Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 06 - Sudden Gold-Seeker(1937) (23 page)

 
          
Presently
the obscuring clouds slid aside and the pale light of the moon enabled them to
get a glimpse of the grandeur through which they were passing.

 
          
The
cowboys, riding easily, were not concerned with the scenery; their eyes were on
the bobbing backs of the pair in front and the jerking, bumping blob which was
the coach, less than fifty yards ahead. They had met no one save two teamsters
with a load of lumber, a few miles out of Deadwood. Sudden had stopped for a
moment.

 
          
“Ain’t
seed a soul ‘cept a party o’ four fellas, headed for Laramie,” one of them told
him.

 
          
“No,
I didn’t reckernize any of ‘em, but one was a short, chunky sort o’ chap.”

 
          
“Which
might describe friend Fagan,” Sudden commented, when they had resumed their
way.

 
          
“Lesurge
wouldn’t send a man knowed to be his,” Gerry objected.

 
          
“Why
not, if there’s nobody left to spill the beans? He’s figurin’ we’re on his
side.”

 
          
“Any
use warnin’ them two on the coach?”

 
          
“What
can we tell ‘em?—we’ve on’y got suspicions. They’re watchin’ for trouble a’ready—that’s
their job.” At the foot of a long gradual slant, the sides of which were masked
by dense brush, the driver pulled his team to a steady job-trot, and cursed
fretfully:

 
          
“Blast
this moon; makes fair targets of us.”

 
          
“What
you scared of?” the messenger asked, shifting his shotgun so that it lay
handily across his thighs.

 
          
“Ain’t
scared o’ nothin’,” Injun Joe snapped, “but I don’t like the trip, an’ I’d be a
damn sight more pleased if them hombres behind was ridin’ the other way.”

 
          
“Pull
up an’ make ‘em ride in front,” the messenger suggested.

 
          
Before
the other could reply, two spits of flame jetted from the shadows on either
side of the trail and the leading horses went down, checking the coach with a
jerk which almost overturned it. With a full-throated curse, the driver slammed
his brake on, and the iron-shod wheels squealed like tortured souls; it was his
last conscious act. A couple of sharp cracks and Injun Joe slipped limply to
the footboard, while the express-man leaned forward to pitch headlong to the
ground, his gun dropping beside him. An instant later, Sudden’s Colt roared and
the fellow with the scarred face gasped and fell from his saddle. His
companion, with a blasphemous imprecation, spurred his mount and crashed into
the undergrowth. The puncher sent a bullet after him.

 
          
“Hell,
Jim, them jaspers are s’posed to be helpin’ us,” Gerry cried.

 
          
“Didn’t
yu see?” Sudden asked savagely. “Those skunks downed Joe an’ the messenger, an’
they’d ‘a’ got us if we’d been ahead. C’mon.” Stooping in his saddle, he dashed
for the coach, and Gerry followed. On the right and left pistols exploded in
the brush and bullets whined past their ears.

 
          
Just
as they approached the conveyance, a tall man on foot appeared, running towards
it from the front. Sudden fired, and the fellow staggered, spun round, and
collapsed in an untidy heap.

 
          
“‘Then
there were four’,” the cowboy quoted grimly. Anchored by the braked coach and
the carcasses of the leaders, the other horses had overcome their frenzied fear
and now stood, trembling, but comparatively quiet. Sudden had his plan ready.

 
          
“Shuck
the harness off’n them dead broncs an’ put our’n in their places,” he directed.
“I’ll stand these devils off if they try to rush us.” But the roadagents had
apparently no such intention. Satisfied that the vehicle could not be moved,
they were content to stay under cover and pot the cowboys at their ease. A
friendly cloud had blanketed the moon and with his back to the dark blur of the
coach, Sudden made a poor mark; also it was difficult for the hold-ups to see
what Gerry was about. One glance told that young man the messenger was dead—a
bullet had gone through the back of his head. Injun Joe was still breathing,
and, with Sudden’s help, he was placed inside the coach, room being found too
for the body of the guard.

 
          
Spasmodic
shots interrupted these operations; lead zipped past or thudded into the
woodwork, but neither man was hit. Sudden replied, firing at the flashes, and a
string of oaths told him that one of his bullets had found a billet. By the
time the moon peeped out again, the new leaders were in position; the big black
was restive and disposed to be rebellious but a word from his master brought
submission.

 
          
A
yell apprised them that the enemy had at length guessed their purpose, and the
hum of hot lead drove the warning home. Not even waiting to return the fire,
Sudden sprang to the driver’s seat and grabbed the lines. In a second Gerry was
beside him, the long lash hissed like a snake over the horses’ heads, and the
coach started with a jolt which nearly upset it as the near wheels climbed the
corpses of the slain leaders.

 
          
A
howl of rage came from the roadagents as they broke from cover and saw their
prey escaping, and a few futile shots followed. The sharp crack of Sudden’s
whip was the only answer.

 
          
“There
was four of ‘
em,
an’ one was limpin’,” Gerry reported.
“Think they’ll follow?”

 
          
“Shore,
they got horses, ain’t they?” was the reply.
“Yore rifle
handy?”

 
          
“Yu
betcha,” Gerry told him. “Got the messenger’s shotgun too an’ she looks a dandy
scatterer.”

 
          
“Yu’ll
have to do the shootin’—it’ll take me all my time to keep this damned
contraption right way up.” The thud of rounding hoofs sounded above the bang
and rattle of the bouncing vehicle. Sudden did not look round; his gaze was
glued to the dim trail he was trying to follow.

