Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 04 - Sudden Outlawed(1934) (4 page)

 
          
“Sudden!”

 
          
The
crudely printed bill offered a reward of five hundred dollars for the
apprehension of one “Sudden,” wanted for robbery and murder. A description was
given: “young, dark hair and moustache, grey-blue eyes, dressed as a cowboy,
wears two guns, and rides a black horse with a white blaze on face and white
stocking on off fore-leg.” The notice bore the name of the sheriff of Fourways.

 
          
For
a moment the young man stared at it in blank amazement, and then, as the full
significance came home, anger surged within him. Not only was he to be hounded
down for a crime of which he knew nothing, but he had been given a name which
would follow him wherever he went. In a word, he was outlawed; the hand of
everyman would be against him, and he was liable to be shot like a mad dog.
Impulsively he made a gesture to tear away the placard.

 
          
“I
wouldn’t,” a warning voice said. “If yo’re honin’ for one as a sooveneer
there’s others in less prominent places; the town is fair spotted with ‘em.”

 
          
He
turned and found the speaker at his elbow, a tall, spare fellow in the
thirties, with a lean, angular face, close-set eyes, and thin lips wearing a
smile intended to be friendly but which only succeeded in being malicious.

 
          
“If
yore hoss tallies, that description would fit yu pretty good,” the stranger
went on.

 
          
Jim’s
jaw hardened. “If yu had a black hoss an’ moustache yu might qualify yore own
self,” he retorted.

 
          
“But
I don’t have neither o’ them things,” the other grinned. “Both of ‘em can be
got rid of,” Jim pointed out. “See here, I’ll match a dollar with yu to settle
which of us takes the other in an’ claims the cash.”

 
          
The
stranger laughed outright. “
yo’re
a cool card,” he
said. “No, sir, they might glom on to the pair of us. I got a better
proposition. I know a fella who’d be glad to meet yu.”

 
          
“If
he’s wearin’ a star …”

 
          
“He
ain’t, an’ he’s got no use for them as do,” the unknown replied. “Hook up with
him an’ yu needn’t let that”—he spat contemptuously at the notice—“scare yu.”

 
          
“Did
I mention I was scared?” Jim asked frostily. “Allasame, I ain’t huntin’
trouble.”

 
          
The
man nodded. “Ever hear o’ Rogue’s Riders?” he asked. Jim had. Under the
leadership of a man named Roger, but more generally known as “Rogue,” they were
perhaps the most notorious of the bands of desperadoes who raided and robbed
over a wide area of south-west Texas.

 
          
“Pleased
to meet yu, Mister Roger,” he said dryly.

 
          
“Oh,
I ain’t Rogue,” the stranger laughed. “He’s the fella I was speakin’ of, an’ I
can fetch yu to him.”

 
          
“Much
obliged, but I figure I can take care o’ li’l Mister Me,” the cowboy grinned.

 
          
“Well,
she’s a free country. If yu should find yoreself crowded, head west till yu come
to the Split Rock—yu can’t mistake her—foller the left trail an’ yu’ll be
looked after.
Sabe?”

 
          
Jim
nodded his thanks and turned away in the direction of the livery stable. Though
he had displayed indifference to the man who had warned him, he had no illusions
regarding the danger of his position and knew that he must get away from San
Antonio without delay. At any moment he might be linked up with that damning
description. The gaze of the man he had left followed him for a moment, a sneer
of chagrin on his slit of a mouth.

 
          
“Can
take care o’ yoreself, huh? Well, that wouldn’t surprise me.” he muttered. `But
when the deck is stacked, my friend….” He lifted his shoulders. “Rogue wants
yu, an’ a fella as won’t be persuaded must be
drove
.”

 
          
Striding
down the street, he pushed open the door of one of the smaller saloons and
peeped in. Apparently what he saw satisfied him.
for
he entered. It was a mere dive, dark, dirty, and ill-kept. Three men sitting at
a battered table with empty glasses before them, and the Mexican lolling behind
the bar, comprised the company. The newcomer called for a drink and remarked
aloud, with seeming irrelevance:

 
          
“Shore
is a sorry sight.”

 
          
One
of the
trio
at the table, a craggy-faced fellow with
greedy little eyes, looked up hopefully. “Yu said it, friend,” he grunted. “But
when gents is down to bed-rock
. .

 
          
The
stranger laughed. “Oh, that’s soon remedied,” he said, and signed to the
bartender.

 
          
While
the glasses were being replenished he studied the thirsty ones with an appraising
expression of disdain. He did not know them, but he knew their kind. Though
they were drinking to him now, he was well aware that they would rob him if
opportunity offered.

 
          
“Yu
got me wrong,” he explained. “What I was referrin’ to was the sight o’ five
hundred wheels gettin’ ready to ride outa this town, to say nothin’ of a fine
black hoss with a white blaze, an’ a saddle the present owner shouldn’t have
much further use for.”

 
          
Craggy
Face looked up. “Yu tellin’ us that jasper Sudden is around?” he asked.

 
          
“Just
that,” the other returned. “Saw him readin’ the bill outside the Buckhorn; he
was mighty interested too, an’ then he streaks for Juan’s livery stable. What
do yu guess?”

 
          
“If
yo’re shore, why didn’t you hold him up an’” Craggy Face began.

 
          
“Collect
the mazuma, huh?” the stranger finished. “Well, for one thing, he knows me, an’
there’s another reason to that why I can’t take any part in the affair.”

