Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (41 page)

 
          
On
the threshold of the room into which Sudden had been thrown he paused in
bewilderment. Then he saw the thongs lying on the floor and snatched them up.
One look told him they had been cut, and he guessed the truth.

 
          
“That
black bitch has turned him loose,” he stormed. “I’ll…”

 
          
Mad
with rage and disappointment, he sprang down the stairs in search of the
Negress, only to find that she too had gone. For a few moments he went berserk,
kicking the kitchen furniture to kindling wood and smashing everything within
reach; had he laid hands on Mandy then he would have killed her. His violence
served its purpose; the fit passed, and he began to remember that if he was
beaten now, to-morrow was another day. He had control of himself again when he
re-entered the big room. Looking round, he saw that eight men only were left on
their legs, and of these, two had slight wounds. With hard, reckless,
smoke-grimed faces they waited for their leader’s orders. They knew they were
fighting a losing battle. To approach the windows meant death or disablement,
for the lynx-eyed marksmen in the brush allowed no movement to escape their
attention.

 
          
“Green’s
gone, boys, an’ the
jig’s
up,” King said curtly. “No
sense in stayin’ here to be wiped out. We can beat it up the Butte—there’s
hosses in the corral at the top an’ some cattle we can take along. They needn’t
know we’ve vamoosed till we’re well on our way, an’ I guess they won’t follow. Anybody
got other ideas?”

 
          
“Reckon
yo’re right, King,” one of them said. “We lose this time, but we can allus come
back.”

 
          
“Yo’re
shoutin’, Dandy,” Burdette said darkly. “I aim to come back; don’t doubt it.”

 
          
Their
preparations did not take long, and soon, one by one, they crossed the cleared
space at the rear of the ranchhouse and disappeared in the undergrowth. King
was the last to leave, his set face showing no sign of the raging fire which
burned within him.

 
          
The
shots from the slope became less frequent and presently ceased altogether when
the attackers realized that no response was coming from the battered building.
Silence ensued for a time, and then Strip Levens, who had been creeping nearer
and nearer, suddenly made a dash for the verandah. One look confirmed what he
had suspected.

 
          
“Come
ahead, fellas,” he yelled. “They’ve skedaddled.”

 
          
The
place presented a picture of death and destruction. Glass had disappeared from
the windows and the frames hung in fragments. The walls of the living-room were
scored and pitted by bullets, and on the floor were the huddled, twisted forms
of the fallen. Yago counted them.

 
          
“Five,
includin’
Sim,
an’ the two outside who dropped at the
first rattle,” he said.
“Must be some more upstairs.”

 
          
There
were four, and one of them, a craggy-faced fellow of over forty, stirred as
Yago bent over him and regarded the C P man maliciously.

 
          
“Too
late, ol’-timer,” he said.

 
          
“Where’s
King an’ the rest?” yago asked.

 
          
“Half-way
to Windy by now,” the man lied loyally. “Half-way to hell,” Bill retorted.

 
          
“Same—thing,”
the fellow gasped. His head fell back and his lower jaw dropped in what
appeared to be a ghastly grin at his last grim joke.

 
          
Yago
straightened the body out. “Yu had yore own notions o’ livin’, hombre, but yu
shore knowed how to die,” was his comment.

 
          
He
joined Purdie and the foreman in front of the ranchhouse and made his report.
“Seven or eight, of ‘em musta got away,” he concluded. “Hey, boss, look who’s
comin’.”

 
          
His
excited cry was drowned in a whoop of delight from other members of the outfit
as their young mistress came running across the plateau to fling herself into
her father’s arms. She was followed by Luce, and Mandy, whom they had found
sitting stolidly where Sudden had left her.

 
          
“Gosh,
girl, but it’s good to have yu back, safe an’ sound,” Purdie
said,
when he had heard her story. “As for yu, Jim, I’ll never be able to pay what I
owe yu. If I’d ‘a’ knowed yu was goin’ to hold up that thievin’ devil
single-handed …”

 
          
“Shucks!
Forget it, Purdie,” the foreman smiled.

 
          
“Not
while I got breath in my body,” the rancher returned warmly. His eyes went to
Luce.

 
          
“I
never thought the day would come when I’d thank a Burdette for anythin’, but I
guess I gotta,” he added, slowly putting out a hand.

 
          
From
the shelter of her father’s shoulder Nan laughed shyly. “Hurts your pride,
daddy mine, doesn’t it?” she whispered. “But it need not—Luce is no more a
Burdette than you are.”

 
          
“What
do yu mean, girl?” he asked.

 
          
Nan
told the news, and Mandy, with many nods, confirmed it. Purdie looked at Luce
again, and saw what blind prejudice had prevented him from recognizing before:
this redheaded, open-faced boy, who did not in any way resemble the Black
Burdettes, could not have treacherously slain his son. Chris Purdie was a white
man; his hand came out readily enough now.

 
          
“I’m
right glad, Luce,” he said simply, and meant it. “I’ve had some hard thoughts
about yu, but I’m hopin’ yu’ll forget it.”

 
          
The
boy gripped the extended hand. “That’s done a’ready,” he said. “The way things
looked, I couldn’t blame yu.”

