
dust, had been pulled to a sudden stop in front of the marshal’s quarters. The
rider, a diminutive, bow-legged man with a hard, sly face, sprang down, and
wiping his dust-caked lips with the back of his hand, cried,

 
          
“Hey,
Slippery, come alive an’ git busy.”

 
          
The
marshal tilted back his chair and surveyed the speaker sourly; he had to put up
with hectoring from the Burdettes, but he was not going to stand it from their
underlings, and he didn’t like his nickname.

 
          
“What
might be yore particular trouble?” he drawled. “Somebody bumped off King, by
any chance?”

 
          
“If
they had, the Circle B wouldn’t be botherin’ yu,” was the blunt reply. “No,
sir, but I got a notion the C P is shy a foreman, mebbe.”

 
          
This
statement brought the officer to attention and the loafers from their shelter.
With an upraised hand Riley stilled the babble of questions.

 
          
“Here’s
the how of it,” he said. “I’m crossin’ yore range, marshal, on my way to town,
hour or so back. I’m ‘bout half a mile from Dark Canyon when I
sees
Green on the other side of it—can’t mistake that black
o’ his. He’s amblin’ along casual-like, pointin’ for the C P line-house, I
figure. Naturally, I ain’t interested, an’ I’m just turnin’ away when there’s a
shot from that tree-covered bump what sticks up like a wart to the east, an’ I
sees Green pitch out’n his saddle to the edge o’ the canyon; his hoss bolts.
Me, I hunt cover plenty rapid, guessin’ the gent with the gun has more’n one
ca’tridge.

 
          
“Nothin’
happens for a spell. Green don’t show up, an’ havin’ seen his lid sail into the
canyon, I’m bettin’ high he’s went with it. The fella what did the shootin’
must ‘a’come to the same conclusion, for presently he busts from his
hiding-place an’ rides hell-bent for that splash o’ pines east.”

 
          
“Reckernize
him?” the marshal asked.

 
          
“Too
fur away, an’ I on’y see his back,” Riley replied, “but he was atop of a grey
hoss, an’ I’d say he was redheaded.”

 
          
“How
in hell?” began the
officer.

 
          
“He
warn’t wearin’ a hat,” the Circle B man explained. “Left it behind or got it
tied to his saddle-strings, I s’pose.”

 
          
“Odd,
that,” the marshal mused. “Well, I reckon I better look into it.
Yu boys comin’ along?”

 
          
The
reply was an immediate scattering in quest of mounts and rifles; hot as it was,
they were not missing anything that promised a little excitement. In less than
a quarter of an hour, the men, headed by the marshal and the bringer of the
news, were riding rapidly for the scene of the outrage.

 
          
“Redhead with a grey hoss huh?”
Slype remarked, his crafty
little eyes on his companion.

 
          
“Curious
yu didn’t know him.”

 
          
“Ain’t
it?”
Was the sardonic retort.
“My sight is mebbe not
so good, an’ it’s powerful glary out on the range.” The marshal grunted his
disbelief in this explanation and became more confirmed in his suspicion,
which, had he but known it, was just what Riley intended. The Circle B man’s
admiration for the officer would have been hard to discover.

 
          
In
the West of that day representatives of the law were seldom popular. There were
among them men who did their work fearlessly and honestly; whose efforts to
establish and preserve order in an untamed land laid the foundation stones of
the great and flourishing cities which have replaced the huddles of huts they
knew. But many were, as the common phrase put it, “as crooked as a cow’s hind
leg,” and held their places only because they were more ruthless, and could
shoot quicker than the ruffians they had to rule. Slype belonged to neither of
these groups; he had been put in power by the Circle B, and though he talked
loudly in public, it was generally known that when King Burdette whistled, the
marshal had to come to heel.

 
          
He
now rode in silence, trying to fathom what lay behind this latest development.
Beyond a plain intimation that Luce was no longer to be regarded as one of the
family, the Burdettes had told him nothing, but the marshal had means of
obtaining information, and little happened in the neighbourhood that he did not
hear. He knew, for example, that King Burdette’s belt had been left at “The
Lucky Chance” by his youngest brother, and had slapped his thigh in unholy glee
at the news. For though he served them—or perhaps, because of that—he hated the
Burdettes with all his mean, shrivelled soul. Riley’s voice interrupted his
speculations.

 
          
“Yonder’s
the knob where the shot come from. Green must ‘a’ bin pretty close to here.”

 
          
They
had reached the canyon and were riding along the edge, slowing in order to
search it thoroughly. Riley, bending down in his saddle, was scanning the
ground closely. Presently he dragged on his reins and jumped off.

 
          
“Thisyer’s
the spot,” he said. “See where the hoss r’ared?” He pointed to several
hoof-prints deeply indented in the short turf. A tiny reddish-brown splash on a
blade of grass caught his eye, and he stepped to the brink of the precipice. At
his call, the others left their horses and came clustering round. He was
pointing to a little crevice, a notch in the rim of the canyon wall, the long
grass in which was flattened, broken, and stained in several places with dried
blood.

