Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) (18 page)

 
          
Ere
he could even turn, a heavy body dropped on his back and sent him sprawling. At
the same moment, steel-like claws gripped his throat and strove to choke him.
Spreadeagled on the ground, his face forced into the sand, and pinned down by
the panting burden above him, he was wellnigh helpless; but not quite. Arching
his spine, he bucked violently in a desperate effort to throw off the weight
which was crushing the breath from his body. He came near enough success to
draw speech from his assailant:

 
          
“Hi,
fellas,
come an’ give a hand.” The card-players rushed
over and flung themselves on the struggling pair just as Sudden had again
almost unseated his rider. But those digging fingers on his windpipe were
sapping his strength, and the reinforcement rendered resistance futile. He
drove a heel into the midriff of one newcomer, to send him down, groaning and
gasping, but that was all; a few more hectic moments, and his wrists were tied
behind his back. The two who had done this stood up, breathing hard; it had
been no picnic.

 
          
“That’s
that,” one of them said.

 
          
The
prisoner’s guns were removed and he was hustled to the fire. As they entered
the circle of light, the one who had spoken before emitted a whistle of
astonishment.

 
          
“The
marshal, by
thunder !
If we’d knowed you were payin’
us a visit, the welcome would ‘a’ bin warmer.”

 
          
“I
ain’t complainin’,” Sudden replied. He remembered the man, Galt, who had left
Welcome with Mullins; the third he did not know. He sat down. “Nice place yu
got here,” he remarked casually.

 
          
“Yeah,”
Pockmark snarled. “
an
’ as we aim to keep it to
ourselves, yore findin’ it may be awkward—for you.”

 
          
“I’ll
have to talk that over with Jake,” Sudden said coolly.

 
          
“Shore
you will. Better fetch him, Pocky—he’s at the corral,” the third man said, and
was promptly cursed by the others. “Hell,
what’s the odds
?
Dead men don’t squeak.” They wrangled for a few moments and then the pitted
ruffian departed, grumbling. The remaining couple squatted one on either side
of the captive. Galt picked up Sudden’s guns and examined them.

 
          
“Thought
you
was
a killer,” he remarked. “There ain’t a notch
on ‘em.”

 
          
“They’re
kind o’ new,” the marshal said gravely. “My old ones was so carved up that
there warn’t sca’cely any wood left, an’ it spoilt the balance; I was shootin’
fellas through the eyes ‘stead of atween ‘em. Not that I had any complaints,
but I like to do a neat job.” The rustlers received this boastful bit of
imagination with hard grins and the conversation languished. This was not to the
marshal’s liking. He was testing the bonds on his wrists; the rope was thick
for the purpose, and not tied in the manner of an expert cowman. He could feel
the knots give a little, and with the loss of some skin, there was a chance of
freeing himself. But he must have time, and keep their attention occupied.

 
          
“Ever
travelled in Texas?” he asked, and when both shook their heads, “Fine country,
but too many law-officers an’ coyotes.” The speaker paused, but his hands went
on working; the knots were slackening.

 
          
“Is
there any difference?” Galt asked.

 
          
“On’y
in the number o’ legs,” Sudden agreed pleasantly. His hands were nearly free;
if he could hold their attention another moment.

 
          
Galt
guffawed. “That’s a good one.”

 
          
“An’
here’s a better,” the marshal added.

 
          
With
the words his right fist swung round and landed with venomous precision on the
rustler’s chin, stretching him senseless; one leap put the prisoner in
possession of his weapons, and before the other man could recover from the
paralysing swiftness of the attack, a crashing blow from the butt of a gun
tumbled him by the side of his companion. The murmur of voices outside warned
Sudden that he had no time to lose, and gaining the tunnel, he dashed down it
at the risk of breaking a limb. Reaching the outlet safely, he found his horse,
and set out for the Bar O. He had not gone far, however, when the unwitting
reference to a corral recurred to him. It would not be for the horses—they
would want those handy, and Pocky had been quite a while fetching Jake.

 
          
“They’ll
flit now their hide-out is discovered,” he reasoned. “An’ mebbe try to take
some stock along. If I can find the other entrance to that cave …”

 
          
“Yi-i-i-i-i-i-ip!”
The shrill call advented the approach of
a racing pony which slid to a stop by the marshal’s side. The rider
straightened up and disclosed the cheerful features of the Bar O foreman.

 
          
“Found
any rustlers?” was his greeting.

 
          
“Yeah,
like to see some? If yu got nothin’ to do …”

 
          
“Me?
I just come out for a ride.”

 
          
“Is
there a gully runnin’ at right angles to The Step and just south o’ the fall?”
asked Sudden.

 
          
“Yu
mean Dark Canyon—one hell of a place. There’s no way out this end, an’ don’t I
know it? Tried
her
for a short cut once; I was wrong.”

 
          
“I
expect yu didn’t look careful,” was all the sympathy he got.

 
          
Reaching
the place, they dismounted and crept through the thick brush which fringed the
edges of the gully. There was no sign of life, save birds.

