Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (43 page)

 
          
“We
gotta do it, Nig, even if we go to the edge o’ the world,” he muttered.

 
          
The
big horse pricked up its ears and settled down to the job in earnest. Not often
was he allowed to run as he liked; he would show his master, who sometimes
asked a great deal, but was never unkind, and who always saw to his, Nigger’s,
comfort before his own, what he could do.

 
          
The
great corded muscles slid easily to and fro beneath the skin, like well-oiled
pistons, driving the body forward in a tireless, leaping stride. Slowly but
surely the black was gaining ground.

 
          
The
first few miles of the trail to the Circle B ran straight along the open floor
of the valley, and the fugitive soon became aware that he was followed. One
hurried backward glance told him who it was—there could be no mistaking the
horse—and he cursed himself for an oversight.

 
          
“Why’n
hell didn’t I turn the hoss loose, or shoot it?”

 
          
He
knew why, he had had only one thought—to get away. The accusing dark eyes in
the flower-like face rose before him now, and he strove to find excuses. It was
an accident—he could not have foreseen that she would stepin front of the
puncher. But though such a plea might salve his own conscience he knew it would
carry no weight in Windy. In a land where men were hanged for even attempting
to steal a beast, this thing he had done would be dealt with in only one way; a
rope and the nearest tree would be his portion if he were taken.
For he had threatened to kill the girl.
Damn it, Sim had
been right; he had tripped over a skirt, and the crash of the fall had
shattered his nerve. He, the last of the Burdettes, was fleeing for his life
from one man.

 
          
One
man! Why not stay and shoot it out? He stole a look rearward. The black horse
was nearer now—noticeably nearer—and further back along the trail was a bigger
smother of dust in which dark spots moved swiftly. Burdette knew what this
signified, and snarled an oath.

 
          
“Hell’s
fire! If I down Green they’ll get me,” he muttered, and savagely spurred and
quirted the racing beast between his knees to a greater burst of speed. For a
moment or two the animal pluckily responded, but could not keep it up. Foot by
foot the black was drawing closer and, notwithstanding the intense heat, a
clammy wetness bedewed Burdette’s brow. His horse was nearly exhausted, while
that of his pursuer appeared to be running easily, as fresh as when it started.
Was this to be the end? Tough as was his nature, he could not repress a
shudder. He was still young, and life could be sweet. In another country, under
a new name…. But first he must deal with the relentless devil behind.

 
          
Desperately
his brain worked on the problem. A turn of the head told him that Green was now
perilously near—sufficiently so to shoot him down if he wished, while the posse
was still some distance away. But the expected shot did not come. Into the
hunted man’s eyes crept a gleam of hope. Furtively he got out his gun and
reloaded the three empty chambers, shivering a little as he recalled the reason
for his having to do so. Hell! It was
her own
fault,
he told himself savagely. Holding the weapon in front of his body, he waited,
conscious that he would soon be overtaken. What would Green do? Shoot it out,
giving him an even break?
yes
, that was the sort of
fool he was. His thin lips twisted in a scornful grimace.

 
          
The
drumming beat of the oncoming black was louder now, and his own mount was
visibly tiring. A bare twenty yards separated them. King’s haggard, dust-grimed
features hardened. They were nearing the point where the trail skirted the
broken, wooded country around the base of Battle Butte, and if he could
contrive to cripple the black or his rider he would have time to disappear
before the posse came up. There were places …

 
          
Swiftly
he slewed round in his saddle, fired twice, and stooped low over the neck of
his pony to escape an answering bullet. None came; only the hammering hoofs
grew more distinct, ringing like a death-knell in his ears. Again he flung two
shots behind him, but travelling at such a pace it was impossible to aim with
accuracy. He saw Green’s hat fly from his head and cursed in bitter disappointment;
an inch or two lower…. In a sudden spate of despairing ferocity King used his
bloodied spurs cruelly. This savage act proved his undoing; his pony, already
dying on its legs, lunged blindly, put a foot in a hollow and pitched forward.
Burdette was a fine rider, but, caught unawares in the act of turning to fire
one more chance shot, could not save himself, and was thrown headlong. In an
instant the black thunderbolt was upon them; it missed the struggling pony but
caught the man. Sudden, wrenching impotently at his reins, had a brief glimpse
of a fear-riven face, heard a shriek of agony, and then—silence.

 
          
The
posse scampered up to find the C P foreman looking down upon the huddled,
broken body of King Burdette. The pony had scrambled to its feet again and now
stood head down, with heaving sides and every limb trembling.

 
          
“So
yu got him?” one of the men said.

 
          
Sudden
shook his head. “My hoss trampled him—broke his back, I reckon. I couldn’t stop
him in time.”

 
          
“Well,
it
don’t
matter so long as he’s cashed,” another said
callously. “We heard shootin’.”

 
          
The
puncher explained, and the man’s eyes widened. “Why the blazes didn’t yu cut
down on the coyote?” he wanted to know.

 
          
“I
hadn’t figured it thataway,” was the grave reply.

 
          
A
discussion arose as to the disposal of the body. “I’m for takin’ him in to
town,” Weldon said. “He was a big man hereabout—once.”

 
          
“This’ll
be bad news for Slippery,” someone remarked. “How comes he ain’t here?”