 
          
“He
dropped here, shore enough, but where the devil’s he got to?” Slype queried.

 
          
“Rolled
over, I’d say,” one of the
party
offered. “That crack
goes plenty deep, I’m thinkin’.”

 
          
“Hell’s
delight, it’s a long ride to git down there,” the marshal said disgustedly.
“S’pose we gotta do it.”

 
          
A
further search revealing no sign of the missing man, the posse retraced its
steps to the entrance of the canyon.

 
          
“We’d
oughta come here first,” said one when they reached it.

 
          
“If
everybody done what they oughta, somebody would ‘a’ bumped yu off for a
chatterin’ fool years ago, Pike,” the marshal said savagely.

 
          
The
offender subsided; he owed Slype money, a fact that worthy had not forgotten
when he uttered the insult. Since the rest of the party, save Riley, were in
the same predicament, the journey along the gorge was made in silence. It was
the Circle B man who first saw the
hat,
and spurring
his pony, leant over, lifted it from the ground and waited for the marshal. The
broken buckle and jagged hole with bloodstained edges appeared to tell a plain
story.

 
          
“Got
him good, ‘pears like,” Slype decided. “But where the
blazes
is
the body? Even if the bullet didn’t do the trick, the fall would
break every bone in him.”

 
          
They
scanned the grim, overhanging wall above them, and the man Pike ventured an
opinion. “That crack in the rim comes down a consid’able ways; mebbe he slipped
into that ‘stead o’ droppin’ clear.”

 
          
It
appeared to be the only solution; seen from below, the fissure in question
seemed more than capacious enough to conceal a corpse. The marshal grudgingly
accepted the explanation.

 
          
“Likely
enough,” he said. “Well, if he’s there it’s as good a grave as we could make
him.

 
          
Let’s
git outa this damn gully—it gives me the creeps.”

 
          
Once
more they retraced their steps, and emerging into the open, headed for the
knoll from which the shot had been fired. It was a mere mound, covered on the
side facing the canyon with a thick screen of spruce, catclaw, and cactus,
being therefore an ideal spot for the purpose to which it had been put.
Hoof-prints showed where a horse had been tied, and lying near the top of the
hillock was an old grey Stetson. The marshal pounced on it; in the sweatband
were the letters “L. B.”—done in ink—but nearly obliterated by time and wear.

 
          
“Luce
Burdette,” he muttered.
“But how come he to leave this
behind?”

 
          
The
spot where the hat had lain was littered with cigarette stubs. “Squatted here
some time, an’ took his lid off while he waited,” Slype went on. “Then when
he’s
did
what he come to do, bolts off an’ forgets
it.” He picked up a shining brass object. “She’s a .38 shell. I reckon that
settles it; we gotta find Mister Luce, an’ right speedy.”

 
          
“Huh,
I’ll bet he’s throwin’ dust an’ yu won’t see that hombre no more,” Pike said.

 
          
The
marshal eyed him speculatively. “How much yu wanta lose?” he asked. “I got ten
dollars that says we’ll find him in town.
Yu takin’ it?”

 
          
“Betcha
life,” the man replied.
“Easy money, marshal.”

 
          
“Don’t
think it,” warned a friend. “Coin yu collect from Sam ain’t ever that.”

 
          
The
trip back to Windy was made at speed, and the whole party piled into the hotel,
where, as the news spread, they were quickly followed by others. They found the
man they were in search of calmly eating a meal in the dining-room. The marshal
shot a triumphant glance at Pike and then turned abruptly upon Luce.

 
          
“Where
yu bin this afternoon?” he inquired.

 
          
The
young man did not need to be told there was trouble in the air; the fact stuck
out like a sore thumb. “Prospectin’ south o’ the river, if it’s any o’ yore
damn business,” he replied.

 
          
This
was in the opposite direction from where the ambushing had occurred, and the
officer’s thin lips curledin a sneer as he went on, “Anybody with yu to prove
that?”

 
          
“No,
I didn’t see
nobody
. What’s the idea?”

 
          
“That
can wait. Still usin’ that .38 o’ yores?” and when the other nodded, “Have it
with yu to-day?”

 
          
“Shore
I did—
don’t
aim to be caught out on a limb if I can
help it,” Luce said, adding scathingly, “Bushwhackin’ is too prevalent around
here.”

 
          
“Yu
said it,” the marshal agreed, and held out the second hat they had found. “Know
who owns this?”

 
          
The
boy’s eyes opened in surprise. “It’s mine,” he said. “I left it behind…”

 
          
“Yeah,
we know; when yu downed Green,” Slype put in.

 
          
Luce
Burdette sprang to his feet, eyes wide with amazement, and every gun in the
room instantly covered him. But he made no attempt to draw his own.

 
          
“Green
downed?” he cried, and there was deep concern in his voice. “An’ yu think I did
it? Yu must be loco; he’s about my on’y friend.”

 
          
“He
was got with a .38 shell, by a fella ridin’ a grey hoss, an’ we find yore hat
on the spot,” the marshal said incisively.