Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) (7 page)

 
          
The
visitor’s jaw hardened. “Here’s somethin’ yu oughts to know,” he said, and went
on to relate the scene he had witnessed in “The Lucky Chance” the previous
evening. The cattleman nodded gloomily.

 
          
“Yu’ll
be buyin’ into trouble aplenty,” he said. “I dunno as it’s fair to ask yu.
Them
Burdettes is the toughest proposition. For about a year
past there’s been doin’s–bank robberies, stage hold-ups, cattle-stealin’s,
within a radius of a hundred miles, an’ that gang on Battle Butte is suspected.
They’s a hard lot—half of ‘em ain’t cowmen a-tall, just gun-fighters, an’
there’s twice the number necessary to handle their herds. I sent a writing to
Governor Bleke—rode the range with him when we was both kids tellin’ him how
things was an’ that the Burdettes was a plain menace, but I s’pose he’s a busy
man; I ain’t had no reply.”

 
          
“I
reckon mebbe I’m it,” Sudden smiled, and went on to tell of the happenings in
Juniper, omitting, however, the name his gun-play had earned for him.

 
          
The
cattleman’s face shone; his hand came out to grip that of his guest. “I’m
damned glad to meet yu, Green?” he said heartily. “Yu got any plan?”

 
          
“I’m
takin’ the job yu offered, Purdie,” he said. “But I gotta play ‘possum,
remember; I’m just an ordinary cowpunch who has pulled his picket-pin an’ is
rovin’ round, sabe?” Purdie nodded, and Sudden added irrelevantly, “I don’t
believe that fella Luce did the killin’.”

 
          
“His
own brothers didn’t deny it,” the old man pointed out.

 
          
“That’s
so, an’ I can’t quite savvy it,” Sudden admitted.
“Allasame,
Luce struck me as bein’ straight.”

 
          
The
rancher was about to reply when his daughter appeared. Seeing the stranger, she
would have retired again, but her father called her.

 
          
“Meet
Mister Green, Nan,” he said. “He’s goin’ to be foreman here.”

 
          
She
shook hands, a kindness in her eyes for which he could not account. Her words
explained it, or at least he thought so.

 
          
“I
have to thank you for—what you did,” she said.

 
          
The
new foreman fidgeted with his feet; he would rather have faced a man with a gun
than this dewy-eyed, grateful girl.

 
          
“It
don’t
need mentionin’,” he stammered.

 
          
“Green’s
goin’ to help us find the slinkin’ cur that did it, Nan,” Purdie put in
harshly :
and to the puncher, “Well, Jim, fetch yore
war-bags along an’ start in soon’s yu like; it’ll be a relief to know yo’re on
the job.”

 
          
“I’ll
be on hand in the mornin’,” the puncher promised. They watched until a grove of
trees hid him from view, and then the rancher asked a question.

 
          
“I
like him,” Nan replied. “But isn’t it taking a chance? We know nothing about
him.”

 
          
“Mebbe
it is, but I’m playin’ a hunch,” her father told her. “That fella ain’t
no
common cowpunch. He’s young, but he’s had experience, an’
them
guns o’ his ain’t noways new. I’m bettin’ he’ll
make them Burdette killers think.”

 
          
Just
at the moment, however, it was the other way about, for the new foreman’s brain
was busy with the burden he had so promptly undertaken. He had no illusion as
to the nature of his task; he had been hired to fight the Burdette family, and,
judging by the samples he had seen, and the information he had gained regarding
their outfit, he was likely to have his hands full. A thin smile wreathed his
lips; the little man in Juniper had not over-stated the case.

 
          
Absorbed
in his thoughts, he was pacing slowly through a miniature forest when a little
cry aroused him, and he looked up to see a woman running along the trail ahead
of him. Fifty yards in front of her a saddled pony was trotting. A touch of the
spur sent Nigger rocketing past the pedestrian and in a few moments Sudden was
back again, his rope round the runaway’s neck.

 
          
He
found the woman sitting on a fallen tree-trunk. She was young—about his own
age, he estimated—and her oval face—the skin faintly tanned by the sun—black
hair and eyes, made her good to look upon. A neat riding costume displayed her
perfect figure to advantage. He noted that her cheeks were but slightly flushed
and her breathing betrayed no sign of haste.

 
          
“Gracias,
senor,” she greeted in a low, sweet voice. “I descend to
peek
ze flower an’ my ponce vamos.”

 
          
The
puncher grinned, twitched his loop from the animal’s neck and flung the reins
to the ground.

 
          
“If
yu’d done that he’d ‘a’ stayed put,” he exclaimed. Her eyes widened. “So?” she
said.

 
          
“The
senor weel see zat I am w’at is call a sore-foot, yes?”

 
          
Sudden
laughed and said. “The word is `tenderfoot.’ ” His gaze travelled to her trim
high boots. “Yu’ve shore got a pretty one,” he added.

 
          
The
lady dimpled deliciously, and lifting her feet from the ground, inspected their
shapeliness critically.

 
          
“You
like heem?” she asked archly.

 
          
“I
like heem,” the puncher repeated. “I like heem both. Now, s’pose we drop the
baby-talk an’ speak natural; yu ain’t no Greaser.”

