Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) (13 page)

 
          
“An’
if it hadn’t bin for Pinto, I’d likely be dancin’ on nothin’ right now.”

 
          
“
Bah !
O’ course you’d ‘a’ squealed.”
This
from Javert.
Pocky glared at him. “Yo’re a dirty liar,” he rasped. “I
never sold a pal yet.”

 
          
“Have
it yore way,” the gambler returned carelessly. “I’ll bet Owen was bluffin’,
anyway.”

 
          
“You’d
lose—he ain’t that sort. If he promises to stretch a fella’s neck he’ll do it,
regardless. It’s a good thing I planted a friend at the Bar O.” Javert sneered.
“You foresaw this happenin’, huh?”

 
          
“No,
I put Pinto there to keep me posted on the movements o’ the cowboys an’ cattle,”

 
          
Jake
replied. “I’ve had this game in mind for months; it’s easy money.”

 
          
“Yeah, an’ damn’ little of it.
A few cows,
which we gotta sell for half their value.”

 
          
“If
it ain’t worth yore while you got a simple remedy,” Jake reminded. “This is on’y
a beginnin’—
there’s other ranges
in reach.”

 
          
“A
lot o’ hard work for two-three hundred bucks, an’ risk our necks at that. We
couldn’t lose more if we made it thousands.”

 
          
“What
you drivin’ at?”

 
          
“This
cattle rustlin’ is chicken-feed, just keeps us in grub an’ smokin’. Why not try
where there’s real money, scads of it.
A bank, say?”
He saw at once that he had regained the ground he had lost in the recent
quarrel, for the eyes of his companions gleamed avariciously at his audacious
proposal. Even their leader could put forward no objection.

 
          
“I
think you got somethin’ there,” he said. “0I’ Morley must carry a lot o’ coin
at times, an’ there’s on’y him an’ his missis on the premises. It would square
my little account with him.”

 
          
“An’
give some o’ them Welcome hucksters a pain in the breakfast,” Javert added
viciously.

 
          
“We’ll
do it,” Mullins decided. “But we gotta pick the right night. Dutch, ain’t I
seen young Evans, Morley’s clerk, in Dirty Dick’s?”

 
          
“Shore,
he
dasn’t go to the Red Light; Bob has threatened to
fire him if he does.”

 
          
“That’s
fine. You slide in this evenin’, git hold o’ that boy, an’ pump him dry,
casual-like, o’ course. Then we can make our plans. Now, them steers we lifted
last night need attention, an’, Pocky, don’t forget to blot the brand o’ that
hoss you took in exchange for yore own; she’s a dead giveaway.” On that same
afternoon, Mary Gray had a surprise when Jesse Sark dismounted outside her
establishment, hitched his horse, and entered. She was alone, clearing up after
the last of her midday customers. Sark cast an appraising eye round the
rehabilitated eating-house, and a remembrance of what it had been forced a
compliment even from his reluctant lips.

 
          
“My
word, Mary, but you’ve certainly worked wonders,” he said. “I must see if yore
cookin’ grades up to the layout —if you’ll serve me.”

 
          
“That’s
what I’m here for,” she replied coldly.

 
          
He
had been drinking, and his eyes watching her vanish into the kitchen, were
covetous.

 
          
Happiness
and motherhood had made her more physically attractive, accentuating the curves
of her youthful body, which her simple black dress set off perfectly. He
devoured the food she set before him with greedy appreciation, and then,
calling her over, said, with a leer:

 
          
“That
was fine. If, as they say, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, all
the fellas in this burg oughta be sweet on you.”

       
“I like to please my customers.”

 
          
“Mebbe,
but it’s no work for a woman such as you servin’ grub to tradesmen an’
cow-wrastlers, spoilin’ them pretty
han’s
.”

 
          
“I
am happy here,” she replied steadily. “I don’t mind earning my living.”

 
          
“There’s
an easier way. The of man treated you mean; get the laugh on him by comin’

 
          
back
to the Dumbbell. I’ll give you everythin’ you want.” It
was some seconds before the utter infamy of the suggestion come home, draining
the blood from her cheeks, and turning her to ice.

 
          
“How
dare you?” she cried.

 
          
“
Don’t be a fool
, m’dear,” he said. “I’ve took a fancy to you
an’ am willin’ to pay a high price—even marriage—if that’s what you’re bogglin’
over, in spite o’ the tale I heard at Dirty’ Dick’s.”

 
          
“What
do you mean?”

 
          
“That
the marshal set you up here.”

 
          
“Dirty
Dick’s is well named,” she retorted bitterly. “This place belongs to Mister
Morley, and I rent it from him. There are those in town who would kill you for
repeating that lie.”

 
          
“Which
would shorely clinch it,” he sneered. “Whereas, if you came to the Dumbbell …

 
          
See
here, I’m ready to take a chance on you. Figure it out: mistress of a big
ranch, plenty o’ money, fine clothes,
servants to wait on
you, an’—a
good home for yore kid.”

 
          
“I
wouldn’t wed you to save him from starvation,” she replied fiercely.

 
          
The
contempt in her voice stung him like a whip, lashing him to a fury of anger and
desire. Snatching at her wrist, he held her captive. A savage jerk which nearly
flung her off her feet enabled him to sweep his other arm around the slender
waist and force the struggling body close to his. Held in that iron clutch, she
could do nothing save make desperate efforts to evade the lips which were
seeking her own.

