Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) (24 page)

 
          
“Mornin’,
Sark.” The rancher jerked round, to gaze with startled eyes into the muzzle of
a revolver less than two yards from his breast, and behind it, a face conveying
menace in every line.

 
          
“Stand
up,” came the order. “An’ lemme warn yu that one sound will be yore last in
this world o’ sin.” Sark obeyed; this fellow only wanted an excuse to slay him;
he had no intention of supplying it. Stepping closer, Dave removed the other’s
gun from the holster, tossed it in a far corner of the room, and made sure it
was the only one.

 
          
“Now
we can talk,” he said. “Where’s Mrs. Gray?” Light dawned upon the cattleman.

 
          
Jake
had succeeded, and this young fool had jumped to the conclusion that he was the
culprit.

 
          
With
well-simulated astonishment, he protested:

 
          
“How
would I know? I ain’t seen her
since ”
Dave cut in: “Lyin’
won’t serve yu.
I’m wantin’
the truth. Talk turkey, or
…” It was no mere threat, and Sark knew he was in deadly peril. One glance at
the ice-cold eyes and rigid jaw told as much. He must make him believe.

 
          
“It’s
the truth,” he said sullenly. “What’s happened to her?” Dave explained,
watching closely, but the other had schooled his features to a wooden
indifference; he was more than aware of that keen scrutiny.

 
          
“I
ain’t heard a word of it,” was his comment. “She’s not here—you can search the
place.”

 
          
“Kind
o’ yu,” Dave retorted ironically. “We’re doin’ that together, an’ if there’s
any interruption, the Dumbbell will be shy an owner.
Sabe?”

 
          
“My
boys are all out on the range, which is lucky for you,” Sark scowled.

 
          
Obeying
the deputy’s gesture he led the way, the consciousness that swift oblivion
stalked at his heels producing an uneasy sensation between his shoulder-blades.
Room by room they went over the house.

 
          
“Waste
o’ time,” Sark sneered, but made no other demur. He was beginning to recover
his poise. No trace of the missing girl having come to light, it would be his
turn to talk.

 
          
The
examination of the bunkhouse, barn, and smithy proved abortive; they returned
to the ranch-house.

 
          
“Well,
I hope yo’re satisfied I had no part in this affair,” the rancher began
aggressively.

 
          
“Don’t
get brash, fella,” Dave warned. “Yo’re still at the end o’ the gun, an’ I ain’t
noways convinced.”

 
          
“Plenty
brave, ain’t you?” Sark jeered. “Shove that six-shooter aside an’ we’ll see if
you got any guts.” Masters laughed. “I was hopin’ yu’d look at it thataway,” he
replied. “Ever since I first seen yu tryin’ to hang Jim, I’ve been achin’ to
get my
han’s
on yu.” He placed his weapon on a chair
near the window, put his hat over it, and stepped lightly back.
“C’mon, mongrel.”
The invitation was superfluous; even as it
was uttered, Sark sprang in, his evil face betraying his satisfaction. He was
the taller, bigger of the pair and had no doubt of the result. He judged the
other to be an impetuous, boastful boy, and promised himself that he would soon
take the conceit out of him. But here again, he mistook his man; having
obtained the opportunity for which he had thirsted, Dave did not mean to throw
it away by over-eagerness. A shrewd blow met the first rush and Sark went down,
to lie amidst the fragments of a chair he had encountered in his fall.

 
          
Sark
got up, kicked aside the broken furniture, and advanced. Dave met him half-way,
slogging with right and left, and his opponent replied in kind.

 
          
For
the first ten minutes Sark fought furiously, and it seemed possible that he
might overwhelm his younger and lighter antagonist; but lack of condition began
to tell. The cowboy’s muscles were hard, yet flexible, he moved quickly and
easily, balanced on the balls of his feet, and there was not an ounce of fat on
his wiry frame, whereas Sark was paunchy, heavy drinking had sapped his power
of endurance, and already the unwonted violent exercise was forcing him to
breathe through his mouth.

 
          
Sark
felt that he was losing, and the realization infuriated and spurred him to
fiercer effort. Back and fore they swayed, slipping, stumbling, but always
striking, and the scrape of boots on the floor was punctuated by the thud of
fist upon flesh.

