Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) (22 page)

 
          
“Time’s
up.”

 
          
“Where
are you taking me?” she ventured.

 
          
“Wait
an’ see.” With a sob of despair she surrendered and allowed them to lead her to
where the horses were waiting, and lift her to the back of the spare one. Then
the journey through the night began. Once she looked round, but could see no
sign of the child; one rider, however, was behind the others, and it might be…

 
          
Sick
with dread, she rode on, sitting slackly in the saddle, utterly overwhelmed by
this sudden catastrophe.

 
          
They
had been riding for hours—as it seemed to her—when the distant sound of
tumbling water told her that they must be in the neighbourhood of the Silver
Mane, the only fall of any size near Welcome. Were they bound for the Dumbbell?
Had Sark dared to do this thing? But the voice of the leader was not his, and
presently, having crossed The Step, they veered northward, climbing a long
slope, fording the creek above the fall, and heading, as she now guessed, for
the hill country. Her heart grew heavier, as tales of the wild men,
cattle-thieves and outlaws, who found a refuge in those almost inaccessible
heights, recurred to her.

 
          
With
the coming of the dawn, her gaze went anxiously to the rear, but the last rider
was a mere blur in the grey, misty light.

 
          
“Keep
yore eyes on the hoss,” a harsh voice ordered. “The hardest part is to come.”

 
          
Furtively
she studied the speaker, but her scrutiny told nothing. Then, as his mount made
a mis-step, he dragged on his rein, and she saw a white scar—relic of an old
wound —running across the back of his hand. Mullins! She knew now why the
muffled voice had seemed familiar.

 
          
The
knowledge contributed little in the shape of comfort.

 
          
Worn
out, listless, and full of fear, the girl was aware only of an unending
procession of straight black tree-trunks through which they wound with unerring
precision. These seemed to have a mesmeric influence, and she was indeed barely
conscious when they rode into the growing daylight once more and stopped at a
stout, two-storied block-house.

 
          
“Git down.”
The curt command aroused her, but stiff with
cold and fatigue, she could not move; the man had to lift her from the saddle.
The brief contact bred a repulsion which gave her new strength, and when he
would have helped her further, she protested.

 
          
“I—can—walk.”
Nevertheless, he gripped one arm and led her into the building, through a large
room, and up a rude staircase to a smaller one, in which was a pallet bed,
covered with a couple of coarse blankets.

 
          
“Rough
quarters, but you won’t be here long—if yo’re wise,” he told her.

 
          
He
went out, locking the door, but returned in a little while with a glass
containing liquor.

 
          
She
shook her head.

 
          
“Drink
it,” he ordered. “I don’t want a sick woman on my hands.” With an effort she
swallowed the fiery spirit, which, though it made her choke, produced a warm
glow in her chilled body.

 
          
“Bring
my child,” she said. “I’ve kept my part of the bargain.”

 
          
“Go
on keepin’ it an’ you’ll see him—later,” he replied, and with a leer in the
slitted eyes,

 
          
“I’ll
have to
learn
you a lesson if you don’t behave, an’ I’m
hopin’ you won’t.
Sabe?”
She sank down upon the bed
and buried her face in her hands. The screech of the key as it turned in the
lock drove home the helplessness of her position. While they held the child,
she was tied, forced to comply with any demand they might make.

 
          
Night
was drawing on when Sudden reached his destination. Bentley was larger even than
he had expected, and the main street—for the place boasted more than one—was
thronged.

 
          
The
brightly-lighted stores and saloons lit up a scene which, at another time,
might have been interesting, but the marshal’s long ride had left him with
little appetite for further exertion.

 
          
Moreover,
he was not anxious for his presence to be known. So having secured a meal and a
bed at one of the smaller hotels, he retired to rest.

 
          
Early
next morning, he presented himself at the prison, situated about half a mile
from the town. To the armed guard at the great iron gate, he explained who he
was, and requested an interview with the Warden. After a short wait in a
cell-like room furnished only with a couple of forms and a table, he was
conducted across a wide yard to the main portion of the structure.

 
          
The
room into which he was shown differed vastly from the one where he had waited.
A comfortably-fitted office, the walls book-lined, chairs which invited
occupation, a leather-covered desk, and behind it, a grey-haired man of fifty,
who scanned his visitor closely.

 
          
“Have
a seat, marshal,” he said. “And tell me what I can do for you.”

 
          
“I
thought mebbe yu could give me some information which might help in a matter I’m
lookin’ into,” Sudden explained.

 
          
“I’m
at your service.”

 
          
“I’ve
heard that yu had here, some years back, a man named Jesse Sark. Is that so?”
The Warden rose, reached down a heavy register, and turned the pages. “Here we
are,” he said.
“Jesse Sark, clerk, convicted of robbing the
bank where he was employed, and sent down for two years.

 
          
There’s
a picture of him, if that interests you.” It did; the marshal stared at it in
astonishment.

 
          
“That’s
not the fella,” he said disappointedly.

 
          
“It
was taken when he came in, and the name is an uncommon one.”

 
          
“He
must ‘a’ changed considerable,” Sudden reflected aloud.

