Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (27 page)

 
          
“Shut
yore face, keep back, an’ give ‘em
space,
or I’ll
shoot some toes off,” Yago snapped, and drew a gun.

 
          
“Shucks,
they got plenty room to scrap,” was the disgusted rejoinder, and despite Bill’s
threat, the ring closed in.

 
          
Partly
owing to this, and to the fact that Burdette realized that he could not finish
the fight offhand against such a nimble opponent, the character of the contest
changed. It was now Mart who held off, and to Yago’s utter disgust and despair,
Sudden went after his man, giving blow for blow, taking what punishment came,
and hurling his fists with venomous ferocity into the gross body. In a few
moments the battle had become one of blind fury.

 
          
The
bloodstained, staggering principals, hemmed in by a circle of sweating, brutal
faces eager to see every phase of the fight; the dull slap of fist on flesh and
the grunt as a blow went home; the swaying lights, half-obscured hy clouds of
tobacco smoke and the dust of stamping, struggling feet; lips dripping
profanity as the tide of fortune ebbed and flowed, all formed a picture Hogarth
alone could have done justice to.

 
          
Sudden
knew that he was wrong—that it was sheer madness to disregard his friend’s
frenzied entreaty to keep out of Burdette’s reach, but for once, passion had
overcome his patience, and he allowed himself to be dominated by the desire to
pay the brute before him in his own coin; the urge of the primitive man was
upon him, and he lusted to batter those bestial features. Time after time he
took a blow he might have avoided, simply to satisfy this craving, and Yago was
rapidly swearing himself to a standstill in consequence.

 
          
Then
what his friend had feared happened. Sudden’s foot slipped on the sanded floor
and in an instant he was caught in a grip like that of a grizzy bear. Vainly he
struggled to free himself from the vice-like grasp under the pressure of which
his ribs were already bending. The giant, his swollen, evil eyes alight with
murderous triumph, teeth bared like those of an animal, the hot breath coming
in gasps from his bruised lips, slowly tightened his hold. The puncher realized
that he could not break away, and suddenly let his whole body go limp.

 
          
“Yu
got him, Mart. Break his blasted back,” croaked a voice from the mist of smoke
and dust, and Sudden had a momentary glimpse of the twisted, gloating face of
Riley.

 
          
The
abrupt downward drag of the relaxed body took Burdette by surprise; he
stumbled, and they fell together, a quick turn on the part of the under man
saving him from the full weight of the other. The fall loosened Burdette’s
grip, and the puncher was able to breathe again.

 
          
Twisting,
thrashing on the floor, each striving to pin his enemy down, Sudden was
conscious of a hand clawing at his face, the questing thumb seeking for an
eyeball; the beast was trying to blind him. In a flame of fury he smashed his
fist into the thick neck below the chin.
Gasping, choking,
the big man sprawled sideways, momentarily helpless, his agonized throat
well-nigh paralysed.

 
          
The
puncher got up, weak and dizzy
, to stand waiting, much
to the surprise of the spectators.

 
          
“Now’s
yore chance, boy; beat hell out’n him,” cried the blacksmith.

 
          
The
advice was fully in accordance with the ethics of the time, but the puncher’s
only reply was a lop-sided grin; he did not fight that way. Yago knew this, and
though he inwardly cursed his foreman’s ideas of fair play, he said nothing.
Mart Burdette soon recovered. The pain of the blow, crippling for the moment,
had lessened, and with a rumbled curse he climbed to his feet.

 
          
“Damnation,
I’ll tear yu apart for that,” he threatened.

 
          
Sinking
his head, he rushed in, his right fist shooting forward with the force of a
mule’s kick—a blow which might well
have
proved fatal.
But Sudden was watching. With a lightning snatch he caught the descending
wrist, twisted round, bent his back, and dragged the arm forward and down over
his shoulder. As though propelled by a catapult, the big man shot up over the
curved shoulders to land full length on the floor with a crash which shook the
building. For some moments he lay there, supine, only the great heaving chest
showing that life was still in him.

 
          
Then
the swollen eyes opened, he raised himself on one elbow and turned, glaring
dazedly at the now silent spectators. Gradually understanding came to him, he
realized that he had been beaten, and by the slim, bloodstained, battered man
who now stood waiting for him to do something. A fury of hate flamed through
his veins. Fumbling at the belt of his pants, he snatched out and levelled a
gun.

 
          
“I’ll
git yu anyways, yu” he snarled.

 
          
Even
as he pulled the trigger, however, Sudden flung himself forward and struck up
the barrel; the bullet buried itself in the roof, and an instant later the
weapon was wrenched from the assassin’s grasp and turned upon him.

 
          
“Yu
cowardly, white-livered cur,” the puncher rasped. “So yu had a gun hid out on
me?”

 
          
Facing
those blazing eyes, with the gleaming steel barrel at his head, and the
knowledge that the slightest movement of the finger nudging the trigger would
send him into eternity, the bully’s courage broke. There would be a jarring
thud, a searing pain, and then—what? He shrank back.

 
          
“Don’t—shoot,”
he gasped weakly, and held up his trembling hands.

 
          
The
puncher hesitated for a few seconds, and then thrust the weapon behind his
waist-band. “Get,” he said tersely. “Outa the
country,
or I’ll send yu out—in a box.”

