Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 07 - Sudden Rides Again(1938) (22 page)

 
          
He
spent the rest of the day loafing about the town, watching, listening, but he
learned nothing until the evening when, returning to the saloon, a whisper came
to him out of the gloom.

 
          
“A
bad man is here. If he falls foul of you, remember that his right hand is the
dangerous one.”

 
          
The
voice was Anita’s, and he realized that he was passing the place where she
lived. But he could see no one, and with a word of thanks, he went on. The
caution could only refer to Butch.

 
          
He
entered the saloon from the rear, and in the seclusion of his room, examined
his guns, reloading them with fresh cartridges from his belt, and spinning the
cylinders; his life might depend on their being in perfect order. He did not
want to kill this man, and if possible, he would avoid the encounter,
but ..

 
          
The
bar was well patronized, most of those present being men. The few exceptions
were of the type common in the cattle-towns, brazen, loud-voiced, gaudily
attired creatures
who
had followed hunted men into
hiding, or had been driven into it by their own misdeeds. The atmosphere was
hazy with tobacco smoke and reeked of liquor and kerosene.

 
          
With
his back against the bar, Sudden surveyed the scene with apparent indifference,
but his eyes were alert. Most of the faces were unfamiliar, but in one corner,
Scar and his cronies were playing poker. He could see no one likely to be the
man he was expecting.

 
          
“Business
‘pears to be boomin’,” he remarked to the proprietor.
“Any
particular reason?”

 
          
At
that moment, a half-tipsy reveller raised his glass and shouted, “Here’s to the
Double K.”

 
          
The
toast produced a burst of raucous laughter, and a cry of “Don’t forget the Twin
Diamond.”

 
          
“There’s
yore answer,” Dirk replied. “The Chief pays prompt.”

 
          
Nevertheless,
the cowboy had a conviction that this did not explain things; an air of
expectancy, frequent furtive glances at the door and
himself
,
suggested that the crowd had not come solely to spend ill-gotten gains. The
saloon-keeper’s wife called her husband from the exit leading to the rear of
the premises. When he returned he said: “There’s a fella at the back askin’ for
you.”

 
          
Sudden
went out, but not too hurriedly, for it might be a trap. He found young Holt,
alone, and bursting with his news.

 
          
“Bin
lookin’ for you all over,” he began. “They aim to git you tonight in there—a
gunman named Butch has
come
a-purpose. Muley got drunk
this afternoon an’ he’s bin tellin’ everybody to come to yore funeral.”

 
          
“I’m
thankin’ yu,” Sudden said. “But what can I do?”

 
          
“Keep
out’n his way,” Holt said eagerly. “
you
can hide—”

 
          
The
grim smile stopped him. “Never look for trouble, son,” the puncher replied,
“but when it’s lookin’ for yu there’s on’y one thing to do—stand up an’ face
it.”

 
          
“But
you ain’t got a chance—they say he never misses,” the lad urged.

 
          
“The best of ‘em is liable to slip up once, an’ that’s aplenty.
It was right kind o’ yu to come.”

 
          
“You
stood up for me,” Holt muttered, and, as he turned to go, “I hope you git him.”

 
          
“I
hope I don’t have to,” Sudden replied gravely. Returning to the saloon, he declined
to have his glass replenished, contenting himself with a cigar. He had no more
than lighted it when the buzz of conversation abruptly ceased as a
black-coated, stooping figure flung back the swing-door and walked slowly to
the bar. The effect of his entry upon the company told that this was the man
for whom they were waiting.

 
          
Sudden
absorbed every detail as he advanced; the poor physique and malevolent features
interested him not at all, but the one gun, slung on the left hip, did. It
suggested a left-handed marksman, but the woman had warned him against the
right. Moreover, the butt of the weapon was turned back instead of forward, as
would have been the case had the wearer intended to use the other hand. He had
seen gunmen who did that, but it was an awkward method. Then his eyes hardened
and his teeth shut like a vice; he had solved the problem.

 
          
Meanwhile
Butch had reached the bar and called for drink. He poured himself a modest
dose, tossed it down his throat, and turned his half-shrouded, reptilian eyes
upon the lounging form of his quarry, a few yards distant.

 
          
“What
you think o’ this liquor?” he asked.

 
          
“Pretty
good,” was the quiet answer.

 
          
“I
say it’s damned bad,” Butch snarled.
“So now what?”

 
          
“Matter
o’ taste, I s’pose,” the cowboy said. “Anyways, I ain’t sellin’ it.”

 
          
A
sinister silence ensued; gamblers ceased their games, and men forgot to drink
as they watched a duel which they knew could end only in one way. The mild
snub, however, had produced a snigger which died swiftly when Butch glared
towards the spot from whence it came. Then he turned his rancorous gaze on the
man he had undertaken to destroy.

 
          
“One
o’ them funny fellas, huh?” he sneered. “You carry a couple o’ guns, too, I
see.”

 
          
“Yore
sight ain’t deceivin’ yu.”

 
          
There
were professional gunmen who had to flog themselves into a fury to arrive at
the point of killing; others simulated anger with the object of flurrying an
opponent into a false move. Butch belonged to neither class; he slew with the
cold deliberation of one pursuing his trade, and the inoffensive demeanour of
his victim aroused in him merely a feeling of contempt. Sudden knew that a
clash was inevitable but he would do nothing to provoke it.