 
          
Purdie
gazed round. “Seems I gotta thank Mandy too,” he went on. “An’ that of scamp,
Cal, an’ all the boys. Reckon I’ll have to sell the C P to meet my obligations.”

 
          
He
grinned hugely; the recovery of his daughter and the paying of an old score had
put him in great good humour. “I’m bettin’ we’ve seen the last o’ King
Burdette.”

 
          
“Yu’d
lose, Purdie,” Sudden said quietly.

 
          
A
little later, Yago called the foreman aside. “Thought yu’d like to know I found
a .38
rifle
an’ fodder cached in a cupboard in King’s
bedroom,” he said. “Sorta bears out Ramon’s story, don’t it?”

 
          
“Shore
does,” Sudden agreed. “
Don’t tell nobody
else; we got
trouble enough ahead without gettin’ Purdie on the rampage again.”

 
          
“What
d’yu reckon
King’ll come back for?” yago asked.

 
          
“To
do yu a good turn, Bill,” Sudden said, and smiled at his friend’s puzzled
expression.

 
          
“Yeah,
he’s goin’ to try an’ make yu foreman o’ the C P.”

 
          
The
little man understood, and his comment was vivid.

 
          
SAM
SLYPE sat in his office, teeth clamped on a black cigar, brows knitted in
thought. It was a blazing afternoon and the street outside was deserted. Two
days had passed since the fight at Battle Butte and the excitement had to some
extent died down. Save to the more lawless element, the crushing of the Circle
B had brought satisfaction—Windy had long resented the arrogance and domination
of the Burdettes and their riders. The marshal’s own position had been
delicate, but he flattered himself that he had adopted the right attitude.
While, in deference to his office, he deprecated Purdie’s appeal to force, he
was careful to also make it clear that, in abducting the girl, King had placed
himself outside the pale.

 
          
He
smiled sourly as he remembered that these sentiments had met with general
approval as being those of a fair-minded man who held a public position. But
the marshal was by no means satisfied. The Burdettes were shattered, and this
he had longed and schemed for, but Green remained. For he both hated and feared
this capable young man who, drifting casually into the town, had at once began
to make his presence felt. When, following an overheard remark, he had trailed
the attackers to the Circle
B,
it had been in the hope
of a furtive shot which would pass unnoticed. It might have been King, Green,
or Purdie; it chanced to be Sim, who died because he was a Burdette, and, as
the slayer had argued, his death would infallibly bring about that of the C P
foreman. It was this disappointment over which he was brooding.

 
          
“Cuss
the crooked luck,” he muttered aloud.

 
          
“Conscience
troublin’ yu, Slippery?” asked a cool, amused voice.

 
          
It
was King Burdette, and the marshal was aware of an inner icy chill which nearly
stopped the beating of his heart. So absorbed had he been in his meditations
that he had not heard the door open. Before his bulging eyes pale phantoms of
the Burdettes he had so foully murdered seemed to stand beside this one and
gibber at him. One thought obsessed him—had King learned the truth? He was
smiling, but he was of the type who smiled as they strike.

 
          
“Anybody’d
think yu weren’t pleased to see me,” the visitor went on, leaning lazily
against the closed door.

 
          
The
marshal collected his scattered wits. “I was thinkin’ o’ yu right when yu
walked in, King,” he stammered.

 
          
“Grievin’,
huh? The town don’t appear to be mournin’
none
.”

 
          
“
Yore friends is
sorry.”

 
          
“But
bein’ in the minority an’ wise men—as my friends would be—they’re doin’ the
Br’er Rabbit act an’ layin’ low; oughtn’t to blame ‘em for that, I s’pose. What
action yu takin’, Sam?”

 
          
The
unexpected question gave the officer a nasty jar. “Me?” he cried, and his
amazement was real enough. “What can I do?”

 
          
Burdette
surveyed him with very evident disgust. “Yo’re the marshal,” he reminded. “See
here, Purdie rounds up an army—there was townsfolk in it—shoots me up, killin’
eleven o’ my men an’ damagin’ my property.
Yu goin’ to tell
me that’s accordin’ to law?”

 
          
“Yu
stole his gal, King,” Slype protested.

 
          
“Stole
nothin’—she come of her own free will,”
came
the easy
lie. “When it got out, we pretended she was a prisoner to save her good name. I
sent word to Purdie that I’d marry her an’ end the trouble between the two
families. Yu know what his answer was.”

 
          
“Sounds
fair to me, King, but her tale don’t tally.”

 
          
“O’
course not; did yu think it would?”

 
          
The
marshal had not thought so; he knew the story was an invention to hit Purdie
through his daughter, but that did not concern him. What he wanted to know was
why Burdette had come to him, for the pretext of appealing to the law did not
deceive him for an instant; he knew the Burdette nature better than that.
Summoning his nerve, he put the question.

 
          
“I
want justice,” King told him sternly, and Slype’s face turned to a sickly
yellow. It was coming now; this savage devil would shoot him down without mercy
unless … Fear was driving him to snatch at his own gun in sheer desperation
when the visitor spoke again. “Purdie must make
good
the damage he an’ his men have done.”

 
          
The
marshal’s suspended breath expelled itself in a gasp of relief, and, satisfied
that his hide was not in danger, his cunning brain got busy. He could not
fathom Burdette’s attitude, but an inspiration came to him.