 
          
“We’re
outa luck,” he said. “Let’s try further along.” They pushed their way to
another position some fifty yards distant, and were duly rewarded; in an open
patch below stood a group of saddled ponies, two of which carried packs. Then,
from behind a dark mass of undergrowth, men
appeared,
eight of them, mounted and set out.

 
          
“Why,
there’s Jake,” Reddy whispered excitedly.

 
          
“Shore
it
is,
an’ we gotta follow. Fetch the hosses.” For about
a mile they kept pace with the riders, of whom they got only occasional
glimpses. This brought them to a spot where the walls of the gully flattened
out a little as it mounted towards the level of the surrounding country, and
here was a grassy hollow, hedged in by thorn bushes, with a pool of water at
one side. The entrance to this was closed with a crude gate of trimmed sapling
trunks; inside the corral a score of cattle grazed peacefully.

 
          
“What
we goin’ to do?” Reddy
asked,
as they watched Mullins
and his men ride up, and two of them jump down to remove the barrier.

 
          
“Scare
‘em off,” Sudden replied. “When yu’ve fired, break ground quick an’ let ‘em
have another, pronto; they’ll figure there’s a lot of us.” One after the other,
they pulled trigger, and without waiting to see the result, ran a few yards
right and left to repeat the process. The unexpected attack from unseen
assailants caused something approaching a panic among the rustlers. The pair on
foot dropped the pole they were lifting and jumped for their mounts; one of the
riders cursed and grabbed his left arm; another reeled, but kept his seat in
the saddle; a pack-animal squealed and kicked, dragging on its lead-rope. The
fusillade from above continued and some of those below made an attempt to
retaliate, firing at the smoke, but their leader soon saw the hopelessness of
their position; they were just targets.

 
          
“It’s
no use, boys,” he shouted. “Leave the cows an’ git goin’.” He set the example
by spurring his horse for the mouth of the gully, and the rest followed. The
marshal watched them.

 
          
“They’re
headin’ north—for the hills,” he said.

 
          
“One
ain’t,” Reddy corrected, as a rider separated from the others and turned west. “Now
what’s that mean?”

 
          
“At
a guess, I’d say Jake is visitin’ the Dumbbell.” They rode to the end of the
gully, and turning in, arrived at the corral. The remains of a fire, a straight
iron lying beside it, betrayed the purpose to which the place had been put. The
steers were Bar O three-year-olds, and on four of them the brand had been
clumsily changed to the Dumbbell. Reddy snorted with disgust.

 
          
“Shore
looks like
yo’re
right about Sark,” he said. “Jake ain’t
the sort to be makin’ presents.” Having rounded up the cattle, they commenced
the task of driving them to the Bar O.

 
          
When,
in due course, they drew rein at the ranch-house, Owen himself welcomed them
with a whoop, inspected the recovered stock, frowned at the altered brands, and
then dragged the two men indoors, eager to hear all about it. When Sudden told
of the tunnel behind the Silver Mane, the eyes of both his listeners went wide.

 
          
“I
warn’t smart enough to remember that others might be usin’ the tunnel,” the
marshal said ruefully, and related his capture and escape. “Then I met Reddy,
an’ the rest was easy,” he finished.

 
          
“You
done noble,” Owen said warmly. “Wonder where they’ve gone?”

 
          
“They’ll
leave a trail.”

 
          
“Not
in the hill country they won’t,” the foreman stated.

 
          
The
marshal’s eyes twinkled. “One o’ them pack-hosses had a sack o’ meal across its
rump,” he said. “I put a bullet into it.” The cattleman slapped his knee. “
you
think of everythin’, you durned ol’—methodis’,” he
grinned.

 
          
WELCOME
lay sweltering in the midday sun. The marshal, his deputy, and factotum, draped
over the only three chairs in the office, were smoking and sweating in silent
discomfort.

 
          
“It’s
a nice day to go for a ride,” Sudden remarked, after a while.

 
          
“It’s
a nicer day not to,” Dave contradicted.

 
          
“Sloppy,
wasn’t yu around when Amos Sark was bumped?” Sudden went on.

 
          
The
little man, who had been half-asleep, became swiftly awake. His expression was
one almost of alarm, but he answered without hesitation.

 
          
“Yeah,
I was livin’ at Drywash.”

 
          
“Yu
know where it happened?”

 
          
“The
fella what—found him, pointed it out to me.”

 
          
“I’d
like to see it.”

 
          
“Why,
it took place over a year ago; what yu expect to find?”

 
          
“Oh,
I’m curious.”

 
          
“Curious
is puttin’ it mild—yo’re a freak,” Dave rejoined. They passed a side trail
which would have taken them to the Dumbbell
ranch,
and
about a mile further on, Sloppy halted.

 
          
“Here
she is,” he said.

 
          
In
the bright sunlight it was difficult to conceive that there a man could be
foully done to death, and yet the spot possessed the one necessary adjunct. The
road, deep-rutted, was open, save for scattered trees, but on one side a
solitary cluster of low bushes offered safe cover for a lurking assassin. Ten
yards away was a young birch, and to this Sloppy pointed.

 
          
“Amos
was lyin’ there, on his face, arms spread; they figured he’d went over the hoss’s
head,” he informed. “His money was missin’.”