Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (38 page)

 
          
For
another half-hour man and beast pursued their painful progress. Owing to the
tardy appearance of scattered stars the light was a trifle better, and through
a break in the trees Sudden could make out a huge black mass looming up ahead
of them, and guessed they had reached the end of the valley. He tried to locate
his position, and decided that he was not far from the wagon road which slashed
the face of the butte and formed the usual approach to the Circle B. But this
he dared not use—it would certainly be watched.

 
          
Picketing
his horse in a grassy grove, he began to climb the scrub-covered slope, heading
in the direction he believed the ranchhouse to
lie
. He
made good progress at first, for the rise was gentle, but it grew steeper as he
went on and soon, despite the chilly night air, he was perspiring freely.
Slipping, twisting, hauling his body up by sheer strength, scratched by thorns
and bruised by encounters with protruding rocks invisible in the gloom, he at
length reached a tiny shelf and flung himself down to rest.

 
          
“Hell,
I feel like I’d been washed an’ wrung out,” he soliloquized. “I’d give a
month’s pay for a smoke.” He had no means of discovering the hour, but
calculated that it was well past midnight. “Purdie an’ the boys should be along
soon.” He flexed his aching muscles and the resultant pain produced a grunt.
“Sittin’ here
won’t buy me nothin’
—gotta keep movin’.”

 
          
Another
short burst of strenuous endeavour brought him to a patch of stunted pine. Here
the ascent was less abrupt and the carpet of pine-needles provided easy going.
Gliding swiftly and silently from tree to tree, the puncher went upwards until
he was conscious that the incline had almost ceased; he must be nearing the
plateau on which the Circle B was built. Then a faint shaft of yellow light
shone through the foliage, apprising him that the end of his journey was at
hand. For long moments he stood motionless in the deep shadow, peering and
listening. A whiff of a familiar odour—burning tobacco—came to him; he was
facing the faint breeze, therefore the smoker must be ahead. Dropping down,
Sudden crawled slowly forward, feeling every foot of the ground in front before
making a movement—the snapping of a tiny twig might mean ruin to his hopes.
Presently he could see the fellow, a dim shape, squatting, back against a tree
and a rifle across his thighs. His complaining voice reached him:

 
          
“Damn
this job. What’s King scared of, anyways? He’s got the C P tied, an’
them
rabbits in Windy don’t have the guts to move.”

 
          
There
was no reply; evidently the sentinel was relieving his feelings by talking to
the air.

 
          
The
intruder smiled forbiddingly and continued his advance. When he was within two
yards of the unsuspecting guard he rose to his feet and drew a gun. Two silent
strides, a swift downward chop of the steel barrel, and the sentinel sagged
senseless where he sat. Sudden dragged the fellow further into the gloom,
gagged and hound him with his own neckerchief and belt, and then, keeping under
cover of the growths which skirted the edge of the plateau, made his way
towards the ranchhouse. Approaching from the side, he slipped over the rail of
the verandah and creeping along in the shadow until he was beneath the lighted
window, lifted his head cautiously and peeped in.

 
          
One
glance told him all he wanted to know; it was the living-room, and King
Burdette was there—alone. Reclining in a big chair, a bottle of spirit on the
table beside him, the Circle B man appeared to be half asleep. He had discarded
his belt, which was hanging on the back of another chair some feet away, a fact
the visitor noted with a grin of approval.

 
          
“Luck
is shore runnin’ my way,” he commented softly, and cat-footed to the front
door, where again fortune favoured him; he found it unfastened.

 
          
“Put
‘em up, Burdette!”

 
          
The
low, harsh command brought the dozing man to his senses like a dash of ice-cold
water. With unbelieving eyes he stared at the granite-hard face of the man he
hated and whose presence there he could scarcely credit. Then, as the
threatening gun-muzzle dropped an inch and he saw the thumb holding back the
hammer
relax,
he pushed his hands above his head.

 
          
“Good
for yu,” the visitor said grimly. “Yu were just one second away from hell when
yu done that.”

 
          
King
Burdette knew it was no bluff—this man would have shot him down without
hesitation; the puncher with the sardonic smile and lazy, drawling voice had
metamorphosed into a lean-faced, cold-blooded
killer,
and notwithstanding his hardihood, he felt an unaccustomed chill in the region
of his spine. With an effort he flung off the feeling and regained something of
his usual bravado. Inwardly he was cursing his men for letting the fellow pass,
and himself for being caught without his weapons. His eyes went to them, and
then to the lamp. An acid voice cautioned him.

 
          
“Yu
couldn’t make it, but”—the fell eagerness was evident—“I’d admire for yu to
try. I’m hopin’ yu will.”

 
          
Burdette,
who had tensed his muscles in readiness to thrust the table over and jump for
his guns, relaxed them again before the deadly menace of the warning. He locked
his hands behind his head and laughed.

 
          
“Nervy,
ain’t yu?” he sneered.
“An’ now—what?
Goin’ to hold me
here till one o’ my men comes in?”

 
          
“Yu
better pray hard that don’t happen—it’ll be yore death-warrant,” Sudden said.
“Seem’ I got a use for yu that’d be a pity. Stand up—slow—an’ lead the way to
Miss Purdie, an’ mind this, Burdette, if things don’t go slick, yu will.”

 
          
Footsteps
sounded outside, and Sudden slid behind the half-open door. “Send him on his
way,” he hissed, and the threatening gun backed up the order.

 
          
“Everythin’
all right, Boss?” asked a voice.

 
          
“Get
to hell outa here,” King shouted, furious at the ignominious part he was being
forced to play, and the man went away muttering.

