Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 06 - Sudden Gold-Seeker(1937) (17 page)

 
          
Suddenly
conscious of hands clawing at his ankles, the cowboy swung his right foot back
in a sharp kick and an agonized burst of profanity testified that the big spur
had proved effective.

 
          
But
it was a costly success, for Sudden lost his balance and went down. Some of the
assailants fell on him but the fight was not yet over. Utterly spent, with
every sinew throbbing with pain, the cowboy battled on, striking, kicking,
twisting
in a hopeless endeavour to free himself. Then
came
a dull blow on the head and—oblivion.

 
          
When
he returned to the world again it was to find the sun shining. He was lying in
a grassy glade hedged in by a thick growth of lodge-pole pines, and for a
moment he could not comprehend. Then he realized that his hands and feet were
bound; his chaps, Stetson and guns had vanished.

 
          
“They
seem to ‘a’ got me,” he muttered.

 
          
He
made an attempt to sit up and every bone in his body protested so violently
that the pain drew an oath. Immediately a man appeared, to stand regarding him
with satirical eyes through the slits of the bandana which concealed his face.
His dress was that of a miner. “So you are alive?” he said. “Well, I’m glad.

 
          
“I
ain’t exactly sorry myself,” Sudden admitted, forcing his bruised lips to a
difficult grin.

 
          
“Don’t
tell me I’m the on’y one in the hospital.” The man’s eyes hardened. “You ain’t,”
he said harshly. “I’m allowin’ you damaged most of us, an’ Lem”—he paused,
conscious of a blunder—“the fella you backheeled, has a cheek laid open an’
damn near lost an eye; kickin’ with a spur ain’t no way to fight.”

 
          
“When
six or seven men jump one in the dark anythin’ goes,” the prisoner returned
bluntly. “I’m glad I marked him, case we meet again.”

 
          
“If
you do it’ll be in hell an’ you’ll have to wait—he’s young,” was the sinister
reply.

 
          
“Age
doesn’t worry me none yet, an’ I never was scared o’ fair-haired fellas.”

 
          
“He
ain’t—” the man began, and stopped.

 
          
Sudden
laughed.
“Lem, young, dark, with a scar on his cheek—why, I
got his picture; yu needn’t tell me his other name.”
With an
unintelligible growl the fellow went away and, soon after, another appeared
with food, took the rope from the prisoner’s wrists, and watched while he ate.
This man was also masked.

 
          
“Careful
o’ yore complexions, ain’t yu?” the puncher said genially, and got no reply.

 
          
“Mind
if I roll some pills afore yu tie me up again?” Receiving a gruff assent, he
got his “makings,” and constructed a supply of cigarettes. Then, with one
between his lips and his back against a tree, he submitted to the replacing of
his bonds, and was left alone. Though he felt easier, his body was still one
big ache.

 
          
Across
the open space he could see a primitive erection of poles which provided some
sort of shelter, and around a fire in front of it, four men were lolling.
Completely closed in by the trees, with a sight only of the sky overhead, the
puncher could not guess where he was
nor
why he had
been brought there. The latter he was soon to
learn
,
for presently, the man who had spoken to him first came over and squatted
cross-legged a few yards away.

 
          
“Well,
I reckon it’s time we had a pow-pow,” he commenced. “Wonderin’ why we fetched
you here, huh?”

 
          
“I
was admirin’ the view; ye just naturally ruin it,” the prisoner replied.

 
          
“Gettin’
fresh won’t help you none, Sudden—we’ve drawed yore teeth. All we want is yore
promise to take us to Ducane’s mine.” The cowboy’s face did not betray his
surprise. So that was it? Despite the secrecy of their departure, it had been
observed, and Snowy’s previous tall talk had given their expedition importance.
This could not be Lesurge; someone else was taking a hand in the game.

 
          
“Nice
place yu got here,” he remarked pleasantly.

 
          
“Glad
you like it; yo’re liable to remain permanent unless you come across,” the
other retorted grimly. He pulled a revolver from his waist-belt. “I’m givin’
you ten seconds.” The threatened man launched a perfect smoke ring at the
levelled barrel. “Why waste time, hombre; let her rip,” he said.

 
          
For
an instant he thought the fellow would fire; he saw his grip of the butt
tighten and steeled his body against the numbing shock of a bullet. But it did
not come.

 
          
“You’ve
got nerve, Sudden,” the man admitted, as he replaced his weapon and stood up.

 
          
“Mebbe
we’ll find another way o’ persuadin’ you.” He slouched away and the prisoner
leaned back against his tree; only just in time had the kidnapper remembered
that a dead body could tell them nothing. But the prospect was not heartening—there
would be other ordeals. Telling himself that it was no good climbing hills till
you came to them, he went to sleep.

 
          
A
slight commotion in the camp awakened him some hours later. A man on a black
horse had just arrived, leading another animal on which was a woman; her hands
were tied behind and she was blindfolded. Amid deep-throated mirth, one of the
gang lifted her from the saddle and removed the handkerchief; it was Lora
Lesurge. He had but little time for speculation. The man who had threatened him
with death brought the woman to where he sat.

 
          
“Told
you we’d find another way,” he jeered. “Here’s a friend o’ yores who’ll mebbe
get you to see things different—for her sake. I’ll leave you to chew it over.”
Lora sank down wearily; she was utterly exhausted. The supercilious,
self-assured woman, serenely conscious of her charm had, for the time being,
receded,
leaving
only a frightened girl.