 
          
“They’re
a comin’. Kneel on the seat but be ready to grab; it wouldn’t do for yu to be
shook off.”

 
          
“
I’m believin’
yu,” Gerry said, and meant it. The front
wheels of the coach sprang into the air and bumped down, the back wheels
following suit. Gerry clutched wildly and just saved himself. “Hell!
what
was that?” he gasped.

 
          
“I
guess we went over a log— didn’t see her in time,” the driver explained.

 
          
“Lucky
I had my mouth shut or I’d ‘a’ lost my livers an’ lights,” Gerry grinned. “I
shore thought we’d gone over the edge. Damn her, she’s as lively as a young
flea. Steady a bit, Jim, if yu can.” A group of madly racing riders rounded a
bend in the trail and yelped when they saw their quarry. Mason, his elbows
resting on the roof of the coach, fired four shots and swore when he saw that
he had palpably missed. Working the lever like a madman, he emptied the weapon
and at last had the satisfaction of seeing a horse drop, but his whoop of
triumph was cut short, for the rider got up and followed his friends on foot.

 
          
The
pursuers were now within twenty yards and discarding his rifle, Gerry snatched
up the shotgun and let them have both barrels. The result was devastating—for
the assailants. One of them fell forward on his horse’s neck, leaning sideways,
and was flung, a lifeless lump, to the ground. Another’s mount stumbled and
went down, the rider leaping to save himself from being crushed under the
animal’s body. The remaining horseman reined in and contented himself with
ineffective shots at the vanishing vehicle.

 
          
“Reckon
they’ve had a bellyful,” Gerry exulted, as he rammed cartridges into the
magazine of his Winchester. “There’s three left, one of ‘em crippled, an’ they
on’y got two ponies.”

 
          
“Good
work,” Sudden said. “When we get a piece along we’ll take a peek at Joe.”

 
          
Proceeding
with a little more regard for safety, they pressed on, and presently, when a
faint light began to spread behind the eastern summits, Sudden dragged his team
to a stop wherethe trail crossed a shallow creek. A rumble of picturesque
metaphor informed them that Injun Joe was anything but dead. In fact, when they
opened the door of the coach, he heaved himself
up,
pistol levelled, and almost fell into their arms.

 
          
“Damn
yore rotten hides,” he said thickly. “I’ll …”

 
          
“Steady,
ol’-timer,” Sudden said, clutching the wavering weapon. “Yo’re barkin’ up the
wrong tree.” In a few words he set out the situation and the stagedriver’s
belligerent expression faded.

 
          
“Sorry,
boys,” he apologized. “So they got pore of Fuzzy, Satan singe their souls! When
I come to an’ saw his remainders bumpin’ about beside me I figured we was goin’
to our funerals an’ wondered why the hearse-driver was in such a hell of a
hurry. I bin yellin’ at you for near an hour.”

 
          
“This
jerky ain’t
none
silent,” Sudden told him. “Where yu
hurt?”

 
          
“Guess
my shoulder’s busted,” Joe replied.

 
          
And
so it proved. With the rough surgery of the range they bathed and bandaged the
injury, and left the patient reclining on a bank while they watered and rubbed
down the team.

 
          
When
all was ready for a resumption of the journey, Joe vehemently declined to
travel inside.

 
          
“Which
ridin’ with a ruddy corpse ain’t my idea o’ enjoyment,” was how he put it. “Prop
me up atween you on the box; mebbe I c’n help, seein’ I know the road.” Since
he would hear of nothing else, they had to give in, and having fixed him as
comfortably as possible, Sudden cracked his whip and sent the coach splashing
through the creek.

 
          
Watching
the stage, with its coveted cargo, disappear in the
distance,
Hank and Fagan were constrained to call down curses on the men who had
frustrated their hopes. Rodd, leaning against a tree to rest his damaged limb,
eyed them sourly. “What’s the use cussin’?” he said.

 
          
“They’ve
went. Come an’ see to this damn leg—I’m bleedin’ like a stuck hawg.”

 
          
“Which
is the on’y way you could bleed,” Hank retorted. Nevertheless, they bound a
handkerchief round the calf of his left leg, which a bullet had perforated.
Then, having made sure that the fourth man was
dead,
they searched his pockets, callously flung the body into the brush, and took
the back trail, one horse carrying two of them. At the scene of the hold-up, a
welcome surprise awaited them—Lem was sitting by the roadside; the slug which
they thought had killed him having merely cut a shallow groove along one side
of his skull, “creased” him, in fact.

 
          
“Where’s
the coach?” was his first question.

 
          
They
all told him, each ornamenting the story to his taste. The scarred face showed
that he did not believe them.

 
          
“Five
o’ you let two get away with it?” he sneered. “I ain’t swallerin’ that.”

 
          
“True,
anyways, take it or leave it,” Fagan replied. “Then yu must ‘a’ made a Gawd-a’mighty
mess of it.”

 
          
“We
did, huh?” the squat man snarled. “What the hell did you do?”

 
          
“I
got the messenger an’ Hank drilled the driver,” Lem reminded. “After that, it
should ‘a’ bin easy. Paul won’t be pleased.”

 
          
“He
warn’t goin’ to be, anyway,” Rodd said meaningly. “But if we’d pulled it off
that wouldn’t ‘a’
mattered
. It’s his fault we failed—sendin’
them other two.”