 
          
The
Warden looked up sharply. “He probably has—men do when they’re under the turf,
I believe,” he replied drily, and added, “Sark died just before his sentence
was completed—we had an epidemic of fever in the prison.” Sudden’s face fell. “Seems
I’ve been followin’ a blind trail an’ bothered yu for nothin’,” he said. A
thought occurred to him. “There’s just one point: did yore Sark have a
confederate called Kent?” The Warden consulted another volume, and, after a
short search, pointed to a page. “This must be the one: Ezra Kent, convicted
with, and sentenced to the same punishment as Sark.
Discharged
at the end of his term.
His portrait is here also. Why, what is the
matter, marshal?” For Sudden’s expression was one of complete puzzlement. “But
that’s the man I know as Jesse Sark,” he cried. “Yu couldn’t ‘a’ got the
pictures mixed up, I s’pose?”

 
          
“Not
possible,” was the reply. “And if it had happened, this man”—tapping Kent’s
photograph—“would be in his grave.”

 
          
“Shore,
that
don’t
explain it,” Sudden agreed. “Well, seh, I
was beginnin’ to fear I’d wasted my time, but what yu’ve told me is goin’ to be
mighty helpful, though there’s some straightenin’ out yet.”

 
          
“Anything
more I can do?”

 
          
“If
yu could give me a writin’ that Jesse Sark is dead,” the marshal suggested. “Somebody
may want to call me a liar.” The Warden smiled, his gaze taking in the lithe,
muscular frame, resolute jaw, and steady eyes. “Hardly a likely occurrence, I
imagine, but in case …” He wrote a few lines, signed them, and passed over the
paper. “That will save any argument.” Sudden thanked him, and stowed away the
document.

 
          
The
Warden observed that the visitor’s eyes were roving along the orderly rows of
registers.
“Records of rascality—.
a
sad indictment of the human race.”

 
          
“I
was admirin’ the system. I s’pose yu can turn up partic’lars of any person who
has been through yore
han’s
?”

 
          
“Certainly.
Have you any name in mind?”

 
          
“Two—Webb an’ Peterson.”
It did not take long. The first
name appeared twice, but when he saw the portraits, the marshal shook his head;
the second name was not to be found.

 
          
“We
don’t seem to have entertained your—friends,” the Warden said.

 
          
“It
was on’y a chance, but friends ain’t just the right word.” Looking at the set
face, which had suddenly become cold and grim, the man from the East realized
that he was plumbing unknown deeps; he would not have cared to be one of those
two men. The visitor had picked up his hat, and was speaking:

 
          
“Yu
been mighty
good
, seh. I’m obliged.”

 
          
“Glad
to be of use, marshal,” he replied. “Come or send, if you need further
assistance.”

 
          
Getting
his horse,
Sudden
set off at once for home, his mind
full of the astounding discovery he had made. Jesse Sark was no more, and Kent
was personating him in order to steal the Dumbbell range. A friend of the dead
man, he would know enough about him to make the imposture possible, the more so
as Sark had never been seen in Welcome.

 
          
Lyman
must know, and probably the whole plan was his contrivance.

 
          
“He
certainly has Kent cinched, an’ there ain’t much doubt as to who drilled Amos,”

 
          
Sudden
mused.

 
          
The
latter part of the interview recurred to him. That his final inquiry proved a
failure did not disappoint him; he had expected it. “They’ll have swapped names
frequent by now,” he muttered. “Allasame, I’ll find ‘em.” (How he eventually
kept his promise has been told in another place.1) “
Get some
action
on them triflin’ legs o’ yourn, yu dollop o’ darkness.” The horse
whinnied
a reply, and lengthened its stride into a
long, easy lope which sent the ground sliding beneath its feet and could be
maintained for hours. Nevertheless, when the sun, a red ball of fire, was
slowly sinking behind the western sky-line, he had still about ten miles to
cover. But this contented him, and he eased the black to a more leisurely pace
as they breasted a slope mottled with patches of brush. Here his complacency
suffered a rude awakening.

 
          
He
had bent forward to stroke the shiny neck of his steed when the silence was
routed by the roar of a rifle and his hat went skimming into the dust.
Instantly he flung himself headlong from the saddle as a second bullet followed
the first. He landed on all-fours and scuttled behind a near-by clump of scrub.
Nigger dashed off, but his master knew he would not go far.

 
          
Peeping
through his cover, he could see small clouds of smoke vanishing above another
bunch of bushes some fifty feet away. He shook a branch to the left of his
position, and dropped flat; a rifle crashed and the slug cut the twigs above
his head; he fired at the flash, more to gratify his resentment than with any
hope of hitting the hidden marksman.

 
          
Lying
broadside on to the enemy, he agitated the foliage with a foot. Immediately a
bullet tore through the spot, and he sent two quick shots to the right and left
of the spirt of flame, at once shifting his own position. It was well he did
so, for the reply was instant. Silence ensued, and Sudden puzzled over the
problem of putting an end to this strange duel. It was difficult, for there was
no cover between the
parties,
and until dark came,
neither could leave his shelter. A possibility suggested itself. Prone on his
stomach, a revolver in each hand, he fired a dozen shots, spaced at about a
foot apart and aimed at the bottom of the bushes behind which his antagonist
must be lying. Then, reloading rapidly, he waited for the response.