Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 07 - Sudden Rides Again(1938) (34 page)

 
          
“It
amuses you to lose a considerable sum of money, eh?”

 
          
“The
fella who can laugh at his losses will win out in the end,” was the
philosophical reply.

 
          
“A
pretty sentiment, no doubt,” Satan sneered, “but one can get tired of laughing.
When are you going to justify your presence in Hell City?”

 
          
“I
rustled the herd—yu told me so yoreself, an’ yu can’t blame me for losin’ ‘em
again,” Sudden retorted impudently. “An’ I got Butch for yu.”

 
          
“For
yourself—
to save your own life,” came the correction.
“Where is Lander?”

 
          
The
puncher’s face lost its jaunty expression. “I dunno,” he confessed. “Can’t pick
up a trace of him nohow; I reckon he’s flew the coop.”

 
          
The
bandit made a negative gesture. “A stranger was seen on the Double K range
yesterday, talking with Joan Keith.”

 
          
Sudden’s
surprise was genuine. “The devil!” he said. “But he wouldn’t know her, would
he?”

 
          
“No,
but they might have met by chance,” Satan replied. “You must bring him back. If
you fail to do this…”

 
          
He
did not finish, but the relentless tone conveyed the unspoken threat. Sudden
went out, apparently a chastened and thoughtful man. He left the bandit still
brooding over the story Lagley had told.

 
          
“It
couldn’t have been Jeff—he would not dare speak to her,” he argued. “And yet …”

 
          
A
vision of Joan as he had last seen her, the slim figure appearing to be part of
the pony she bestrode and her lovely face rosy with indignation aroused by his
attempted caress, came to torment him. Until that meeting, he had coveted the
Double K range only, but then was born desire for the girl who would one day
own it, and though he had not seen her since, that desire had become such an
overwhelming passion that the very thought of another kissing even her
finger-tips moved him almost to madness.

 
          
“She
may still care for him, in spite of all,” he said violently. “Well, friend
Jeff, I’ll plaster something on you which will turn love to loathing, an act so
vile that the hand of every man must be against you, and women will shudder at
your name. With the whole country raised, you’ll be glad to sneak back into the
only place where you can lie hidden—Hell City. Then, the game will be in my
hands.”

 
          
For
long he stood, gazing into the deepening darkness, while the plot which would
give him, not only the girl for whom he lusted, but wealth and power, framed
itself in his cold-blooded brain. One factor only was lacking, and he cursed
the cowboy who had deprived him of it.

 
          
“Jeff
will be hack, on his knees,” he told himself.
“After
tomorrow.”

 
          
Notwithstanding
his somewhat autocratic attitude towards his fellow-man, Colonel Keith was
popular in Dugout. That he was just and generous compensated for the keenness
of his tongue and as the owner of the largest ranch in the vicinity, his custom
was an important consideration to a small community. So his weekly visit was a
welcome event and had become a matter of routine. Always there was someone
waiting to hitch his horse outside Black Sam’s, but with the Colonel, business
came
first :
the several tradesmen had to be visited,
orders given, and the invariable invitation to drink the rancher’s health
extended.

 
          
On
this particular morning, the final stage of the ritual had been reached and the
cattleman was with his guests in the saloon. Standing there, straight as a
young pine, he made an imposing figure in his full-skirted black coat, spotless
linen shirt and trousers, and polished riding-boots. His aristocratic, rather
severe features were softened by a smile as he grasped the julep Sam had mixed,
and listened to the little speech Jansen was making. It was always the same.

 
          
“Colonel,
thisyer town is mighty pleased to see you lookin’ peart. Here’s hopin’ yore
thirst
won’t never
git ahead o’ you.”

 
          
“An’
that’s whatever,” chorused the six or seven other citizens, while the
saloon-keeper thumped the bar enthusiastically, pride in his old master
transforming his face into one huge grin.

 
          
The
Colonel bowed graciously. “My friends,” he began. “I am—”

 
          
A
harsh laugh halted him. From the doorway, a man dressed as a cowboy swaggered
in, followed by half a dozen others, all of them—save the leader—gun in hand.
Sam, the only one facing the street, had seen the intruders first; his smile
vanished as though wiped off with a sponge, dismay taking its place. He knew
them: Scar Roden and his two remaining rogues, three other Imps, and the
sinister form in front, the mask beneath the slouched hat concealing all but
the eyes and lips. Like men turned to stone the citizens stared at the
red-badged rascals, conscious that a single hostile movement would start a
slaughter. The
negro
made an effort to avert a
catastrophe. Twitching the rancher’s sleeve, he
stammered :

 
          
“Yo
done
promised
to speak to Mandy, sah. If yo step
roun’—”

 
          
The
look he received struck the rest of the sentence from his lips. The Colonel
drew himself up, and in a steady voice, said, “My friends, I thank you. It is
our custom on these happy occasions to toast the prosperity of Dugout. We shall
still be doing that if we drink to the utter destruction of that robbers’
roost, Hell City.”

 
          
He
raised his glass, but before he could sample the contents, a bullet shattered
it; with one movement the masked man had drawn and fired, and now stood, his
teeth uncovered in an ugly snarl, the smoking gun in his hand. The Colonel
dropped the remaining fragment, drew out a kerchief to wipe his fingers, and
said calmly: “The same again, Sam.”

