Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (24 page)

 
          
“Slipped—into—the
Sluice?” the other repeated. “What in the nation was he doin’ there?”

 
          
“Just
lookin’—seemed to be admirin’ it,” Riley said casually. “Reckon he turned
dizzy, or fancied a bath mebbe.”

 
          
King’s
cruel lips curled contemptuously. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Who told yu this fine
yarn?”

 
          
“
No one didn’t tell me
—I saw it,” the rider retorted.

 
          
King
Burdette laughed; he knew the Sluice, and he guessed what had happened, but he
wanted to be sure. “Mebbe he can swim,” he suggested.

 
          
“Carryin’
too much weight,” Riley said meaningly. “Slugs don’t help a swimmer none
whatever.”

 
          
“Better
‘a’ left it to the river,” King commented. “If he’s found with lead in him …”

 
          
“Ever
seen them teeth in the gut?” the other asked sneeringly. “Bah!
there
won’t be enough of him to put a cross over.”

 
          
King
nodded. “That’s so. Well, yu done a day’s work, Riley, an’ I ain’t forgettin’
it. Whitey”

 
          
“Was to have had five hundred.
I want more’n that.”

 
          
It
was a guess, but a good one, and the other man did not trouble to deny it.

 
          
“Shoot,”
he said.

 
          
The
cowboy was in no hurry. “I’ve got hep to suthin’ big—too big for me to tackle
alone, which is why I’m talkin’,” he said, after a pause. “But first, I want
yore honest-to-Gawd promise that I share equally with yu, Mart an’ Sim. What’s
the word?”

 
          
King
did not reply at once; Riley’s air of repressed excitement evidenced tidings of
importance, and though he could lose nothing by agreeing to the proposal, he
was far too astute to do so immediately; after all, the man was only a tool,
and must be kept in his place. At the same time, he was curious.

 
          
“That
goes with me, Riley, an’ I can speak for my brothers,” he said at last. “Spill
the beans.”

 
          
Whereupon
the rider told of the conversation he had overhead between California and the C
P foreman, speaking in a low, husky voice which positively shook when he
attempted to describe the nugget the prospector had so proudly produced.

 
          
“My
Gawd, King, yu never see such rock,” he exclaimed. “Near as big as my fist, an’
more’n half pure gold, I’ll lay a fifty.”

 
          
“Findin’
`float’ don’t mean yu got the mine it
come
from,” King
objected, but it was more for the sake of prompting his informant; his interest
was plain enough.

 
          
“Yo’re
right, but Cal knows—he was just all swelled up,” Riley said confidently. “He
may have let it out to Green; I warn’t there when the pow-wow began.”

 
          
“It’s
big news, shore enough,” King decided. “An’ yu done right to come to me—I’ll
play fair. Allus knowed there was a gold-mine up on Stormy—that’s one reason
why I’ve been so hot on gettin’ the C P.” He paused, his eyes glinting with
savage satisfaction. “We’ll have
‘em both now; there ain’t
nothin’ to stop us.
First thing to do is get hold o’ Cal an’ put him
where he can’t chatter—‘cept to me.”

 
          
The
sun had dropped over the horizon in a glory of red and gold; down in the valley
it was already dark, and on the mountain-side the dusk was rapidly deepening.
California, busy preparing his evening meal, was oblivious to these natural
phenomena. Therefore he did not see those silent shadows stealing from tree to
tree until they reached his habitation, and only became aware of their presence
when a hoarse voice
barked :

 
          
“H’ist
‘em,
pronto !
”

 
          
The
old man dropped the skillet he was lifting as though it had burned him and spun
round, both hands raised. A tall, masked man stood in the doorway, his gun
levelled. He stepped forward, and others followed, dour-looking fellows,
slitted kerchiefs across their faces, and armed
.“
What’s
the game?” the prospector shrilled.

 
          
“Shut
yore trap, come quiet, an’ yu won’t be hurt none,” the man with the gun told
him.

 
          
“If
we have to reason with yu…”

 
          
The
implied threat was unnecessary—Cal had no thought of resistance. Blindfolded,
his hands tied behind, he was hustled out and lifted on to a horse. The leader
then searched the cabin, found what he was looking for—the piece of “float”—and
joined his companions. At a word the party set out for the valley, taking a
line, however, which would enable them to keep clear of the town. At the end of
what seemed to him an interminable ride, California was yanked from the saddle,
the handkerchief over his eyes removed, and he was thrust into a small log
shack.

 
          
“Talk
to yu later,” he was gruffly told, and then came the creak of a turning key.

 
          
The
prisoner’s reply took the form of a stream of curses, blistering, vitriolic,
the cream of all he had gathered in the many mining-camps and tough towns he
had known. It was an impartial, comprehensive cursing, for, starting with his
unknown captors, it went on to include Windy and its inhabitants, and finished
with a whole-hearted condemnation of himself and the foreman of the C P.

 
          
“No
fool like
an old ‘un, they say, an’ of all the old
fools I’m the daddy,” he wheezed when his breath and memory were beginning to
fail. “I’d oughta be split in two with a hatchet for openin’ my face to that
slick-eared, double-faced cowpunch, burn his soul. O’ course he yaps to Purdie,
an’ here I am, boxed up on the C P. Got no more sense than a burro, Cal, yu
ain’t, but from now on yo’re dumb, whatever play they make.”

