Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (34 page)

 
          
“Yu
don’t s’pose he’d trust me, do yu?”

 
          
“Yu
done a good job,” the foreman said hearteningly, and turned to his employer.
“Better keep all this to ourselves; we don’t want anythin’ started that’ll
force King’s hand till Luce has had his chance.”

 
          
“I’ll
get her or they’ll get me,” young Burdette said firmly, and Sudden saw the
rancher regarding the boy curiously; he was evidently getting a new angle on
this member of a hated family.

 
          
Riding
back to the ranch, the foreman essayed a word of
comfort :

 
          
“No
need to worry about Miss Nan—yet; she’s King Burdette’s best bet, an’ he knows
it.

 
          
‘Sides,
Luce’ll fetch her back; he’s got sand, that boy.”

 
          
But
this rubbed a raw place. “Damnation, Jim, do yu fancy I wanta be under any
obligation to one o’ that breed?” he snapped, and relapsed into a moody
silence.

 
          
BREAKFAST
in the C P bunkhouse on the following morning was not the usual cheerful
function, for the strange disappearance of their young mistress had a
depressing effect on the riders. Though they did not know, they guessed
shrewdly, and, after the manner of their kind, yearned for action.

 
          
“What’s
come to the Old Man?” Curly said querulously. “Ain’t
them
Burdettes prodded him enough a’ready?”

 
          
“Huh!
Reckon its Green holdin’ him off,” Moody surmised.
“Odd too,
for he don’t seem the long-sufferin’ sort.”

 
          
From
the head of the table Yago grinned at the malcontents. “If yu fellas had longer
ears it’d be damned hard to tell yu from jackasses, on’y burros has more
brains,” he said pleasantly.

 
          
“Solomon
was the wisest man ever lived—up to his time,” Flatty informed the company.

 
          
“O’
course, Bill was born later.”

 
          
Yago
joined in the laugh. “Awright, yu chumps,” he returned, “Yu’ll get yore bit o’
blood-lettin’ yet.”

 
          
Later,
as he and the foreman were riding for the northern rim of the valley, he
remarked
casually :

 
          
“The
boys are spoilin’ for a scrap; they figure the Circle B has run on the rope
aplenty.”

 
          
If
he was fishing for information the attempt failed dismally; the answer he got
was a
question :
“What yu think o’ the marshal?”

 
          
“Don’t
think of him—nasty subject,” Bill grinned. “Sooner occupy my mind with
rattlers, centipedes, an’ poison toads.”

 
          
“I
reckon yu’d be right at that,” Sudden conceded. “But what part’s he playin’ in
this yer game?”

 
          
“He’s
Burdette’s dawg, to be petted or kicked at his master’s pleasure,” Yago said
contemptuously.

 
          
The
foreman’s gesture was one of disagreement. “Slype ain’t
no
dawg—not even a yaller one,” he said. “He’s a coyote, an’ a cunnin’ one. I’m
beginning to have ideas ‘bout that fella.”

 
          
“Is
that why we’re pointin’ for his place?”

 
          
“Yu’ve
ringed the bell first rattle.”

 
          
“If
yo’re wantin’ to see him
it’s
odds yu won’t; he ain’t
there much.”

 
          
“Which
is why we’re goin’,” his foreman told him, and held up a hand to enjoin silence
as a clink of iron against stone reached them.

 
          
Curious
to know who it could be, Sudden slid to the ground and stepped to the brush-fringed
rim of the ravine along the side of which they were riding. Thirty feet below,
in the bed of the gully, the man they had been speaking of was jog-trotting in
the direction of his ranch.

 
          
A
perfectly natural proceeding, but the fact that the marshal, like they
themselves, had selected a roundabout route, seemed suspicious.

 
          
“We’ll
keep an eye on that jigger,” the foreman decided. “Mebbe he’s meetin’
somebody.”

 
          
The
guess proved a good one, for after less than a mile had been covered they heard
the marshal utter a surly, “Howdy.”

 
          
Promptly
they dismounted, dropped the reins, and crawled to the edge of the ravine.

 
          
Squatting
cross-legged on the ground, a cigarette drooping from his thin
lips,
was the Mexican half-breed, Ramon. The marshal descended
from his saddle, tied his mount, and sat down facing the man who had evidently
been awaiting him.

 
          
“What’s
yore notion, draggin’ me out here?” he growled.
“Too lazy to
ride in huh?”

 
          
“Walls
have ears, senor,” Ramon replied. “What I weesh to say is ver’ private, yu
sabe?”

 
          
Slype
pulled out a black cigar, lit up, and said tersely, “Shoot.”

 
          
The
Mexican appeared to be in no hurry; his dark, cunning eyes were studying the
diminutive, hunched form of the man before him. Apparently the scrutiny
pleased, for a sly smile flickered across his face.

 
          
“Yu
know California, ze miner, he vanish, senor?” he began.

 
          
The
marshal glared at him. “Yeah, an’ George Washington’s dead they tell me,” he
said with savage sarcasm. “Yu bin asleep the last two-three weeks?”

 
          
Ramon
was unperturbed. “Yu know where he
go
?” he went on.

 
          
“King
Burdette collared him an’ somebody snaked him away,” Slype retorted; and with a
sneer, “P’raps yu can tell me where he is?”

