Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (37 page)

 
          
“I’m
a nasty little spitfire,” she murmured. “I take it all back.”

 
          
“Which
means we ain’t respectable,” Sudden smiled. “Ma’am, I’m thankin’ yu.” Then he
added gravely, “But this ain’t helpin’ us.”

 
          
Purdie,
who had thrown himself into a chair, glaring moodily at the ground, now looked
up. His face, grey and haggard, was set with resolve.

 
          
“I’ve
gotta sign, Jim,” he said slowly. “As Mrs. Lavigne” —it was the first time he
had used her name, and it brought the ghost of a smile to her lips—“says, he
holds the cards. It’ll mean startin’ life all over again—for everythin’ I got
is in the ranch—but sooner that than hurt should come to Nan. It won’t be the
first time I’ve been set afoot.”

 
          
For
a space no one spoke. The girl’s eyes were downcast, and the foreman appeared
to be concerned only in the construction of a cigarette.

 
          
“Shore
looks thataway, Purdie,” he said presently, “but there’s a kink in the rope
that has to be straightened out first. The C P is another card Burdette don’t
hold—yet; sign that paper an’ yu fill his hand. Who’s to guarantee he’ll keep
his word? Me, I
ain’t trustin’
him as far as I could
throw a steer.”

 
          
“How’d
yu propose to get around it?” the rancher asked dully.

 
          
“That’s
what we gotta figure out, an’ it’ll need sleepin’ on,” Sudden told him. He
turned to the messenger. “Yu can tell Burdette he’ll have his answer in the
mornin’, an’ that’s final,” he said, and opened the door leading to the
verandah.

 
          
Lu
Lavigne went without a word and the foreman followed her. Not until she was
standing beside her pony did she venture a protest.

 
          
“You
are taking a big risk,” she said.

 
          
“I’m
used to it,” he grinned. “Takin’ risks is the salt o’ life—for a man.” Then,
with apparent irrelevance, “Yu are too nice a woman to be mixed up in a mess o’
this sort.”

 
          
With
a gesture of impatience, she disdained his proffered help and swung into her saddle.

 
          
Always
this sardonic, gravely-smiling man baffled her.

 
          
“But
where’s the sense in it? At the first sign of attack on the Circle B the
girl—pays,” she urged. “You know Purdie will have to sign in the morning—there
is no other way.”

 
          
“I
reckon yo’re right—mebbe,” he agreed.

 
          
With
a little shrug of despair, she sent her pony clattering down the trail. Sudden
watched till she rounded the bend, before turning to re-enter the ranchhouse.

 
          
“I
said `mebbe,’ Mrs. Lavigne,” he smiled.

 
          
He
found Purdie hunched up at the table, gloomily fingering the document which
would take away practically all he possessed and rob him of the result of his
life’s work. This, following the loss of his son and the peril in which his
daughter was placed, had brought him, tough as he was, near to breaking-point.
But Chris Purdie had lived a life full of hard lessons and had learned to “take
his medicine” without whining. So that it was a fighting face which greeted the
foreman, grief-lined but determined, with narrowed eyes and clamped jaw, the
face of one who could be crushed but never heaten while breath was in his body.

 
          
“Well,
Jim, what’s the idea?” he asked. “I’m s’posin’ yu got one, or yu wouldn’t take
the chance o’ Burdette not waitin’.”

 
          
“He’ll
do that,” Sudden said confidently. “He figures he’s got us cinched, an’
besides, he wants Miss Purdie hisself—which is one reason why he won’t play
fair.”

 
          
The
knuckles of the rancher’s clenched hands showed white beneath the tanned skin.
“But that woman
said ”
he began.

 
          
“He’s
double-crossin’ her—she’s been persuaded that he’s on’y usin’ yore girl to get
the ranch, but Luce has told us different,” the foreman pointed out. “Signin’
that paper won’t fetch Miss Purdie back, though it might save her somethin’,”
he finished awkwardly.

 
          
The
elder man rasped out an oath. “I’d sooner see her dead than tied to that spawn
o’ the Devil.
Spill yore plan, Jim.”

 
          
“I’m
goin’ to try Luce’s trick, but in a different way. If I can’t get them…”

 
          
“Them?”
interrupted the rancher brusquely. “Yu ain’t goin’ to bother about that
Burdette fella, are yu?”

 
          
“He
went there to save yore daughter,” Sudden reminded.

 
          
The
owner of the C P was a fair-minded man, not afraid to admit when he was in the
wrong. “That’s so, Jim; sorry I forgot, but the very name o’ Burdette is pizen
to me. Yu ain’t said how yu propose to get ‘em. I don’t cotton to the notion o’
yu bein’ alone.”

 
          
“She’s
the on’y chance—the place’ll be guarded,” Sudden told him. “It’ll mean Injun
work, but I was raised amongst redskins.”

 
          
“An’
I gotta sit here doin’ nothin’?” Purdie grumbled. “Not any; yo’re goin’ to have
one busy session. Soon as I’m away, round up the boys. Tell ‘em to come, fixed
for trouble. Yu got any friends yu can trust in town?”

 
          
Purdie
nodded.

 
          
“Send
‘em word to meet yu some place, but they gotta get away without anyone knowin’,
‘specially the marshal. Yu Babe?”

 
          
The
rancher nodded again. His air of despondency had vanished and his eyes were
shining; the prospect of action was meat and drink to him.

 
          
“When
yo’re all
set, fetch the men to the Circle B an’ plant
‘em in the brush to wait for the signal, which will be a ‘Pache war-cry—twice.
That’ll mean we’re clear o’ the house an’ yu can start to clean up. I don’t
know how long it will take me, but I figure yu won’t get that signal till
around daybreak. Yu gotta hold the boys back; if they start the ruckus too
soon, there’ll be hell to pay an’ no pitch hot.”