 
          
Outside
the door a tall man listened and laughed silently.

 
          
“Mouthy
old bird,” he muttered. “But that’s a sound idea ‘bout Green—we’ll have to let
him go on believin’ that. Yu’ll be good an’ hungry in the mornin’, friend, an’
mebbe not
so
dumb as yu think; an empty belly is a
powerful persuader.”

 
          
**

 
          
It
was not until the second evening after his adventure in the Sluice that Sudden
visited town again. He had told no one of this further attempt on his life, and
had sworn Yago to secrecy. His appearance at “The Plaza” evoked no surprise;
several of those present gave him friendly nods; others watched him
indifferently as he stepped to the bar and greeted the proprietress. Evidently
his supposed demise was not yet generally known. Lu Lavigne welcomed him with a
smile, but there was a shadow in her eyes.

 
          
“I’m
guessin’ yu ain’t pleased to see me,” he said bluntly.

 
          
“You
know that isn’t true,” she replied. “But why come looking for trouble?”

 
          
The
corners of his eyes crinkled up. “An’ I came to see yu,” he reproved.

 
          
She
shrugged impatient shoulders. “I ride towards Old Stormy nearly every morning,”
she told him.

 
          
“I’ll
shore remember,” he grinned. “Mebbe yore bronc will get away from yu again, an’
li’l Miss Tenderfoot’ll want help.”

 
          
She
had to laugh, but her face quickly sobered, the muttered “Oh, damn,” accenting
the change. Usually her mild expletives had a whimsical unreality—they might
have been uttered by a child—but this time she meant it. Sudden did not move,
but the mirror behind the bar enabled him to see that King Burdette had thrust
open the swing-door and was strolling towards them.

 
          
The
puncher, head hunched, waited until the newcomer was near and then straightened
up and turned round.

 
          
“God!”

 
          
King
Burdette, taken off his guard, had recoiled, staring with wide eyes at the man
he believed to be drifting, a shapeless mass, in the depths of Thunder River.
Almost instantly, however, he got over the shock, and an expression of sneering
rage replaced his amazement. He glared at the girl.

 
          
“What’s
this fella doin’ here?” he asked.

 
          
There
was nothing mirthful in the cowpuncher’s smile. He had learned what he wished
to know: Burdette was aware of, and perhaps concerned in, the effort to send
him to a horrible death in the Sluice.

 
          
“Why
don’t yu ask me?” he suggested.

 
          
Burdette’s
gaze was fixed on Lu Lavigne, and it was she who replied. “This is a public
place; he has as much right to be here as you have.”

 
          
Her
defiance spurred his rage. “So that’s it?” he sneered. “Got a new playthin’,
huh?” He laughed hideously. “But yu ain’t finished with me yet, yu”

 
          
A
cold, rasping voice cut in; Sudden was bending slightly forward, his hands
hanging at his sides, death in his eyes.

 
          
“That’ll
be all from yu, Burdette,” he said, and waited.

 
          
King
turned his malevolent gaze on the interrupter. “I’ve on’y got one thing to say
to yu, an’ that is, don’t crowd yore luck too close,” he warned. “It’s saved yu
twice”

 
          
“Three
times,” the puncher corrected, “An’ that’s my limit.” He noted King’s momentary
start of surprise, and went on, “If yo’re honin’ to make it a fourth, why, I’m
waitin’.”

 
          
King
Burdette hesitated. He had plenty of pluck, and he was consumed with a desire
to shoot down this man with the cold eyes and voice which stung like acid, but
a demon of doubt assailed him. Whitey had failed and paid the penalty. King had
no wish to follow him, especially now, when things were breaking right and a
prospect of almost unlimited wealth was opening out. But it was a direct
challenge and must be met. The sardonic voice of the C P foreman lashed him.

 
          
“Take
yore time, Burdette; yu got all eternity ahead o’ yu.”

 
          
With
a snarl of fury the baited man turned on the speaker, ready to snap out the
word which would set guns spouting flame and hot lead. But another voice
intervened.

 
          
“There’ll
be no gun-play here, gents; I’ll down the first fella what pulls.”

 
          
Slype,
who during the conversation had apparently been intent on a card game, was now
standing near, his gun out. Sudden saw the swift look of relief in Burdette’s
face and laughed aloud.

 
          
“Pretty
neat, marshal,” he said. “Yu figure I’d beat him to the draw, so I’d get yore
pill. Well, I ain’t obligin’. Wasn’t yu a leetle late gettin’ into the game?”

 
          
“No
call for me to interfere because two fellas quarrel over this yer woman,” Slype
said insolently.

 
          
The
puncher’s eyes grew chilly. “`Lady,’ yu meant to say, didn’t yu, marshal?” he
suggested, and there was an ominous purr in his tone. “Yu ain’t denyin’ that
Mrs. Lavigne is a lady, are yu?”

 
          
The
officer shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable. The “lady” saved him the
embarrassment of replying.

 
          
“Thank
you, Mister Green, but I don’t care a hoot what that dirty little pack-rat
thinks I am,” she said. “His good opinion would be an insult.”