 
          
“I’ve
put ten
hombres
outa business an’ eight of ‘em toted a
pair o’ sixes,” Butch announced loudly. “I allus call a two-gun bluff.” His
frowning stare fastened upon the puncher.

 
          
“Shuck
yore belt an’ git down on yore knees, you son-of-a—” he barked.

 
          
The
insult was deadly, and every eye in the room turned on the
man
at whom it had been hurled, still leaning easily against the bar. Breathlessly
they waited for him to speak.
Tense seconds, pregnant with
menace, ticked by, and then the lolling figure slowly straightened, as though
to obey the shameful command.

 
          
“Gawd,
he’s goin’ to take it,” whispered a card-player.

 
          
The
neighbour to whom he spoke shook his head; the narrowed, ice-cold eyes were not
those of a quitter.

 
          
“Yu
can go plumb to hell,” the puncher said contemptuously.

 
          
Another
silence, for the killer, too, had not expected defiance. Then he rasped, “I’m
sendin’ you on ahead.”

 
          
Vicious
face thrust forward, shoulders hunched, his left hand moved in the direction of
his holster, but not swiftly. Sudden’s right, fingers outspread,
was
dropping over his gun-butt when the other’s right hand
flashed upwards to his arm-pit, whipped a second weapon from beneath the black
coat, and fired.

 
          
A
woman’s scream was followed by a gasp of amazement from the spectators. They
had heard but one report, yet it was Butch who lurched blindly, gave at the
knees, and slumped heavily to the floor. One spasmodic attempt to raise the
pistol still gripped in his nerveless fingers, and that was the end. Then they
noticed that blue smoke was wisping from the cowboy’s left hip, and that there
was a red streak along one cheek. Sudden gave a glance at the man he had been
compelled to kill, sheathed his revolver, and wiped the warm smear from his
smarting face.

 
          
“It
ain’t but a scratch,” he said, when the saloon-keeper offered to tend it. “That
was a cute move, goin’ for the other gun; it mighty near fooled me.”

 
          
Morbid
curiosity brought the crowd pushing and jostling one another to get a glimpse
of the dead man. Among them was Scar, who thrust a way through, took one look,
and with a malicious leer at the cowboy, said: “I reckon the Chief’ll want to
hear o’ this.”

 
          
“Yu
needn’t to worry, Roden,” Sudden said quietly. “I’ll carry the news myself.”

 
          
“Since
when do we take orders from you?” the fellow scowled.

 
          
“From
now on,” the puncher retorted.

 
          
“I’ll
see you in—”

 
          
He
was given no time to finish. Sudden took a long stride, gripped his throat,
shook him till his head rocked on his shoulders, and flung him away so forcibly
that a table he collided with collapsed utterly. Lying amongst the fragments,
he looked up into a blood-stained face, the fierce eyes in which conveyed a
plain message. Scar read it, and having no desire to die, forgot that he had a
gun.

 
          
“No
ideas?” the cowboy gibed. “Yo’re shorely wise.” He faced the evil throng.
“Listen: the Chief has put me in charge—after hisself. Any one o’ yu who ain’t
satisfied can speak up now, an’ leave Hell City by sunrise.”

 
          
Deliberately
turning his back, he stepped to the bar. He knew that if they chose to call his
bluff he could be overwhelmed in a few minutes, but he was gambling on their
fear of Satan, and now, of himself. Violence was the only argument they
understood, and his prompt and savage scotching of Scar’s incipient mutiny
would impress them more than anything else. No one spoke until that worthy
arose from the debris of the table, and with a poor effort at a grin, said:
“You win, Sudden; I’m stayin’ put. What the Chief
sez
,
goes, for all of us, I guess; if he’s give you Butch’s job, there ain’t no more
to say.”

 
          
The
others appeared to accept this decision, and the cowboy nodded to the man
behind the bar.

 
          
“Good
enough,” he said. “The drinks are on me; we’ll celebrate my promotion.”

 
          
Scar
drank with the rest, but Sudden had no faith in the ruffian’s submission. He
had remained in Hell City because he was afraid to leave it, or, more possibly,
to await an opportunity of squaring his account with one who had bested him
three times. The body of the gunman was removed, and the saloon soon presented
its customary appearance. The puncher remained for a while, and then, having
bathed the graze on his cheek, went to see Satan.

 
          
“So
you—won?” was the greeting he received.

 
          
“Not
much of a guess, seein’ I’m here,” he replied.

 
          
“Only
fools guess,” Satan said, his gaze dwelling on the livid mark of the killer’s
bullet. “He almost got you.”

 
          
“I
was a mite careless,” Sudden admitted. “Posin’ as a one-gun man an’ usin’ a
hideout ain’t nothin’ new, but it would trick some.”

 
          
“Was
it necessary to beat up Roden?”

 
          
“Shore,
he was insolent. If I gotta handle these fellas they have to understand I can
do it. Scar can figure hisself lucky not to be travellin’ the one-way trail
after Butch; I was in the mood.”

 
          
The
bullying air did not blind the bandit to the fact that this man who had beaten
Butch might be a braggart, but was also dangerous, and likely to be—difficult.
Yes, that was the word. Well, there were ways … He glanced almost involuntarily
at the picture behind which the dead gunman had stood only a few hours earlier.
Sudden saw the look.