 
          
A
grim smile flitted across the cattleman’s rugged features. “Don’t yu worry
‘bout that,” he assured. “They’ll be good; they think a heap o’ Nan, an’ damn
near as much o’ yu. Get the prisoners in the open an’ we’ll give them Battle
Butte bushwhackers somethin’ else to occupy ‘em. I’m a mite curious how yu aim
to do it?”

 
          
“Ain’t
got it worked out yet,” the foreman evaded, for he did not wish to dash
Purdie’s hopes with details of the desperate endeavour he had in mind. “Tell yu
all about it later—mebbe,” he supplemented, with his whimsical grin.

 
          
To
Bill Yago he was no more communicative, and the little man voiced his views
plainly.

 
          
“Goin’
to take another fool chance, huh?” he said. “Well, I’m admittin’ that up to now
yore luck shore has been amazin’—too damn good to last.”

 
          
“Yore
idea would be to sit back an’ let King Burdette take all the tricks, I s’pose?”
Sudden rejoined, knowing full well that he libelled his friend grossly.

 
          
“My
idea is that two heads is better’n one,” was the sage, if ungrammatical, reply.

 
          
“Yeah,
but it’s a matter o’ feet not heads,” the foreman retorted, with a sly glance
at the generous extremities of the grumbler. “Them wagons yu walk on would make
as much noise trampin’ through the brush as a herd o’ cattle. ‘Sides, the Ol’
Man wants yu, now, pronto, an’ at once.”

 
          
Yago
departed with a snort of disgust, and when he returned Sudden had set out. Bill
followed, but in a different direction, having first given orders which turned
the hunkhouse into a hive of frenzied activity. Weapons were carefully
overhauled, belts stuffed with ammunition, but only the menace of their
preparations betrayed the fact that the men were about to engage in an
enterprise which might result fatally to some of their number. Not one of them
thought of this, but beneath the light banter there was a substratum of grim
resolution. For the Circle B had stepped into the open—the abduction of Nan
Purdie tipped the balance—and the opportunity of paying for many months of
stealthy aggression and studied insult had come at last. They did not know the
whole of the story—there was no need—the rancour between the two ranches was of
long standing, and for months the outfits had but waited the word to fly at one
another’s throats.

 
          
“King
Burdette has shore got his gal,” Moody said. “Hi, yu thief, drop them shells;
I’ll want ‘em all my own self.”

 
          
Flatty
relinquished the box of cartridges of which he was about to take toll. “An’
that’s whatever,” he said pointedly. “Any hombre yu throw down on has on’y
gotta stand still to be safe.”

 
          
Moody’s
reply to this libel on his marksmanship took the form of a chunk of wet soap;
Flatty ducked sideways and got the missile in the neck, at which the thrower
chuckled gleefully.

 
          
“Why
didn’t yu stay put, fella?” he gibed.

 
          
“On’y
proves what I said,” Flatty responded, grabbing the nearest article to dry
himself
, which elicited a wail from Levens.

 
          
“That’s
my shirt yo’re usin’.”

 
          
“Well,
I don’t mind—much,” the offender told him. “Soap won’t hurt it none—time it saw
some anyways.”

 
          
“Strip
allus washes his shirt once a year, whether she needs it or not,” was Curly’s
contribution.

 
          
The
appearance of their employer put an end to the joshing. “Get a wiggle on,
boys,” he urged. “Jim may be through quicker’n he figured, an’ we gotta be on
hand when he wants us.”

 
          
A
few moments later they set out, every man of the outfit save the cook, who,
from the bunkhouse door, watched till the darkness blotted them out.

 
          
“Hell!
Rustlin’ grub ain’t
no
job for a man,” he told the
world. “Hope they bring back Miss Nan an’ hang every thief at the Circle B.”

 
          
He
dragged a chair to the door, lit a pipe and sat down, a loaded shotgun across
his knees.

 
          
For
the first time in his life he was in sole charge of the C P, and he did not
intend to be caught napping.

 
          
Something
less than a mile from Windy, Sudden swung off to the left and began the task of
finding a way through the brush and thicket-clad northern slope of the valley.
It was imperative he should not be seen, the success of his audacious attempt
depending entirely on a surprise. He had calculated that this way of approach
would take twice as long as the open trail, but he soon discovered that he had
underestimated the difficulties. The night was dark—no moon or stars in the
black void overhead—and while he was grateful for that, it did not make the
picking of a path through dense thorny undergrowth easier. Moreover, he had to
rely on his sense of direction, and as progress meant frequent twists and turns
to avoid impassable obstacles there was danger of losing his way.

 
          
“Durn
it, a’most wish I’d chanced the trail,” he muttered, as, for the twentieth time
perhaps, he found himself in a blind alley which necessitated retracing his
steps and trying again.

 
          
He
felt his horse wince and quiver beneath him, guessing the reason. “Thorn, huh?”
he said. “I feel like a blasted pincushion m’self.”

 
          
For
what seemed like hours the weary struggle went on. At long intervals they found
open spaces across which they moved swiftly only to renew the battle with the
brush on the other side. Though the need for watchfulness was constant,
Sudden’s
subconscious mind reverted to the man who was
really responsible for his being there—that quiet little citizen with the
compelling grey eyes which had twinkled when he said in all seriousness, “If yu
get into a mess, you must get out again; I can’t help yu.” Well, he was in a
mess, and whether he could get out remained to be seen.