 
          
Ramon
shook his head; he was a little surprised to find that some of his news was not
news, but he replied confidently enough, “I don’t know—yet, but I shall. Yu
know King Burdette have keednap Miss Purdie, huh?”

 
          
This
time he scored a bull; the marshal sat up with a jolt, staring unbelievingly.
His informant nodded.

 
          
“It
ees true; she is at ze Circle B now,” he said.

 
          
“Hell’s
bells!” the marshal exploded. “What does King expect to git by that?”

 
          
“He
get
ze girl, ze C P ranch, an’ mebbe ze gol’-mine California
deescover,” Ramon pointed out.

 
          
“
There’s
Purdie an’ his outfit to be reckoned with first,”
Slype argued.

 
          
“King
holds ze girl,” the other said softly, with an expression which gave the words
an ugly significance.

 
          
The
marshal sat silent, brooding over the astounding information. He recognized
that by this daring move Burdette had made himself master of the situation;
with Nan in his power he could dictate what terms he chose, and his crew of
cut-throats was strong enough to protect him.

 
          
The
owner of the two big ranches would practically rule the town, and he, Slype,
would remain the nonentity he had always been. The sudden crumbling of his own
cherished scheme brought a bitter curse to his lips. The Mexican watched him
narrowly, a little smile of satisfaction on his sinister features; this was a
man he could mould, evil, but lacking the usual dominant quality of the
“Gringo.”

 
          
“King
Burdette play ze beeg game, but Meester Slype
play
a
beeger one, huh?” he asked slyly.

 
          
“What
the hell yu drivin’ at?” the marshal snapped.

 
          
“I
tell one leetle story,” Ramon replied. “Once I see two mountain lion fight over
ze carcase of a deer. It was one great battle, senor, an’ when it was feenish
both ze lion was dead. Si, zey
keel
each other, yu
sabe. An’
zen
a coyote sleenk outa ze brush, where he
been watchin’, an’ he get ze meat.”

 
          
The
little parable produced an almost audible chuckle from the unsuspected
listeners on the rock-rim above.

 
          
“Take
a peep at what Slippery calls his face,” whispered Yago. “I’m damned if he
don’t look like a coyote, an’ a poor specimen at that.”

 
          
In
fact, the officer’s snarling lips and savage little eyes were sufficiently
animal-like to justify the companion.

 
          
“Yu
tryin’ to be funny?” he growled. “Talk straight, yu yeller dawg.”

 
          
The
Mexican raised his shoulders. “I t’ink I make it ver’ plain,” he said quietly,
though his eyes had gleamed wickedly at the epithet. “Ze Circle B an’ ze C P
are ze lion an’”

 
          
“I’m
the coyote, huh?” rasped the marshal. “Yu dirty”

 
          
Ramon
lifted a hand, palm outward. “Merely a—how yu say—feeger of speech, senor,” he
explained. “Now, in my leetle story, ze coyote did not keel Ol’ Man Burdette.”

 
          
He
saw the start of surprise, the flash of fear in his listener’s eyes, and
exulted inwardly; the chance shot had gone home. He coolly continued, “An’ make
out it was ze work of ze C P. Yu know why King shoot Kit Purdie an’ try to peen
ze deed on his brother Luce, senor?”

 
          
With
an effort the marshal got control of himself. “I dunno nothin’ ahout it,” he
said sullenly.

 
          
“Luce
in hees way,” Ramon resumed. “I t’ink King
deescover
Nan Purdie look kindly at hees brother an’ he want her heemself. Almos’ yu help
heem when yu nearly hang Luce for bushwhackin’ Green; Mart do that. Shall I
tell yu who keel heem too?”

 
          
The
marshal shivered; this fleering devil with the soft purring voice had him in
his power; he, a white man, was at the mercy of a “Greaser”—his own paid hand.
Mingled with his fear was a cold rage which was growing steadily stronger.

 
          
“Yu
seem to know a hell of a lot,” was all he could find to say.

 
          
“I
make it my beesness to know—everyt’ing,” Ramon replied. He leant forward and
the taunt vanished from his tone. “I put my cards on ze table, senor; ze game
is too beeg for one man, but wit’ me, yu can win.”

 
          
Slype’s
crafty eyes narrowed. “An’ yore price?” he asked, and folded his arms.

 
          
“We
split ze profit two ways—feefty-feefty,” the Mexican said.
“My
share to include—Nan Purdie.”

 
          
For
a long moment the marshal sat silent, and then suddenly his arms fell apart, a
gun in the right hand spat viciously—once; Ramon fell back with a bullet
through his chest. Shaking with passion, the assassin scrambled to his feet and
bent over his victim, who, twisting in agony on the
sand,
was making feeble efforts to reach his own weapon. Then he fired again, and the
Mexican’s body shuddered and was still.

 
          
“Know
every’ting, huh?” the marshal mimicked. “One ‘ting yu didn’t savvy anyways, an’
that was when to keep yore mouth shut.”

 
          
With
trembling fingers he untied his horse, flung himself into the saddle, and with
never a backward glance, galloped up the gorge. The shots might have been
heard, and though the slaying of a Mexican was no great matter, he had no wish
to be seen in the vicinity. The deed itself caused him little uneasiness; his
explanation that the fellow had threatened him would be accepted. Upon the two
spectators of the drama, the killing had come like a clap of thunder. As the
marshal fled, Yago’s hand went to his pistol, but his foreman stopped him.