Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) (2 page)

 
          
Distant
high-pitched yells, punctuated by the cracking of pistol-fire, interrupted the
conversation.

 
          
Away
down the trail they could see a billowing cloud of dust in which moved the
indistinct forms of scampering horsemen.

 
          
“Some
o’ the Bar O boys, an’ by the look of ‘em they’re aimin’ to stand the town on
its ear, as usual,” Nippert said. “What’s yore notion o’ tacklin’ the
situation, Jake?”

 
          
“Hold
‘em up an’ perforate the first one what pulls a trigger.” The saloon-keeper
frowned.

 
          
“They’re
good spenders an’ pay for any damage they does,” he objected.

 
          
“Mebbe
this fella has a better plan,” Jake jeered, with a jerk of the thumb at his
rival.

 
          
“Good
chance to try out his methody ideas; if he can make the Bar O see the light
without a ruckus I’ll throw in my hand.” Nippert looked at the stranger. “That’s
fair enough.”

 
          
“Suits
me,” was the reply. “Wipin’ out customers is shorely pore policy.” He stepped
into the street and went to meet the advancing riders, who, shooting, shouting,
and spurring their ponies, bore down upon him like a human avalanche. When they
were but a few yards distant he raised his right hand, palm downwards, the
Indian sign of peaceful intention. To avoid running him down—for he was
directly in their path—the cowboys, with a chorus of oaths, pulled their mounts
to a slithering stop, and the leader, a sandy-haired youth, regarded him
darkly.

 
          
“What’s
the giddy game, stickin’ us up thisaway?” he demanded.

 
          
The
man on foot studied them for a moment. They were five in number, all young,
reckless, and ready for any devilment, but, he decided, not evil. His answer
took the form of a question:

 
          
“Yu
happen to know Widow Gray?”

 
          
“Shore,
her man let his bronc throw him a piece ago. Pore luck for her, though mebbe—well,
he didn’t amount to much anyways. What of it?”

 
          
“She’s
sick an’—expectin’,” the stranger explained. “I don’t savvy much about it, but
I reckon a racket can’t help a woman none at them times. I figured yu’d like to
know.”

 
          
“Is
that the straight goods?” Red-head asked.

 
          
“I’m
stayin’ in town,” was the meaning reply.

 
          
“I
take that back,” the cowboy said, and thrust his gun into his belt. “Friend, we’re
shore obliged. Widow Gray is one nice woman, an’ we ain’t savages.” He looked
at his followers.

 
          
“Boys,
the jamboree is in the discard for this trip.”

 
          
“That
goes, Reddy,” they chorused, and pistols were promptly replaced.

 
          
“This
is one time Welcome is lucky two ways—she gains a citizen an’ don’t risk losin’
any,” Reddy remarked, and grinned at the man who had put a stop to their
pleasure. “What about takin’ a snort with us an’ gittin’ acquainted?”

 
          
“I’ll
be glad—presently,” was the reply.
“Got a li’l business to
settle first.”

 
          
“So’ve
we,” Reddy smiled. “Allus begin with our buyin’, ‘case we don’t have any coin
left later.” They got down at the store and the peace-maker rejoined the party
on the veranda, who had watched the scene wonderingly. Unable to hear the
conversation, and knowing the Bar O outfit, it seemed little short of a
miracle.

 
          
Nippert
was the first to speak.

 
          
“Well,
friend, I dunno how you worked it, but you must shorely have a medicine tongue.”

 
          
“Why,
there’s no mystery,” was the quiet reply. “I just told ‘em that Widow Gray is
sick, an’ liable to add to the population o’ Welcome any time.”

 
          
“Hell!”
Jake said disgustedly. “Anybody could ‘a’ done that.”

 
          
“Yeah,
anybody could ‘a’ discovered America, but Columbus did it,” Nippert retorted.

 
          
“Stranger,
I like yore method, an’ you win.” He fumbled in a pocket, produced a nickel
star, and proffered it to the new officer. “Jake, you’ll have to wait till
there’s another vacancy.” The disappointed candidate’s face was poisonous. “Which
won’t be long, I’m bettin’,” he snarled, with a disparaging glare at the man
who had beaten him. “You others standin’ for this?” and when he got no reply, “Helluva
note, ringin’ in a perishin’ tramp; reckon Jesse Sark may have somethin’ to
say.” Jake flung away; the saloon-keeper lifted his shoulders and turned
apologetically to the visitor.

 
          
“A
pore loser, an’ would ‘a’ bin a wuss marshal,” he said. “I’m mighty glad you
drifted in, Mister?” His eyes were on the black horse, the left hip of which
bore the brand J. G. “Stands for `James Grover’ but `Jim’ will do just as well,”
the owner told him.

 
          
Nippert
nodded; he had noted the momentary hesitation, and knew that for some reason
the newcomer was sailing under false colours, but that was too common in the
West to have much significance, and he liked the man. Moreover, he was grateful
for the opportunity to turn down Mullins, whom he regarded as something lower
in the scale of Nature than the Gila monster. So, when the Bar O riders
arrived, he duly presented the new officer under the name given. Reddy’s eyes
twinkled.

