Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (33 page)

 
          
In
that single flash the girl saw a phase of him she had not suspected—the
careless, good-humoured cowboy had suddenly become a grim, relentless
instrument of vengeance. There was death in the chilled gaze—death for those
two men. She could not repress a shudder. The sardonic voice of the puncher
recalled her straying thoughts.

 
          
“Shucks,
I’m talkin’ like a dime novel my own self,” he reproved, and then, “What’s been
happenin’ here?”

 
          
They
were passing through the glade which had been the scene of Nan’s capture, and
the foreman’s keen eyes had at once noted the hoof-torn, trampled grass near
the prostrate tree. He slid from his saddle to examine the marks more closely,
but they told him nothing save that a struggle had taken place. Then he picked
up a crumpled scrap of paper—the note the girl had received, which had fallen
unnoticed from her hand when she had been overpowered —and read it with knitted
brow. In the bushes at the back of the fallen tree he found traces of waiting
riders.

 
          
Lu
Lavigne watched him wonderingly, but asked no question, thereby raising herself
in his estimation.

 
          
“Somethin’
queer ‘bout this,” he remarked, as he mounted again. “I’ll have to see Purdie
right away. Do yu reckon yu can find yore way back?”

 
          
She
looked at him, and the dark eyes were a shade reproachful. “You don’t trust
anyone overmuch, do you?” she said.

 
          
“This
ain’t my business,” he evaded. “I’m real distressed I can’t see yu on yore
way.”

 
          
And
since he very evidently meant it, she smiled and again mimicked
his own
speech.

 
          
“Li’l
Miss Tenderfoot can take care o’ herself, I reckon, partner,” she said.

 
          
With
a wave of her hand, she whirled her pony and trotted down the trail. His gaze
followed the trim form until it vanished amid the trees.

 
          
“Partner,”
he mused. “Yu’d shore make a staunch one too.” And then, “Hell, I’m gettin’
soft in the head. Shake a bit o’ life into them legs o’ your’n, Nig; we got no
time for dreamin’.”

 
          
He
reached the ranchhouse only to find that Purdie was out on the range. An
inquiry for Nan elicited the fact that she had gone out early for her morning
ride and had not returned for the mid-day meal; the cook, who supplied the
information, had to admit that this was unusual.

 
          
“She
mighta gone to town,” the foreman suggested, but the kitchen autocrat negatived
the notion; on such occasions she always asked if supplies were needed. All the
same, Sudden sent Curly to Windy, and sat down to wait for his employer. It was
two hours later that Purdie came in and learned of his daughter’s absence. At
first he appeared little concerned.

 
          
“Nan
was raised here, an’ she knows the country,” he said. “Happen her hoss has
played out on her.”

 
          
But
his attitude altered abruptly when the foreman produced the scrap of paper and
told how and when it had been found. Purple with passion, Purdie slammed one
fist into another.

 
          
“That
skunk writin’ to Nan, an’ askin’ her to meet him?” he stormed. “By God, I’ll…”

 
          
“Slow
down, Purdie, we don’t know that Luce Burdette sent that note,” Sudden said
quietly. “I’ve a hunch it’s more serious than just a love affair.”

 
          
“Nothin’
could be more serious than my girl’s carryin’ on with one o’ that crowd,” the
old man said savagely. He pulled out his gun, spun the cylinder to make sure it
was in order, and said grimly, “Get me a hoss, Jim.”

 
          
The
foreman saw that in the rancher’s present state of mind, argument would be
useless.

 
          
When
he returned, riding Nigger and leading another horse, he found the cattleman
striding up and down the verandah.

 
          
“No
call for yu to come,” he said. “I don’t need help to kill a snake.”

 
          
“I’m
goin’ along,” Sudden said firmly. “If Luce had anythin’ to do with this
business I’ll not interfere, but I’m thinkin’ different; that boy may be a
Burdette, but he’s a white one.”

 
          
The
rancher snorted his disbelief, climbed into the saddle, and sent his pony down
the trail on a dead run. The trip to town was accomplished in silence. The
elder man was too full of anger to talk, and the younger’s mind was busy with
the problem of what had happened in the glade. It was possible that Luce and
the girl had cut the knot of their perplexities by running away together, but
they would scarcely have left the tell-tale note behind, and there would have
been no indications of a struggle, or of hidden riders.
If
Luce had not written the note…

 
          
Daylight
had departed when they reached Windy, and the town was a blur in which
occasional blotches of pale light from a window here and there only served to
accentuate the surrounding gloom. From “The Plaza” came the tinkle of a guitar
and the chorus of a cowboy ditty; behind a cabin the dismal howl of a dog ended
in a yelp of pain and a curse of content as some unseen sufferer hurled a rock
successfully. Outside the saloons, rows of patient ponies announced that the
usual evening entertainments had commenced. The C P pair dismounted at the
hotel and inquired for Luce.

 
          
“He
rid out this mornin’, an’ I ain’t seen him since,” McTurk informed them. “No,
his war-bags
is
in his room.”

 
          
The
rancher’s face grew darker. “Think he’s at ‘The Lucky Chance’?” he asked.

 
          
“Guess
not,” was the reply. “He’d have put his hoss in the corral, an’ it ain’t there;
thinks a lot o’ that grey, he does.”

