Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 06 - Sudden Gold-Seeker(1937) (31 page)

don’t
—love me?” she asked, and her voice had
lost its softness.

 
          
Sudden
shook his head. “Yo’re mighty beautiful,
but ..
”

 
          
“You
would rather lose your life than share it with me,” she finished furiously. “Very
well; die, and be damned, you fool.” She almost ran from the shack and slammed
the door. He heard her give a curt order to Fagan, who came in and inspected
his bonds. Then silence. The cowboy breathed a sigh of relief.

 
          
“Wild
Bill shorely gave me good advice,” he muttered. “Wonder how much she was meanin’?”
He smiled grimly. “Her husband won’t find married life monotonous, I’m thinkin’.

 
          
Guess
I’d better be going; Paul may decide there’s no need to wait.” He worked on the
fastening round his wrists and presently slipped it off. Then he picked up the
lantern—which had been left—and examined the back of his prison. At the moment
when the crunching tread of Fagan’s feet sounded farthest away, he drove his
heel at what appeared to be a weak spot. The log splintered and broke,
fortunately with no great noise, and another thrust produced a gap through
which he could squeeze. Stooping low, he crawled along the side of the ravine,
moving swiftly but soundlessly from one patch of shadow to the next. He was
stepping from behind a bush almost on the verge of the camp when a bulky figure
butted into him. Instantly he had it by the throat, and the surprise of the
attack brought the fellow down.

 
          
“A
yelp from yu’Il be yore last,” Sudden whispered fiercely, and drove the warning
home by digging fingers of steel into his victim’s windpipe. Finding there was
no resistance, he relaxed his grip a little. “Yu can name yoreself,” he said, “But
—whisper.” The half-throttled man was in poor shape to do more. “I’m Miller,”
he gasped. “Was comin’ to—turn you loose.
Got yore guns—in my
belt.”
Sudden was not in a trustful mood. With one hand he searched for
and found his weapons; not until then did he remove his knees from the
prostrate miner’s chest and allow him to get up. Husky rubbed his throbbing
throat.

 
          
“You
got one hell of a grip, Green,” he said, and, realizing that some sort of an
explanation was due, went on, “I don’t like thisyer crowd—never did, an’ when
you told of Hank’s little game it finished me—I lost a good pal that way. So I
figured I’d help you slide out an’ go along, if you’ll have me.”

 
          
“Shorely,”
Sudden replied. “Sorry I rough-housed yu but I couldn’t take a risk.
Any idea where my hoss is?”

 
          
“Clear
o’ camp with mine,” Miller told him. “I tried to saddle both of ‘em, but your’n
nearly took the head off’n my shoulders. He’s a beauty though. I don’t savvy
horses much, but I’d sooner trust a good ‘
un
than most
o’ the men I’ve met, an’ when Lesurge ordered him to be shot, I got his
measure.” If Husky meant to ingratiate himself with the cowboy he could have
chosen no better way, but he was sincere, and
Sudden—
a
competent judge of men despite his youth—knew it. The miner’s creed was a
simple one; if he believed a man deserved to die he would kill without
compunction, but he would not lie, steal, or betray a friend.

 
          
Through
the velvet blackness of the night they made their way to where the horses were
picketed. Nigger greeted his master with a low whinny of pleasure, and a few
moments later they were lost in the gloom of the brush. Husky asked a question.

 
          
“I’ve
got friends handy,” was the answer.

 
          
“I’m
durn
glad to hear it,” the miner said. “I clean forgot
‘bout grub. Gosh, I’d like to see them fellers’s faces in the mornin’.”

 
          
When
Lora left the shack she was frantic with the rage and shame of a slighted
woman, but by the time she reached the camp her virulent passion had passed,
leaving only a dull despair.

 
          
Paul
was sitting alone by the fire. He waited for her to speak.

 
          
“That
man is made of chilled steel,” she said.

 
          
“The
coldest steel will yield to sufficient heat,” was his comment.

 
          
“How
wonderful,” she sneered. “I threw my arms round his neck and offered him life
and my love. He—refused.” Paul glared at her. “You did—that?” he cried.

 
          
“Certainly.
You see to what lengths I go in your service.”

 
          
“Are
you sure it was on my account?”

 
          
“At
one moment I was not,” she confessed coolly. “But now I am—quite sure.”

 
          
“Since
he won’t toe the line, he must die. When people cease to be of use to me, I get
rid of them.”

 
          
“Is
that a hint?” she asked caustically.

 
          
“Possibly,”
he snapped. “Don’t overplay your hand, Lora.”

 
          
“Because
if it is, I’d better prove I can still be useful,” she went on. “Silencing
Green won’t help you; it would be more to the purpose if he led you to the
mine.” His gesture of impatience amused her. “Every prisoner dreams of escape.
Where would Green go if he got away? To the mine, of course, where Mason—who
would not come with us, though they are inseparable—is doubtless awaiting him.”
Paul’s eyes gleamed. “By God, you’re right; let him go and set hounds on his
trail. I might have thought of that.”

 
          
“Your
mind is so fully occupied, my dear Paul,” she said.