 
          
The
hoarse tones of Roden issued a warning. “Stay put, you fellas; I ain’t breakin’
glasses.”

 
          
With
a terror-drawn face the
negro
mixed the drink, his
hands trembling so violently that he spilled the liquor. When at length it was
completed, the rancher slowly raised the glass, drank, and set it back on the
bar. The man in the mask laughed mockingly.

 
          
“Shakespeare
said, `
All the
world’s a stage,’ and you never forget
it,” he taunted. “A real man would have shot me down.”

 
          
“I
had the misfortune to bring you into the world, and I prefer that the hangman
should help you out of it,” was the barbed retort.

 
          
“You’ll
never live to see it.”

 
          
“So
you have come to murder me? Well, it should round off your record nicely—a
parricide.”

 
          
The
unruffled demeanour and biting sarcasm seemed to flog the younger man into a
fury. “By
Christmas !
” he cried. “And who is
responsible for that record? The stiff-necked
slave-driver
who treated his son as he did the black-skinned brutes whose bodies and souls
he used to traffic in, and when the boy rebelled, disowned and drove him to
desperation. Damn you, I’m no son of yours, and if ever it appeared so, your
wife must have had a lover.”

 
          
At
this infamous aspersion on the dead woman he had worshipped the Colonel’s face
became livid. He bent forward, as though about to spring upon the traducer, his
gaze seeking to penetrate the blood-red mask.

 
          
“You
lying, foul-minded hound,” he almost whispered. “Son or no son—” He stopped and
shook his head. “Pull your gun, you—” the other raged.

 
          
The
venomous insult failed. With a look of utter disdain, the rancher stood back
and folded his arms. Instantly Satan fired, and the spectators saw the old man
stagger under the impact of the heavy slug, clutch blindly at the bar, and fall
prone on the floor. So swiftly had the tragedy happened that for a moment no
one
stirred.
Then the black man, with a howl of grief,
flung himself beside the body.

 
          
“Stand
back everybody,” Satan barked. “You can’t help him, you scum. He got what he
asked for; if he hadn’t gone for that shoulder-gun—”

 
          
The
negro
looked up; sorrow had made him reckless. “He
ain’t wearin’ none—neber knowed him to,” he cried brokenly.

 
          
The
slayer ignored the remark, gazing with horrible satisfaction at the still form
of his victim. He turned to Jansen.

 
          
“I
suppose I can trust you to see to the burying,” he said. “If not, I’ll—”

 
          
“We’ll
fix it,” the store-keeper replied, adding with bitter emphasis, “You’ve done
yore part.”

 
          
“Don’t
be insolent,” Satan snapped. “I’m the rightful owner of the Double K now, and—”

 
          
“You
can take yore damned custom somewhere else,” Jansen retorted bluntly. “I reckon
that goes for all of us; Dugout can get along without stolen money.”

 
          
“You
bet it can,” Naylor chimed in, and the others nodded assent.

 
          
The
bandit’s fists
clenched,
and his men waited for the
word which would set guns roaring and turn the place into a shambles. But it
did not come.

 
          
“Dugout
had better mind its step, or one morning it will wake up and find it isn’t,”
Satan threatened, and followed his band out of the saloon.

 
          
As
soon as they had gone, Sam, who was still
crouched
by
his old master, beckoned the others.

 
          
“He
ain’t daid, but he’s hurt pow’ful
bad
,” he whispered.
“Dasn’t say nuffin’ ‘case dat debbil mak’ sho’.”

 
          
The
bullet had gone right through the body, just missing the heart. Jansen, who
supplied the town with the simple medicines it required, and had some
experience of injuries, shook his head as he busied himself with the bandages.

 
          
“His
lungs is
damaged an’ he’ll be bleedin’ inside,” he
pronounced. “He’s got the chance of a snowball in hell. There, I can’t do no
more; mebbe a jolt o’ liquor will offset the shock.”

 
          
The
strong spirit brought the stricken man to consciousness, his eyes opened,
staring at them in wonderment. Then recollection came.

 
          
“It—was—
an—
accident,” he murmured laboriously, and his voice growing
somewhat, “Remember—all of you: I was handling my gun—it went off.”

 
          
“Shore,
Colonel, we won’t forget,” Jansen replied
..
“Good,”
the sick man whispered. “Now—take me—home.”

 
          
His
eyes closed again. The men looked at one another in consternation; the bumping
of a vehicle over the rough trail would certainly complete the work of the
bullet. Black Sam rolled his eyes in despair.

 
          
“We
jus’ gotta do it, gents,” he said. “If de Kunnel come roun’ an’ fin’ he ain’t
at de ranch, he’ll sho’ly raise Cain an’ pass right out. ‘Ordehs is ordehs,’ he
allus sez, an’ he’s de obstinatest man I eber did see.”

 
          
It
was the blacksmith who found a solution. “We’ll make a sling outa blankets an’
a couple o’ poles, an’ four of us can carry him, with two others along to take
turn. Polter, you ride to Red Rock for the doctor, an’ take yore gun in case he
don’t
fancy the journey.”