 
          
“Said suthin’ about ridin’ to his ranch this afternoon.”

 
          
For
the marshal, listening in his office to the shooting, had purposely made a
belated appearance at “The Plaza,” arriving after the posse had departed.

 
          
“I
reckon Sam’ll want to see the last of his boss,” Weldon said grimly, little
dreaming how near he was to the literal truth.

 
          
So
it was decided. King Burdette made his last journey to Windy slung over the
back of his pony, and Sudden, pacing behind the gruesome burden, remembered
that he had brought young Purdie home in just the same fashion. And King had
bushwhacked Purdie! His mind reverted to “The Plaza,” and a gust of anger moved
him.

 
          
“He
died too easy,”
came
the bitter reflection.

 
          
THAT
evening, behind the bolted door of his quarters, the marshal and his deputy had
a lengthy conversation. The death of King Burdette was not all that Slype had
hoped for.

 
          
“That
cursed cowpunch is still blockin’ the trail; we gotta git rid o’ him,” he said.
“I guess it’s up to yu, Riley.”

 
          
“Yu
can guess again,” Riley replied unhesitatingly. “I pass. That fella’s too damn
lucky, an’ likewise, too spry with his guns.”

 
          
“Scared,
huh?” his chief sneered.

 
          
“Shore
I am,” the other admitted, adding bluntly, “An’ so are yu.”

 
          
Slype
scowled, but did not deny the imputation. “We’ll have to find some way,” he
said, and sat thinking. Presently he looked up. “Reckon I got it.
How about this?”

 
          
The
deputy smiled crookedly when he had heard the scheme. “She’s a great notion,”
he agreed. “Won’t
nobody
be able to heave rocks at yu
neither. Yu certainly have got a headpiece, Slippery.”

 
          
“I
figure it will work—for us,” the marshal said. “If it
does,
the game’s our’n. Cal’s back an’ we can make him come clean when we want.”

 
          
“Yu
ain’t forgettin’ Purdie?”

 
          
Slype
snapped his fingers. “Without Green he’ll be easy,” he replied.
“Git a-movin’.”

 
          
“The
Plaza” was closed. Because of that, and the exciting events of the day, “The
Lucky Chance” and smaller drinking-places were crowded. From one to another of
these the marshal and his deputy severally gravitated, mixing with group after
group of the customers and joining in the conversation. Naturally there was
only one topic—the day’s doings—and the opinions of Slype and his assistant
were singularly alike. Burdette was dead, and there was no harm in hanging a
halo on him. The marshal did not state it in that way, but he voiced a doubt as
to whether the Circle B boss was quite
so
blameworthy
as appeared. He put forward a somewhat altered explanation of the kidnapping
.Burdette believed he had a legitimate claim against the C

 
          
P
and was holding the girl to enforce it in order to avoid bloodshed—a laudable
object.

 
          
“Bit
high-handed o’ King, I’m willin’ to say,” Slype admitted, in the tone of one
anxious to be fair to both sides, “but that don’t justify Purdie wipin’ out the
Circle B like he done.”

 
          
The
slaying of Lu Lavigne was an obvious accident for which, according to the
marshal, Green was really responsible. He had announced that he would shoot
Burdette on sight, and naturally the menaced man, finding his enemy in “The
Plaza,” had got the drop on him. When King, half demented at having killed the
woman he worshipped Slype inwardly smirked when he used the word—rushed away,
the puncher followed, and having the better horse, caught him.

 
          
“An’
what happens?” the marshal asked, and proceeded to answer his own question
: ”

 
          
‘Stead
o’ shootin’ it out man to man as any fair-minded gent would, Green knocks him
off his busted bronc an’ lets that black brute o’ his tromp King to death.”

 
          
All of which, when backed up by liberal doses of free liquor,
sounded plausible enough, especially to the turbulent faction of the community,
to whom the spectacular lawlessness of the Black Burdettes had appealed.
There was further talk of strangers who drifted in and tried to “run the town.”
By midnight, such is the mercurial quality of public opinion, the late owner of
the Circle B was being almost regretted and the man who had beaten him
correspondingly condemned.

 
          
The
result of the marshal’s activities was evidenced early next morning when a
freckled-faced lad rode up to the C P and in a shrill treble yelled, “Hello,
the house.”

 
          
Sudden,
on his way to his employer, stopped short and surveyed the young visitor and
his aged mount with a good-natured grin.

 
          
“We
ain’t takin’ on hands for the round-up yet, son,” he remarked.

 
          
The
boy squirmed in his saddle. “I warn’t …” And then, with a rush, “Slippery sent
me up to git yu.”

 
          
The
foreman flung up his hands in mock alarm. “Don’t shoot; I’ll come quiet,” he
promised. “Middlin’ young for a deppity, ain’t yu, Timmie?”

 
          
“Aw,
quit yore joshin’,” the boy expostulated, and pulled the brim of his battered
hat as Purdie stepped from the house. “They’s holdin’
a
inquiry on King an’ Mrs. Lavigne this mornin’; I ain’t grievin’ none ‘bout him,
but” —there was a little break in the childish voice—“she was mighty kind to
me.”

 
          
“That’s
all right, sonny, we’ll be along,” the rancher told him. “Fed yet?”

 
          
“Shore
seems a while ago, seh,” Timmie confessed.