 
          
“God
I never was so pleased to see anyone,” she cried.
“But how
come yu to be here?”
Sudden asked.

 
          
“I
came to visit you—for Paul,” she explained. “I rode towards your claim, but
before I reached it I heard a shot from up on the hillside, and just
afterwards, a rider came out of some bushes ahead of me. Before I could utter a
sound he gripped my throat and squeezed it till I lost consciousness. I
recovered on the way here, to find myself packed like a piece of merchandise on
the back of my horse.” Incredible as the story seemed, Sudden could not but
believe it; those cruel, livid marks on the slender white neck were real
enough. He had already decided that his leggings and hat had been taken for
some purpose but it could not be this—they could not have known of the girl’s
errand.

 
          
“But
why are you here?” she questioned, and, noticing the battered condition of his
face,

 
          
“What
have they been doing to you?”

 
          
“We
had a li’l argument ‘bout my comin’,” the puncher told her, with a lopsided
grin, “but there was too many of ‘em an’ they persuaded me.” He gave a sketchy
account of his adventure, including—as an experiment—the question he had been
asked. The result was disappointing; unfeigned admiration was all he could find
in her face, and that was not what he wanted.

 
          
“Why
didn’t you promise?” she cried. “It isn’t your gold-mine.”

 
          
“Snowy
trusted me,” he said simply.

 
          
“You
could have taken them to the wrong place.” He looked at her quizzically. “Yeah,
it
don’t
matter much where a fella is buried.” She was
silent for a while, fighting to regain her self-control. Apparently she
succeeded, for when the leader of the gang approached again she faced him
boldly.

 
          
“I
suppose you know me?” she said, and when he nodded, “My brother will have a
hundred men out searching, and if you are caught you will hang, every one of
you.”

 
          
“We’re
givin’ you the shack,” he said gruffly. “Better turn in an’ git some sleep. I’ll
speak with you in the mornin’.”

 
          
“I
prefer to stay here,” she replied.

 
          
“Do
I have to carry you?” he asked.

 
          
“Good
night—Jim,” she said.

 
          
Sudden’s
disappearance caused consternation in the cabin of the gold-dealer, and Gerry’s
first job in the morning was to interview Bizet. The proprietor of the Paris
could only tell him that the puncher had left early, sober and alone.

 
          
“I
warn him to be careful,” he said. “He have made enemy, you understan’?” One or
two men remembered meeting him in the street, heading for home, and that was
all he could learn.

 
          
On
the way back from his futile quest, his plainsman’s eye noted the signs of a
scuffle near the big bush, turf torn up, stones dislodged, and, in one place, a
splash of blood. The ground behind was trodden flat and littered with cigarette
stubs. A little way off, horses had waited. Gerry swore.

 
          
“Damnation!
They laid for him,” he growled. “I oughtn’t to ‘a’ let him go alone.” He tried
to follow the hoof-prints, but soon had to give it up as hopeless. He returned
to Jacob and told him what he feared.

 
          
“He
ain’t gone willin’—the marks show that,” he concluded. “An’ he’d never leave
Nigger behind.”

 
          
“We
can only wait,” the old man said. “I’ve great faith in your friend; if he’s in
trouble, he’ll get out of it.” But two days passed and there was no news of the
missing man, and then Gerry got a shock. He was in the Paris, talking to Bizet
and Hickok, when a half-drunken miner lurched up and said sneeringly:

 
          
“Still
mournin’ that pardner o’ your’n? Well, you needn’t to worry ‘bout him. He’s
holed up somewheres handy an’ he’s the swine who’s killin’ an’ robbin’ we’uns
of our dust, one at a lick.

 
          
But
mebbe I ain’t bringin’ you news?” For a moment the cowboy did not comprehend;
then the full import of the accusation came to him, and he acted. His left fist
swung out, caught the speaker full in the mouth and sent him sprawling on the
sanded floor. When, spitting out curses and blood from badly gashed lips, he
started to rise, he found Gerry’s gun slanted on him.

 
          
“Own
yo’re a liar,” the boy gritted, his face pale with fury. The blow and the
threat sobered the miner. “Mebbe, but I’m on’y tellin’ you the common talk,” he
said sullenly.

 
          
Hickok
put a hand on Gerry’s arm. “Let him get up an’ we’ll hear what he has to say,”
he suggested.

 
          
The
man climbed to his feet. “There was a digger shot an’ cleaned out two days back
an’ a fella wearin’ leggin’s, a ‘two-gallon’ hat, ridin’ a black hoss, was seen
around just before,” he said.

 
          
“This
afternoon another is clubbed, an’ dies, but not before he’s able to say one
word, ‘Sudden.’ Them’s fac’s, mister,” he concluded triumphantly.

 
          
“My
partner is not the killer,” Gerry retorted angrily. “I know Jim.”

 
          
“You
may, but there’s a-plenty in this city as don’t, an’ if he’s catched he’ll take
the high jump, I’m tellin’ you. He wears the duds an’ rides a black.”

 
          
“Which
has been in Jacob’s corral the whole time,” the boy pointed out.

 
          
“Havin’
bin left as a blind,” suggested a bystander, and earned a look from the gunman
which sent him sidling towards the door.