 
          
“Come
ahead,” the visitor curtly commanded.

 
          
For
some seconds King hesitated, his subtle brain busily seeking a means of turning
the tables on the man who had trapped him. But he could see no chance; save for
old Mandy and the
prisoners,
he was alone in the
house, his brothers and the outfit being either on guard or in the bunkhouse.
Any attempt to summon them meant instant death; this grim-faced gunman who had
slain Whitey was definitely not a man to gamble with. King had courage, but to
die uselessly was no part of his programme. So he nodded suddenly and stepped
to the door, consoling himself with the thought that his men were watching
every avenue of escape. The fools might get clear of the house, and then…

 
          
Well
aware of the gun-barrel nudging his ribs, he led the way upstairs, unlocked and
threw open a door. In the dim light of the coming dawn they saw Nan Purdie,
sitting with bent shoulders on the side of the bed. At their entrance she
started up, her eyes wide with fear when she saw the Circle B owner.

 
          
“It’s
all right, Miss Purdie,” Sudden’s voice assured her. “Mister Burdette has had a
change of heart—he’s here to help yu.” His eyes narrowed when he saw her bound
wrists. “Turn her loose,” he ordered, and King, knowing that the shadow of
death was very near to him at that moment, hastened to comply. “Now we gotta
collect yore brother, Luce,” the puncher said.

 
          
King
emitted a savage snarl. “Don’t call that sneakin’, white-livered cur brother to
me,” he snapped. “Yu can have him, an’ welcome; he ain’t worth the price of a
rope.”

 
          
They
found the other prisoner in the next room, bound hand and foot. When he had
been released, Burdette turned a jeering face upon them. “What’s the next
bright move?” he asked.

 
          
“My
men has
orders to shoot first an’ inquire after.”

 
          
“Yu
better hope they don’t spot us, ‘cause if they miss yu, I shan’t,” Sudden told
him.

 
          
“We’ll
go out the back way.” He handed one of the guns to the boy. “If anythin’ breaks
loose, head for the brush an’ get Miss Nan as far from here as possible; don’t
think of nothin’ else whatever.”

 
          
A
streak of faint grey light on the eastern horizon heralded the birth of a new
day, but the valley below the Butte was still a pool of blackness. They crossed
the open space at the back of the ranchhouse safely and were about to plunge
into the undergrowth when fortune forsook them. Sudden, intent on watching
their conductor, trod on a loose stone, which, turning under his foot, flung
him violently forward. Instantly Burdette was upon him, clutching his gun arm,
and shouting lustily for his men. Sudden’s voice rang out low and vibrant.

 
          
“Get
the girl away, Luce; run like hell!”

 
          
Little
as he liked it, the boy obeyed. Gripping Nan by the wrist, he dragged her into
the brush, heedless of direction, intent only on putting distance between
themselves and their prison.

 
          
They
were only just in time, for as they panted up the slope which sheltered the
ranchhouse, they could hear a medley of yells, curses, and pounding feet as the
hands in the bunkhouse answered their employer’s call.

 
          
Meanwhile,
the man they had left behind was fighting for time as well as life; the longer
he could give the fugitives the better chance they had of evading pursuit in
the tangled scrub.

 
          
King
Burdette, furious at the failure of his plans and the humiliation the puncher
had put upon him, fought like a tiger-cat. Sudden’s unlucky slip had
handicapped him almost hopelessly, for, as he fell, Burdette had dropped upon
him, and now knelt across his prostrate body, one hand pinning down his gun,
while the other squeezed his throat. In that vice-like grip the foreman was
unable to give the promised signal. Conscious that aid was coming for the other
man and that he had only a few moments, Sudden exerted himself to the utmost in
an effort to break that murderous hold. But Burdette was a powerful man and his
mad rage doubled his strength.

 
          
Half-choked,
his starved lungs aching for air, the puncher knew he could not bear the
intolerable pressure much longer. The hate-filled eyes and snarling lips told
that the man on top knew it too.

 
          
“Got
yu this time, Mister Green; got yu good,” he panted.

 
          
Even
had he wished to, the foreman could not answer; the pain in his throat was
paralysing. With his free hand he struck feebly at his foe, wondering how much
longer his ribs would bear the terrible strain to which they were being
subjected. In an odd way his failing senses carried him back to his battle with
this man’s brother; Mart’s mighty arms were crushing him again, and in a flash
he remembered how he had escaped from that bear-hug which had so nearly proved
fatal. Suddenly ceasing to struggle, he closed his eyes, let his head fall back
and his whole body slacken. The ruse succeeded. Believing his man to be beaten,
and in dire need of a respite himself, Burdette relaxed a little of the
pressure. Instantly, digging his heels into the ground, Sudden bucked like an
outlaw pony, and Burdette, taken by surprise, had to fling out his right hand
to save himself from being thrown headlong. One deep breath of air was
all the
puncher dared allow himself, and then from his
tortured throat the one-time dreaded Apache war-cry rang out—twice. No sooner
was it uttered than King was on him again.

 
          
“Can’t
scare us with that old trick, my friend,” he jeered, and swore as the foreman’s
fist caught him full in the face.

 
          
Again
Sudden struck, blindly, hopelessly, with the primitive instinct of a cornered
animal to die biting; he knew he could not get away. Burdette’s followers were
joining in the tussle. One went down with a gasp of agony as the foreman’s heel
landed in his stomach; a second, trying to catch a jabbing fist, got caught by
it himself and retired to spit out teeth and curses; and then it seemed to
Sudden that the whole of Battle Butte had fallen upon him.