 
          
“We’ve
met,” he said, and then, “Jake looks like someone had trod on his tail.” They
all laughed and, at Nippert’s invitation, lined up at the bar and drank with
the man who had been put in power —as they well knew—partly on their account.
When Gowdy had departed to placate his daughter, Rapper drew the saloon-keeper
aside.

 
          
“Good
work, Ned,” he complimented. “We won’t have
no
trouhle
with the Bar O from now on; Jim has made a hit with them.”

 
          
“Quick
thinkin’ will beat quick shootin’ off’n as not, an’ the two of ‘em is a
combination hard to win against,” Nippert replied. “
Them
guns he’s totin’ don’t look exactly new. Jake will be difficult, but I figure
this fella can take care of hisself.” The evening passed off quietly enough.

 
          
In
the course of it, the newcomer met most of the townsmen, and, save for the
rougher faction which disapproved of restraint as a matter of course, created a
favourable impression. He spoke and drank sparingly.

 
          
One
incident alone called for the exercise of authority, and it occurred in the Red
Light.

 
          
Two
men were playing cards, a doubtful-looking stranger who had ridden in late and
a citizen known as “Sloppy,” reputed to be rarely sober.

 
          
The
marshal strolled over and stood watching the pair. Presently what he had
anticipated happened: the Welcome player had won at first, but now he began to
lose, and as the pile in front of him diminished, his caution and temper
followed his cash. A further reverse which would have nearly wiped out his
winnings proved the last straw and in a drunken fury he hurled an accusation
calling for only one reply. Rasping an oath, the other man rose and reached for
his gun, only to find an empty holster. A calm voice said.

 
          
“I’ve
got yore shootin’ iron, hombre. The door is straight ahead.” Out of the corner
of one eye the trouble-maker saw the marshal just behind him. A gentle jab in
the short ribs from the muzzle of his own weapon apprised him that he was
helpless, and with a lurid epithet he moved forward. Outside the saloon he
ventured a protest:

 
          
“This
ain’t
no
way to treat a visitor. Did you hear what
that soak called me?”

 
          
“
Shore,
an’ he got yu right,” the marshal replied.

 
          
“If
I had my gun …”

 
          
“Here
she is—I don’t want her—got two better ones.” The fellow snatched the weapon
eagerly,
hesitated
a bare second, and then—as he
discovered it had been unloaded—thrust it into his belt with a curse.

 
          
The
marshal laughed.

 
          
“I’m
growed up,” he said. “Get agoin’ an’ keep agoin’our graveyard is middlin’ full.”
The cold, ironic tone carried conviction. The speaker waited while the fellow
found his pony, mounted, and was gathered up by the gloom. Returning to the
saloon, he found Sloppy sprawled across the table in a half-stupor. Hoisting
him to his feet, he piloted the drunkard out and down the street to a stout log
shack standing next to the marshal’s quarters, pushed him in and turned the key
of the big padlock. When he entered the Red Light again, the proprietor met him
with an approving smile.

 
          
“Slick work, marshal.
What you done with the pilgrim?”

 
          
“Sent him on his way, not exactly rejoicin’.
A cheap
tinhorn,
lets the other fella win till he’s too pie-eyed to
notice crooked play. We can do without his kind.”

 
          
“We
can that. Where’s Sloppy?”

 
          
“Sleepin’ it off in the calaboose.
I’ll deal with him in the
mornin’.”

 
          
UNEVENTFUL
days slid by, and the marshal’s reputation grew. His calm demeanour, ready
smile, and brevity of speech afforded a striking contrast to the bullying,
loud-voiced, intemperate peace-officers so frequently found in frontier
settlements. Sloppy became his slave and, to the amazement of all, a sober man.
He had appointed himself general factotum to his preserver, doing all the
domestic duties at the quarters which Welcome provided for its representative
of the law.

 
          
But
the popularity of the new officer was by no means universal; Jake had his
following, and though he made no open move, he was not idle. Nippert had news
of this when, about a week after the appointment, a visitor strode into the Red
Light and greeted him gruffly. Tall, heavily-built, little more than thirty, he
had a puffy, clean-shaven face, small bloodshot eyes, and a weak sensuous
mouth, the downward droop of which gave him a petulant expression.

 
          
“‘Lo,
Sark, anythin’ troublin’ you?” the saloon-keeper asked.

 
          
“I
hear you’ve given the post o’ marshal to a stranger.”

 
          
“You
heard correct.”

 
          
“Then
you gotta make another change.”

 
          
“When
did you buy it?” Nippert asked ironically. “Buy what?” Sark snapped.

 
          
“This town.”
The rancher glared. “Jake had the job comin’ to
him.”

 
          
“Jake
has a lot comin’ to him,” was the retort. “He’ll be lucky if he ain’t here when
it arrives.”

 
          
“Quit
foolin’,” Sark said angrily. “What
d’you know
about
this outsider?”

 
          
“Mighty
little, but we knowed a deal about Jake, an’ there you have it.” Nippert
grinned as the door was darkened. “‘Lo, marshal, meet Mister Sark, o’ the
Dumbbell ranch.” The cattleman spun round and stared at the new arrival, his
beady eyes clearly conveying hostility, but they soon fell before the steady
gaze which met them. Neither man put out a hand.

 
          
“Mister
Sark was sayin’ I oughta bounce you an’ give the job to Jake,” the
saloon-keeper went on.