 
          
He
stressed the last six words and the listeners smirked understandingly; he was
wanted himself, this hombre, and the chance of gaining five hundred dollars
would not offset the likely loss of his liberty. Craggy Face again was the
spokesman:

 
          
“Amounts
to this: we take all the risk, an’.”

 
          
“All
the reward—I don’t want none of it,” he was told. “I disremember if that notice
said `dead or alive.’ ”

 
          
“It
did not, an’ I’m bettin’ that Fourways fella ain’t buyin’ corpses.”

 
          
Craggy
Face emptied his glass and stood up, the other two following suit. Their
informant added a word:

 
          
“I
guess he’ll take the western trail.”

 
          
The
ruffians nodded and went out. The stranger waited to absorb another drink and
then did likewise, keeping well behind. Presently he saw the man he had
betrayed jog-trotting listlessly along the street, heading—as he had surmised—for
the western exit from the town.

 
          
Callous
as he was, he could not but admire the young fellow’s nerve.

 
          
“He’s
the right stuff, shore as shootin’,” he soliloquized. “Kind o’ hombre Rogue can
use. If
them
rats ain’t weakened, they gotta do it
here; he’ll be in the open soon.”

 
          
As
the black horse approached, he slid round the corner of a shack, from whence he
could watch unobserved. Save that his hat was slouched over his
face,
the wanted rider appeared to be indifferent to his
danger. But beneath the brim, his keen eyes scanned each passer-by, alert for
the least sign of undue interest in himself, every sense taut and ready for
action. So that he was not taken by surprise when three men, strolling
aimlessly along the board sidewalk, abruptly swerved into the road in front of
him, pulled their guns, and shouted:

 
          
“Han’s up, Sudden!”

 
          
Jim
did not hesitate—made no attempt to parley. The revelation of his identity—an
astute move on the part of his attackers—would bring them immediate aid.
Dropping the reins—already knotted for just such an emergency—over the
saddle-horn, his hands went up, but with a gun in each. As they rose he fired
both weapons, once, and his opponents on the right and left went down.
Then, with a pressure of his knees.
Jim jumped Nigger full
at the man in the middle Craggy Face. With an oath of dismay, the fellow saw
the black thunderbolt hurling itself upon him and tried to leap aside. He
nearly succeeded, but the massive shoulder caught and drove him into the dust.

 
          
The
whole affair had occupied but a few seconds, and by the time the almost
petrified pedestrians had realized the facts, the fugitive was two hundred
yards away. Ineffectual shots were fired and then he was no more than a
diminishing dot on the trail. The man behind the shack smiled felinely and did
not join the group round the discomfited reward-hunters.

 
          
For
some miles Jim rode hard, without looking back. When at length he did so he saw
no sign of pursuit and eased his mount. He reloaded his pistols, thrust them
back into the holsters, and swore with savage anger at the thought of the price
he had had to pay for his freedom. This second exploit had put him definitely
outside the pale of the law. Despite the sparse population, the story of it
would travel quickly in a land where topics for conversation were few and news
of any kind eagerly retailed.

 
          
Head
hanging, he puzzled over the problem of what to do. Southern Texas was closed
to him—entering any settlement would probably result in having to shoot his way
out of it, thus only adding to his unwanted reputation. The nearest border was
hundreds of miles distant and he was without supplies. The dull beat of
hammering hooves apprised him that he had been careless.

 
          
Turning,
he.
saw
a compact group of about a dozen riders
pounding across the plain. San Antonio was not minded to let a noted desperado
escape without making an effort.

 
          
The
posse was less than half a mile behind and the members of it were doubtless
congratulating themselves upon an easy capture when they saw the black horse
quicken its stride and begin to draw away. Spurring and quirting their mounts
they decreased the gap again, several pulling out their rifles and firing in
the hope of a lucky shot. The cowboy felt the wind of a bullet on his cheek,
others zipped through the grass beneath the flying feet of his horse, and a
cold fury flamed in him.

 
          
“That’s
a game two can play at,” he grated.

 
          
Dropping
the reins, he drew his rifle from the sheath under the fender, twisted round in
the saddle and flung four shots at the bunched-up party of pursuers. Two of the
ponies went down, throwing their riders heavily, a man reeled, clutched at the
air, and pitched sideways to the ground. The posse, disorganized by this
disaster, pulled up, and the quarry, with a wave of defiance, vanished over a
fold in the surface of the plain. His own kind had made him an outlaw, had
hunted and fired on him as though he were a dangerous animal. Well, he would accept
the verdict.

 
          
“Nothin’
else for it, Nig,” he told his horse. “We gotta find Mister Rogue; he’s our
best bet.”

 
          
It
was a small salve to his conscience to reflect that among the desperate class
of men he was now being driven to mix with, he was more likely to find those of
whom
he was in search.

 
          
From
the top of a slight rise he looked for the posse, but it was not in sight.

 
          
“Kind
o’ lost their enthusiasm, mebbe,” he said grimly, and rode on.

 
          
Gradually
the character of the country changed, the open plain being broken by small,
flat-topped mesas, shallow gullies, and occasional miniature forests of
post-oak and mesquite, the latter sometimes of tree size. He halted at last
before a great chunk of rock, with a curious V-shaped crack dividing it as from
a giant axe-blow. The main trail—wagon-rutted here turned sharply to the north,
but westward there were hoofprints leading down into what appeared to be a
welter of canyons.