 
          
“We’ll
be back,” Purdie said. “If young Burdette shows up —”

 
          
“Who
wants me?” a quiet voice asked.

 
          
The
man they were seeking had just entered; his tired, listless face hardened when
he saw the elder of the visitors. Sudden stepped forward.

 
          
“Luce,
can we have a word with yu—private?”

 
          
The
boy led the way upstairs, lighted the lamp in a small sitting-room, and then
faced them.

 
          
“Well,
Jim, what is it now?” he asked wearily.

 
          
The
foreman came to the point at once. “Is that yore writin’, Luce?” he questioned,
and placed the pencilled note before him.

 
          
Burdette
read it with widening eyes. “No, it ain’t,” he said immediately, “but it’s a
pretty fair imitation.”

 
          
“Yu
didn’t write or send it?” Sudden persisted.

 
          
“I
did not,” was the reply. “I wouldn’t have the nerve anyway. What’s it all
mean?”

 
          
“We’re
tryin’ to find out,” the foreman explained, and told as much as they knew.

 
          
On
the boy’s face as he listened, bewilderment, suspicion and anger displayed
themselves in turn. Even Purdie, prejudiced though he was, could not doubt his
ignorance. But another aspect of the matter was rankling in the rancher’s mind.

 
          
“Why
should a writin’ from yu fetch my gal to this place?” he asked. “Yu met her
there afore?”

 
          
“Two-three
times—allus by chance,” Luce admitted, and then looked the old man squarely in
the face. “See here, Purdie, I’m ownin’ to bein’ in love with yore daughter,
an’ that’s why I couldn’t pull on yu a piece back, but if yu think there’s
anythin’ between us yo’re insultin’ her. I’d give my life to keep her from
harm, but whether she cares for me I dunno; we never had
no
love-talk. She once said, in my
hearin’,
that she
could not marry a Burdette.”

 
          
“She
told yu that?”

 
          
“No,
she said it to King; I was present. Things bein’ as they are, yu may as well
hear it all.”

 
          
He
went on to describe what had taken place at his last meeting with Nan in the
glade, and the father’s hard face grew grimmer and his fingers knotted into
fists as he heard the story.

 
          
“She
never let out a word,” he muttered.

 
          
“Why
should she?” Luce asked bitterly. “Warn’t there trouble enough a’ready between
yore family an’ mine?”

 
          
“An’
yore guess is that King has carried her off?” the foreman queried.

 
          
“Who else?” the boy retorted.
“He alone knew of our
friendship—must ‘a’
seen
us there one time, an’ he’d
have some o’ my writin’ to copy. This must be the move he was talkin’ about to
Sim.” A hot gust of rage shattered his control. “By heaven, if he hurts a hair
of her head I’ll kill him, brother though he may be.”

 
          
Chris
Purdie stood up. “Yu won’t have to,” he said, and his voice was cold,
passionless, set with resolve. “If Nan is harmed I’ll send King Burdette to
hell myself. Jim, we’ll go get the boys an’ clean up the Circle B right now.”

 
          
Luce
shook his head. In the last few moments he seemed to have sloughed his youth,
and when he spoke it was with the assurance of a man speaking to men.

 
          
“Yu
can’t do that, Purdie,” he said.

 
          
The
cattleman scowled at him. “What damn business is it o’ yores?” he asked
harshly.

 
          
“My
name has been used to get yore girl into a trap,” young Burdette replied
steadily. “I aim to get her out of it, whether yu agree or not.” The glare he
received left him unmoved. “Yo’re overlookin’ the fact that if King holds Miss
Purdie he has yu hog-tied. What’s goin’ to happen to her if yu move against
him?”

 
          
The
rancher’s flushed face paled. “
He
dasn’t harm her,” he
muttered.

 
          
“If
yu think that yu don’t know my brother,” was the grim reply. “Yu gotta remember
too that he has twenty men—trained fighters—an’ he’ll be expectin’ yu.”

 
          
“He’s
talkin’ sense, Purdie,” the foreman added. “While King has Miss Nan all the
town can’t help yu, an’ to go up there in force would be just what he’s hopin’
for. Got any plan, Luce?”

 
          
“I
know the Circle B,” the young man pointed out. “Mebbe I can find out where she
is an’ steal her away. Once she’s clear o’ King’s clutches”—he looked at the
rancher—“Yu an’ yore outfit can go ahead.”

 
          
The
old man sat thinking, chin sunk in his chest, his lined features drawn and
grey; the blow had hit him hard. One hideous fact blotted out everything
else—his daughter was at the mercy of one who laughed at the laws of God and
man, and whose reputation regarding women was of the worst. Never until this
moment had this dour frontier fighter known fear. Presently he looked up.

 
          
“If
yu can bring Nan back I’ll be willin’ to believe there can be some good even in
a Burdette,” he said.

 
          
The
boy’s eyes brightened at this grudging admission. “I’ll do it,” he replied, and
to the puncher, “By the way, I found Cal—they had him cached in the pines to
the north o’ the Circle B; they got nothin’ out of him.”

 
          
“Where
is he now?” Sudden asked.

 
          
“I
dunno,” Luce told him. “Said he had a hide-out where he’d be safe.” He smiled
wryly.