Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (22 page)

 
          
“Not
that way,” Mart explained. “He’s too good for me with a six-gun, but with
these
I…”

 
          
He
flexed the fingers of his huge hands, clutching the empty air as though he had
already the puncher’s throat within them, while the biceps in the gorilla-like
arms bulged beneath the blue flannel shirt. In brains and dexterity King was
the master, but when it came to a question of brute force …..

 
          
“That’s
certainly an idea, but let it ride a spell,” King said. “Mebbe there’s a better
trail out.”

 
          
“Suits
me,” Mart said. “Yu on’y gotta say the word. Saw that Purdie gal in town
s’mornin’.

 
          
She’s
sprouted up into a mighty good-looker; I’ve a mind to…”

 
          
The
elder man flashed round on him. “Lay a finger on her an’ I’ll fill yore fat
carcase with lead,” he said fiercely. “She ain’t for yu.”

 
          
Mart’s
eyes opened. “No call to get het up,” he said mildly. “Yo’re a reg’lar hawg
though. What ‘bout Lu Lavigne? That dame is liable to put a pill into yu if yu
play tricks.”

 
          
“I’ve
got a use for Nan Purdie,” King replied.

 
          
“Me too,” Mart said coarsely, and laughed.

 
          
“Then
yu better forget it; I meant what I said. Bein’ my brother won’t save yu,” King
rasped, and went out of the room.

 
          
“He’d
do it too, damn him,” Mart muttered. “Well, she’s a pretty nice piece, but …
Wonder how in hell I missed that cussed cowpunch?”

 
          
THE
C P foreman had mounted his horse and was pacing away from the corral when Yago
came up.

 
          
“Which
way yu headin’, Jim?” he asked.

 
          
“Mind
yore own damn business,” Sudden grinned.
“Aimin’ to ride herd
on me?”

 
          
“I
ain’t, but if yu don’t show up, it’d be useful to know where to look,” Bill
told him.

 
          
“That’s
so,” the foreman agreed soberly.
“Never can tell in these
stirrin’ times.
I’m pointin’ south-west—ain’t looked over that part o’
the range yet.”

 
          
“She’s
pretty wild—not much good for grazin’,” Yago told him. “Dangerous country, I’d
call it.”

 
          
Sudden
nodded and smiled; he knew his friend was warning him. Passing the ranchhouse,
he struck off to the right, climbing the lower slope of the mountain. At first
he followed a faint trail, but presently left it and headed for a point he had
already picked out—a clump of tall pines which rose above the surrounding timber.
He noted that the feed was sparse and poor in quality; there were few cattle
about. The pines proved to be further away than he had thought, masses of rock
from the peak above and thickets of prickly pear making detours inevitable.

 
          
When
at length he came in sight of it he was surprised to find a habitation. It was
a tiny place, tucked in among the trees, and built of unbarked logs. A hole in
one corner of the earthed roof served as a chimney, and from this a thin twist
of smoke was ascending. From the small pole corral behind the hut a burro
brayed, and Sudden’s mount responded with a friendly whicker. Instantly a man
showed himself in the open doorway, clutching a rifle, and peering suspiciously
from beneath the brim of his hat.

 
          
“Hold
on thar or I’ll drill yer. What yer want?” he barked.

 
          
The
puncher flung up a hand, palm
outwards, to signify
that his intentions were peaceful, and came steadily on. Evidently the man now
recognized him, for he lowered his weapon and gave vent to a throaty chuckle.

 
          
“Yu,
mister, is it?” he said. “Yu gotta s’cuse me—my danged eyesight ain’t as good
as it useter be. Rest yore saddle—I got some coffee boilin’.”

 
          
It
was the old prospector, California. The visitor got down, trailed his reins,
and seated himself on a rude bench outside the shack door. In a few moments his
host joined him, bearing two tin mugs of steaming, black beverage.

 
          
“I’m
out o’ milk, but there’s more sweetenin’ if yu want her,” he apologized.

 
          
Sudden
sampled the liquid and pronounced it excellent, which brought a satisfied grin
to the old man’s wrinkled features.

 
          
“Guess
I
c’n make coffee,” he said. “Oughta be able to —musta
made enough to float a fleet in my time.”

 
          
“First
look I’ve had at this part of our range,” the foreman remarked.
“Didn’t know anyone was livin’ up here.
What
yu got—a quarter-section?”

 
          
“No,
I ain’t a ‘nester’—can’t be bothered with land nohow,” California explained.
“Why, I’m liable to pull stakes an’ drift any time.
Purdie
gimme leave to run up the shack an’ scratch around.
It’s nice an’ quiet
up here.”

 
          
The
visitor smiled; he was listening to an incessant, rumbling roar, like that of
heavy seas breaking on a shingly shore, but without the sucking swish of the
backwash.

 
          
“Thunder?”
he queried.

 
          
“Aye,
li’l old Thunder River,” the miner grinned. “Fella gits so useter that he don’t
notice it. Yu oughta hear her when snow flies on Stormy. I’ve sat for hours
watchin’ the water rippin’, tearin’, an’ thrashing its way through the Sluice;
she must be just lousy with gold.”

 
          
“What
makes yu think that?” Sudden asked.

 
          
“Don’t
think—I’m dead shore,” California retorted. “Anyone as knows gold would be.