 
          
“Sark!”
The bully looked up to find Dave Masters only a
couple of yards distant, face rigid, eyes of chilled steel, and his gun
levelled.

 
          
“Stand
away. I am goin’ to kill yu.” Mary Gray moved to his side. “Don’t shoot, Dave,”
she pleaded. “Send him away—for my sake.” The sound of her voice seemed to
bring him to his senses. He shook his head as though to clear it of a mist
through which he had been gazing.

 
          
“Yo’re
right, ma’am, he ain’t worth the case of a ca’tridge,” he muttered, and
gesturing towards the door with his weapon, added, “
March !
” The cattleman drew a long breath; he knew that only the girl’s intervention
had saved him, but he was not grateful. But neither was he prepared to take
further risks, so he marched. Dave followed, and as the other threw back the
door, gripped him by the back of the neck and, with a sudden thrust, sent him
sprawling into the street, much to the edification of some passers-by who
witnessed the ignominious exit. When, spitting curses and sand, he scrambled to
his feet, he saw his assailant standing on the sidewalk, empty hands hanging
down, eyes blazing.

 
          
“Thought
yu was gittin’ off easy, huh?” the cowboy gibed. “Pull yore gun, yu mongrel, an’
go to the hell that’s waitin’ for yu.” But Sark was in no mood to accept the
invitation. Though the drink had died out, he was badly shaken. He contented
himself with a threat:

 
          
“Yore
account is pilin’ up, fella, but don’t you fret none —it’ll be settled.”

 
          
“Git
some o’ yore cattle-thieves to help you,” Dave advised, and saw the furious
eyes flicker.

 
          
He
watched the man hoist himself into the saddle, grab the quirt hanging from the
horn, and lash the beast into a frenzied gallop.

 
          
“Takin’
it out’n the hoss,” was his thought. “He would.” He opened the door of the
restaurant and peeped in. Its owner was seated at a table, face hidden in her
hands.

 
          
“I
dasn’t go in,” he said, unaware that he was speaking aloud, and closing the
door gently, walked away, convinced she had not seen him.

 
          
But
she had, and heard him too, and when she raised her head the wet eyes were
shining.

 
          
“Oh,
Dave, you big, brave—coward,” she murmured with a tremulous smile.

 
          
That
evening, the marshal strolled into Dirty
Dick’s,
and
indifferent to the anything but welcome looks he received, ordered a drink, and
scanned the company with apparent carelessness. One couple immediately
interested him; seated at a table a little apart from the rest were Dutch and
Evans, the banker’s assistant. The latter, sucking at a rank cigar, and with a
glass of spirit before him, had shown signs of perturbation when the officer
entered.

 
          
“That’s
done it,” he muttered. “He’ll tell 01’ Bob an’ I’ll get the air.” Dutch, who
was as little pleased at the intrusion, endeavoured to console him. “Mebbe he
won’t mention it,” he said.

 
          
“An’
if he does, I can find you somethin’ better to do than pushin’ a pen—a man’s
job, with real money in it.”

 
          
“That’s
mighty nice o’ you, Dutch,” was the reply. “Tied to a desk all day ain’t much
of a life.”

 
          
“Yo’re
shoutin’—it’d give me the willies in a week,” the other agreed, adding slyly, “See
here, I can tell you how to shut the marshal’s mouth, if need be.” He whispered
earnestly for a few moments, ceasing only when he became aware that the subject
of their conversation had drawn near.

 
          
“Evans,
I want a word with yu—outside.” The youth hesitated, and then, with a poor
attempt at bravado, emptied his glass and followed the officer into the fresh
air.
Sudden came to the point at once.

 
          
“How
come yu to be in that sink?”

 
          
“You
were there yoreself.”

 
          
“Don’t
fence with me, boy,” Sudden said sternly. “Would Bob Morley approve o’ yore
frequentin’ Dirty Dick’s?”

 
          
“He
don’t buy my evenin’s.”

 
          
“
Which is no answer to my question.
” The boy fidgeted with
his feet, tried to draw inspiration from a cigar which had lost its savour, and
furtively let it fall.

 
          
“You
don’t have to tell him, do you?”

 
          
“It’s
my duty,” the marshal said doubtfully.

 
          
“Promise
not to, an’ I’ll put you wise to somethin’ important,” Evans replied eagerly. “Is
it a deal?”

 
          
“I
make no bargains in the dark, but I’ve never been accused o’ bein’ ungrateful.”
The clerk gave in; this man—whom he secretly admired as being all he would have
liked to be—was too strong for him.

 
          
“There’s
goin’ to be a big raid on the Bar O,” he blurted. “They figure to burn the
buildings, shoot down the outfit, an’ drive off the cattle. It’s to be tomorrow
night.”

 
          
“Who
is `they’?” the marshal asked, wondering how far his informant’s power of
invention would carry him_ “I dunno—the fella who told
me ”

 
          
“Meanin’ Dutch.”

 
          
“Well,
yes, but he ain’t in it,” Evans replied. “He’s workin’ over to Drywash, an’ got
to hear accidental. He reckons it’s a gang from ‘way up in the hills, an’ they’ll
outnumber the Bar O unless Welcome lends a hand.”