 
          
The
girl’s eyes danced. “So young, and yet—so wise,” she bantered.

 
          
“My
second name is Solomon,” he told her gravely. “Mebbe yu’ve heard of him?”

 
          
“Oh
yes, he was the first Mormon, I believe,” she smiled. “I hope you…”

 
          
Sudden
shook his head emphatically. “Not one,” he said.

 
          
“Why,
of course not, at your age,” she replied, and then, as he bent down from the
saddle to study the sleek black head—from which she had now removed the
hat—more closely, her feminine fears were aroused. “What is the matter?” she
cried.

 
          
“I’m
lookin’ for the grey hairs,” he said solemnly. “They seem to be plenty absent.”

 
          
“Dios!
But you scared me,” she said, in real or pretended
relief. “I thought that you had found some, or that a rattlesnake was looking
over my shoulder. You are rather a disconcerting person, Mister Green.”

 
          
“Yu
know me?” the puncher queried.

 
          
“Of
course,” she smiled. “Your arrival created quite a sensation.” Her voice
sobered.

 
          
“That
poor Mister
Purdie,
and Kit was such a nice boy. Now,
can you guess who I am?”

 
          
“No
need to guess—yu must be Mrs. Lavigne,” Sudden replied. “Someone was tellin’ me
about yu.”

 
          
“Nothing
bad, I hope?” she asked anxiously.

 
          
“No,
it was a man,” the puncher grinned. “He said yu were restful to the sight.”

 
          
She
laughed delightedly. “So you might venture to come and see me at `The Plaza,’ ”
she suggested. “That is, if you are staying in Windy.”

 
          
“I’m
goin’ to ride for Purdie,” he told her.

 
          
The
news struck the merriment from her face. She hesitated as though about to
speak, and then put on her hat, settling it with a deft touch, stood up, grasped
the reins of her pony and was in the saddle before he could dismount to help
her.

 
          
“I’m
goin’ to town too,” he suggested.

 
          
She
shook her head. “No, no, my friend, but—you may come to see me,” she smiled.

 
          
Ere
he could remonstrate, the pony was racing along the trail. At the first bend,
its rider turned in the saddle, waved gaily, and vanished, leaving the puncher
pondering. Why had she changed when he told her he was to ride for the C P? The
answer was not hard to find—he would be opposed to King Burdette, and King
Burdette was what—to her? He patted the satiny neck of the black horse, which,
in colour and sheen, matched the hair of the girl who had just left him.

 
          
“I’m
bettin’ she stampeded that pony,” he said reflectively. “Nig, this yer neck o’
the woods is a heap more dangerous than the governor man let on. The
matrimonial noose is harder to dodge than a ha’r rope, an’ we ain’t got
no
time for foolishness. There’s a tangle here to straighten
out, an’ then …”

 
          
The
furrow between his eyebrows came into evidence as his thoughts went to the
quest which had sent him—a mere boy—prowling the country like a lone wolf.
Years had been spent on it, and more were to pass ere its fulfillment, which
has been told in another place.

 
          
**

 
          
The
Circle B ranch was a bachelor establishment. Old Man Burdette had lost his wife
many years before he met his own untimely end, and the housekeeping and
upbringing of the boys had devolved upon Mandy, a
negress
who had served the family nearly all her life.

 
          
The
ranchhouse was a pretentious one for the time and place. Two-storeyed, built of
trimmed logs chinked with clay, it occupied a bench about half-way up the face
of Battle Butte, and was reached by a rough, winding wagon-road from the
valley. At the back of the building, the brush and tree-clad ground rose
steeply. It was not an ideal location, and Old Burdette never forgave himself
for not having a look at the other end of the valley. It was not until Purdie
arrived and settled on Old Stormy that the first corner realized he had
blundered, and this was the beginning of the ill-feeling between the families.

 
          
On
the morning after the burial, Luce entered the big living-room and found his
eldest brother awaiting him.

 
          
“What
is it, King?” he asked. “Sim said yu wanted me.”

 
          
The
other nodded, and after a short pause, snapped out, “How come yu to shoot
Purdie?”

 
          
The Range Robbers, Geo. Newnes, Ltd.

 
          
“I
didn’t,” was the quiet reply.

 
          
King
grinned unpleasantly. “That tale’s all very well for town, Luce,” he said.
“Here yu needn’t be afeared to tell the truth.”

 
          
“Which
is what I’m doin’,” the boy retorted, a shade of heat in his tone.

 
          
“Shucks,
we ain’t blamin’ yu,” his brother shrugged. “It was a damn good riddance, an’
if of Purdie goes on the prod it gives us an excuse to show the C P where it
gets off; we’ve owed ‘em that ever since they downed Dad—an’ before.”

 
          
“It
was never proved they did; an’, anyways, the fella who shot Kit was a cowardly
cur,”

 
          
Luce
protested warmly. “Yu get this straight,
King :
if it
was the work of a Burdette I’m ashamed o’ bein’ one, an’ I’m through with ‘em.”

 
          
The
older man’s face grew dark with rage. “Takin’ that tone, huh?” he sneered.
“Well, let me tell yu–” He stopped, a sudden cunning in the fierce eyes. “All
right, take yore truck an’ clear out—the Burdettes is through with yu; we don’t
want traitors here,” he finished savagely.