 
          
Why,
even some of them lunkheads down yonder”—he jerked a derisive thumb in the
direction of Windy—“has got their suspicions. Lookee, yu can git `colour’ most
anywheres on the banks o’ the river, an’ there’s patches of alluvial gold an’
small `pockets’ on the slopes o’ the valley, but it’s all surface stuff—go
deep, an’ yu git nothin’ but a hole. Now, where’s it come from? Didn’t fall
out’n the skies, I reckon. No, sir, its bin washed down, an’ I figure that at
one time mebbe a thousand years ago, before the stream had cut itself a channel
to run in—this yer valley was periodically flooded an’ the fine gold was
deposited then. I ain’t
no
scientist, but that’s the
way I dope her out.”

 
          
“Sounds
likely,” the puncher admitted. “But if it’s so, all yu gotta do is trace the
source o’ the river”

 
          
The
prospector emitted a cackle. “Yo’re pickin’ a job, I knows of over two
score—some of ‘em underground springs,” he said. ” ‘Sides, how’d yu know where
the water picks up the dust? No, yu can’t get at it thataway.” His little eyes
gleamed cunningly. “But she’s here, on Ol’ Stormy, just waitin’ to be found.”

 
          
“So
right now we might be sittin’ atop of a gold-mine,” the foreman smiled.

 
          
“Yo’re
shoutin’, though I reckon she’s higher up,” the old man returned seriously.

 
          
“Somewheres
around there’s rock that’s just rotten with gold.” He read the incredulity in
the listener’s face. “Yu don’t believe me?” he cried, and dived into the hut.
In a moment he reappeared. “What d’yu make o’ that?” he asked triumphantly.

 
          
“That”
proved to be a piece of quartz about the size of a large egg, jagged and
irregular in shape, which the miner almost reverently placed on the bench
between them. The puncher picked it up, marvelling at the weight until he saw
that the stone was thickly veined with yellow; even a novice would have known
it for what men live, and die, to obtain.

 
          
“Hell’s
bells! She’s mighty near half gold,” Sudden ejaculated.

 
          
The
prospector chuckled delightedly at the effect he had produced. “
yessir
, just around,” he agreed. “A ton o’ rock like that
would put even a spendin’ fella beyond the reach o’ poverty.”

 
          
Then
came
the natural question: “Where’d yu find her?”

 
          
The
crafty eyes twinkled. “It wouldn’t help yu none if I told yu,” California said,
after a pause. “That’s `float,’… An’ there ain’t a smidgin’ o’ rock like it
where ‘twas picked up. May have
took
hundreds o’ years
to git there or bin dropped by some fella. Think o’ searchin’?”

 
          
Sudden
laughed. “No, never did have the gold fever,” he said.

 
          
“If
yu had yu’d never lose it,” the miner said. “Me, I bin scramblin’ round Stormy
for years—like to have busted my neck a score o’ times.
An’
what for?
It ain’t the wealth, stranger; all the money in the world
won’t make me a day younger; it’s just findin’ it.”

 
          
“An’
yu have found it?” the foreman queried.

 
          
“Mebbe
I have an’ mebbe I ain’t, was the noncommittal answer. “Didn’t expect me to
say, did yer?”

 
          
Sudden
shook his head. “Yu’ve talked too much as it is; if a whisper o’ this got
abroad in Windy … Anyways, yu can reckon me dumb.”

 
          
“Yo’re
dead right, Mister, an’ I’m obliged,” the old man said. “I’m a chatterin’ of
fool when I talk about gold.” The puncher swung into his saddle again, and
neither he nor the miner saw the shadow that slipped from the end of the shack,
slid along the corral rails, and vanished in the brush at the back. Thus safely
concealed, Riley, the Circle B rider, watched the visitor depart.

 
          
His
squinting eyes were popping with excitement. Told off by King Burdette to watch
Green, he had hung about the C P and followed him to the prospector’s hut,
where he had arrived in time to hear the major portion of the conversation and
see the “specimen.”

 
          
“Sufferin’
snakes!” he muttered. “What made the old fool open up to that fella? Wonder
whether he told him anythin’ ‘fore I come up? Hell! Mebbe he’s goin’ there now.
I gotta see; Cal will keep.”

 
          
Hurriedly
he went to where he had hidden his horse, mounted, and set out after the C P
man. The necessity for keeping under cover made pace impossible, but his quarry
was in no hurry, and presently he espied him. The foreman had dismounted again
and was gazing on a scene which, even to the most surfeited sightseer, could
not but be awe-inspiring. A giant gash in the side of the mountain, resembling
the mark left by a mighty axe-blow, provided a passage for the river. Prickly
pear, catclaw, and other shrubs fringed the rims of the chasm for the most
part, but there were a few spaces where the very brink could be approached. In
one of these Sudden was standing.

 
          
The Sluice.
The name was not an inapt one for this long,
narrow stone trough with its spray-splashed, almost vertical, bare walls. Leaning
forward, the puncher could see where the water entered, cascading over a fall
of twenty feet, snow-white and glistening with points of fire like a stream of
jewels in the rays of the sun, to drop into a yeasty smother of foam and spray,
and then—as though it had finished with play—to roll on through the rift with
the smooth, sinuous ease of a gigantic reptile.

 
          
“She
must be some sight when Stormy sheds his winter coat,” Sudden mused. He watched
the fragments of froth as they eddied and swirled some forty feet below, and
nodded understandingly. “Don’t ‘pear to be travellin’ fast now, but she is;
fella wouldn’t have much chance in there, I reckon. Must be another fall
below—that one ain’t makin’
all the
racket.”