 
          
If
he detected the sarcasm he ignored it. “Your story to Green is that I’m determined
to kill him but you cannot bear it. Cut his bonds and tell him you’ve got Fagan
out of the way. I’ll have three men ready to follow him, and I’ll take damned
good care he doesn’t get his own horse.” He hurried away to do his part and the
woman retraced her steps to the shack. The savage resentment towards the
condemned man had gone and she was now doing what she could to save him. Once
clear of the camp, she argued, it should be simple for a trained woodsman who
knew he was being pursued, to trick men unused to following a trail. Outside
the shack the stocky form of Fagan confronted her.

 
          
“Back
again huh?” he jeered.
“Thought you’d wished him good-bye a’ready.”

 
          
“Open
the door, and shut your foul mouth,” she said.

 
          
The
man obeyed and started back with an oath. “Hell’s flames, he’s gone!”

 
          
“Impossible!”
she cried.

 
          
Thrusting
him aside, she looked in. The lantern was there, still alight, but no prisoner;
the hole in the wall at the back explained why. Her first feeling was one of
elation—he had escaped, and then came a black thought—help had come from
another. And, knowing it would, he had rejected her advances, no doubt laughing
to himself, despising her … Paul’s harsh voice, speaking to Fagan, recalled her
to reason.

 
          
“Escaped?
How, you dolt?”

 
          
“Ask
her,” the man replied, pointing to Lora. “She’s the only one what’s been near
him.

 
          
She
must ‘a’
cut ”
The woman whirled on him. “What did I
tell you to do when I came out?”

 
          
“Done
forgot
that,” Fagan stammered. “You said to make shore
he was tied tight, an’ I did.” He darted into the shack, picked up the rope,
and stared at it. “Ain’t cut a-tall,” he cried “an’ the
knots
is
just how we fixed ‘em.”

 
          
“Then
you fixed them damned carelessly,” Lesurge told him. Hank came running up.

 
          
“Husky’s
hoss an’ the black
is
missin’,” he announced. “Mebbe
the miner—”

 
          
“Talk
sense,” Paul interjected. “Miller would have used a knife and that hole has
been made from the inside.” A desire to vent his anger possessed him. “He’s
beaten the lot of you,” he said, with a scathing look at his followers. “If I
had six such men instead of you weaklings I’d conquer the world.” The taunt
penetrated even their thick skins and produced a chorus of muttered curses, but
no one ventured an excuse. Baleful looks followed Lesurge and his sister as
they returned to their own camp.

 
          
“The
girl must tell all she knows or the old man suffers,” Paul said vindictively. “I’ll
win—whatever the price.”

 
          
Early
on the ensuing morning, Mary and Lesurge were seated on an outcrop of rock near
the camp, watching the fiery crimson splendour of the sun as it emerged from
behind a distant range of hills. All traces of the tempest which had torn the
man’s self-control to shreds had gone; only the veiled passion in his gaze as
it rested on her slim young body betrayed the fire within.

 
          
“The
escape of the cowboy is serious,” he began. “Really?” she asked. “Of course,
you did not mean to—hurt him.”

 
          
“I
should have kept my word,” he replied. “My dear, you do not fully comprehend.
That man is an outlaw with a price on his head; his life is already forfeit. He
is a cold-blooded killer, capable of any crime to compass his end—the stealing
of our—your gold.” Jo, “He might have robbed the coach,” she objected.

 
          
“Green
was after bigger game,” Paul lied. “He’s what you Westerners call a ‘hawg’.”
She smiled at that but soon her face was grave again. “I never wanted wealth—much,”
she said reflectively. “And now I have seen what dreadful deeds men will do to
get it …”

 
          
“One
has to live.”

 
          
“Even though others die?”

 
          
“The
inevitable law of Nature, from the tiniest insect upwards,” he told her. “Mary,
I want you to have
every happiness
that gold can give,
but apart from that, I cannot let these bandits rob you; it would be my fault, due
to my well-meant but stupid blunder.” She laid a hand impulsively on his. “I
will not have you blame yourself,” she said. “Everything you did was for me.”
She flushed and added softly, “I hope that one day I can repay you.” Her words
sent the hot blood of desire racing through his veins and he bent his head lest
she should see the naked lust which leaped to life in his eyes. Triumph surged
in him; he had won—so far.

 
          
“My
dear, you mean all to me,” he said tenderly, “but I shall never be content
until I have checkmated those rogues and repaired the damage I have done. You
must help me to find the mine, Mary.” The girl was silent, considering. Snowy
was an impostor, the secret her own and she had a right to part with it. In a
low voice she told him: “This spot was spoken of and the cabin. You must follow
the stream back to a strip of pines. A great granite finger which sways,
overshadows the mine; the letter called it the Rocking Stone.” Paul’s eyes
glistened. “If you’d only told me sooner,” he said reproachfully.

 
          
“I
promised not to,” she replied. “I was given what seemed to be a good reason.”
With all his adroitness, he had hard work to hide his feelings. To have been
baulked and nearly outwitted by a tool he had meant to use and throw aside made
him writhe with rage. He promised himself that Snowy should pay—presently.

 
          
“Well,
never mind, we can win yet,” he smiled. “Come, Berg should have breakfast
ready, and I’ll own to being hungry.” His good humour persisted when they
returned to camp, and Lora—remembering his black mood but a few hours before—was
scornfully amused.
Snowy came sidling up, uncertain of his
reception.
Mary discerned his discomfort and took her own way to end it.

 
          
“Morning,
Uncle Phil,” she said.