 
          
With
an effort the beaten man stood up, collected his belongings, and staggered out,
the onlookers parting to let him pass. He dared not raise his eyes, for he knew
that there would not be a friendly face. Rough, unscrupulous, hard-shelled as
these men were, they had a code of their own, and he had outraged it. To have
lost meant little had he fought fairly, but … His reeling brain was conscious
of only one thing—he must get away, and far, since wherever the story followed
he would be a figure for scorn. Moreover, that damned puncher was not bluffing.
He must see King, though the prospect of the elder brother’s anger and contempt
was hard to face.

 
          
Wearily
he dragged himself into the saddle and headed into the darkness.

 
          
Back
in the saloon the victor was receiving the congratulations of most of those
present.

 
          
He
had put up a straight and clean fight, and moreover, had dealt a crushing blow
to the supremacy of the Burdettes, a fact certain citizens appreciated. These
well-wishers, however, did not include the marshal, who had slipped away
immediately after Mart’s discomfiture.

 
          
“Sorry
Slype’s gone, I wanted him to hear the truth about my visit to Cal’s shack,”
Sudden said. “S’pose yu tell the boys, Bill, while I clean up some.”

 
          
So
Yago told the story of that day’s events, and the eyes of his hearers bulged,
profane exclamations of amazement punctuating the narrative; all these men knew
the Sluice.

 
          
“So,
yu see, Green couldn’t ‘a’ chucked Cal in, ‘cause I saw him potterin’ round his
place later,” Bill concluded, having said nothing of the old man’s reputed
discovery.

 
          
“Who
the hell tumbled Green in?” asked Weldon.

 
          
“Mister
Riley oughta he able to tell us,” Bill replied.

 
          
But
the Circle B man, like the marshal, was, as one of the
company
phrased it, “plenty absent”. He too had got away unobserved in the excitement
of Mart’s downfall. When Sudden returned, having removed such marks of the
conflict as could immediately be dealt with, he was not surprised to learn of
Riley’s retreat.

 
          
“Did
yu expect he’d wait?” he asked sardonically, and then, “I’m feelin’ some used
up—like I’d had a busy day. What ‘bout headin’ for home?”

 
          
Yago
surveyed the cut and bruised features critically. “Yu look better’n yu did a
piece back, but I wouldn’t say it was the time to have yore picture took,” he
replied. “Yu trail along an’ I’ll foller—got a li’l matter to see to.”

 
          
The
foreman achieved a painful grin. “Yu idjut,” he said. “I wouldn’t leave yu, but
I know yu won’t find him.”

 
          
Outside
the saloon he made a discovery—his horse was missing. Had Mart turned it loose
from spite, or had he
himself
tied it insecurely? In
either case he did not think Nigger would stray far, and set out on the search.
It proved a longer job than he expected, for it was nearly an hour before he
located the truant. The reins were twisted round the saddle-horn. This was
clear proof that the animal had been set free, for had the reins been trailing,
Nigger, a well-trained cow-horse, would not have drifted. Attributing it to
petty malice on the part of his fate antagonist, the foreman mounted and rode
slowly back to the ranch.

 
          
HE
was awakened on the following morning by Moody, who brought a message that the
Old Man wanted him. There was undisguised admiration in the cowboy’s expression
as he noted the decorations the foreman’s face had acquired over-night.

 
          
“Gosh!
He ain’t marked yu so awful much,” he commented. “It musta bin a dandy scrap
though; I’d ‘a’ give a month’s pay to seen it.”

 
          
“I’d
‘a’ paid twice that to ‘a’ been in the audience my own self,” Sudden grinned.
“Fightin’ is one o’ the games where the looker-on gets most o’ the fun.”

 
          
He
made a hasty toilet and went to the ranchhouse. On the verandah was Chris
Purdie,
and facing him—still in their saddles—were Slype and
Riley. At the sight of the latter the foreman’s eyes narrowed. The Circle B man
evidently observed the look, for he unobtrusively contrived to move his
unbuttoned vest, thereby bringing into view the badge of a deputy.

 
          
“Yu wantin’ me?”
Sudden asked his boss.

 
          
“I’m
wantin’ yu, Green,” the marshal cut in harshly.

 
          
“Perseverin’
fella,
ain’t yu, Slype?” the foreman gibed. “Yu was
wanting’ me last night an’ ran away. Changed yore mind again, or have yu fished
Cal’s body out’n the river?”

 
          
“I
ain’t,” replied the officer shortly. “What time yu git back to the C P las’
night?”

 
          
“Well,
I dunno as it’s any concern o’ yores, but I should say it was around twelve.”

 
          
“An’
yu left `The Lucky Chance’ soon after nine; it don’t take all that time to ride
up here.”

 
          
“I
had to find my hoss—someone had unhitched him; took me near an hour.”

 
          
Slype
smiled evilly. “Tell me yu broke a leg,” he suggested sarcastically. “Mebbe
I’ll believe yu.” At which Riley emitted a derisive cackle. “Someone saw yu
climb yore bronc outside the saloon an’ ride hell-bent on the Circle B trail.”

 
          
The
foreman looked at Riley and laughed. “Yo’re good at seem’ things, ain’t yu?”

 
          
The
marshal chanced a lie. “It warn’t him—I saw yu myself,” he said.

 
          
Sudden
regarded the pair grimly. “I’m tellin’ yu just what happened,” he replied
quietly.

 
          
“An’
here’s somethin’ yu wanta remember, them tin stars yo’re wearin’ won’t begin to
stop a bullet. Now, come clean, marshal; what’s worryin’ the thing yu call yore
mind?”