 
          
The
end came with dramatic swiftness. The cattleman, breathing stertorously, one
eye completely closed, and ribs pounded to an aching rawness, knew that only a
mighty stroke could turn the tide of the battle in his favour. Suddenly
retreating several paces
, ,
he lowered his head, and
charged madly. It was a desperate device, and if the other man did not know …

 
          
But
Dave had once seen a fighter, butted bull-like in the belly, carried away
unconscious and badly injured. In a flash he flung himself forward, caught Sark
round the knees, and rising, hurled him over his shoulder. Aided by
his own
impetus, the rancher soared through the air as though
shot from a catapult, slid the length of the table, sweeping it clean, and
crashed to the floor.

 
          
Dave
stood over the bloodstained, senseless mass sprawled amid the broken crockery.

 
          
“If
yo’re dead I don’t care, but if you ain’t, an’ I find yu were lyin’ to me, this
ain’t a circumstance to what I’ll do to yu,” he rasped. “An’ if I can’t, Jim’ll
see to it.” Taking his gun and hat, he went into the sunshine.

 
          
From
behind the glass door of the living-room, a battered, demoniac face saw him
depart, and spat out vitriolic curses from cut and swollen lips. Far from
killing him, Sark’s fall had not even deprived him of his wits, but the
terrific impact had left him in no shape to continue the combat, and lacking
the courage to risk further punishment.

 
          
“You’ve
won, but what has it got you?” he scoffed. “I hold the trump card—the woman, an’
for every hurt you’ve given me, she shall pay—in full. Jim’ll see to me, huh?
What if we’ve seen to him first, Mister?”

 
          
DAVE
MASTERS rode away from the Dumbbell sore in body but elated in spirit—he had
punished one whom he despised and hated from the moment of their meeting. His
satisfaction, however, was heavily discounted by the fact that he had learned
nothing of the missing girl.

 
          
“It
ain’t got us no place, Splinter,” he reflected aloud. “Where do we look now?”
He reined in and surveyed the piled-up, verdure-clad terraces leading to the
grey spires of the Mystery range. Somewhere in those dark recesses, Mullins and
his rustlers were supposed to be hiding. The name stirred his memory.

 
          
“Jakes!”
he muttered. “He wanted her, too, or, mebbe Sark’s usin’ him. We gotta find
out.” He slapped his mount on the neck_
An
hour’s
journey brought them to the foothills and here the difficulty began. Dave
decided to ride along the edge in the hope of finding tracks but presently
abandoned the plan in despair, and choosing a spot where there seemed to be
some sort of an opening, plunged into the shadowed depths. For a space,
progress was possible, though the dense growth and gloom made it slow, but Dave
was doubtful since they did not appear to be rising. His fears proved to be
well-founded when a vertical wall of rock barred further advance; what had
promised to be a passage up was no more than a blind rift in the mountain-side.

 
          
“Damn
the luck,” he muttered. “Jake’s got
more savvy
than I
gave him credit for.” There was nothing for it but to go back and try again.
But getting out was no easier than getting in, and consumed a great deal of
time and much of the rider’s patience.

 
          
They
emerged into the glare of the sun to recommence the task of finding ingress to
the labyrinth. It was a wearisome business. Time after time, disappointment
only rewarded them, and success seemed as far off as ever when they halted on
the lip of a shallow, gravel-bottomed pool, fed by one of the several creeks
from the high ground. Getting down
to slake
his thirst
he saw the prints of shod shoes. Struck by an idea, he walked all round the
water, but found no more hoof-marks.

 
          
“They
didn’t go on,” he argued. “Shore, they might ‘a’ gone back, but why come here
when there’s other drinkin’ places? Wadin’ up the stream would blind a trail
completely.
Worth a trial, hoss.”
They splashed
steadily along the creek and the young man became more sanguine when he noticed
a branch which would have been in their way hanging broken and dead. Then
came
the inevitable barrier in the shape of a waterfall,
leaping over a rock ten feet high. But to the left of it was a level ledge of
short turf, and on it, hoofprints.

 
          
“Mebbe
we got somethin’,” Dave told his mount.

 
          
The
way was narrow, zig-zagged a great deal, but ascended steadily; here and there,
the stump of an obstructing tree showed it to be man-made. At the end of an
hour’s climb, through a break in the trees, the rider saw a spiral of smoke
against the dark background of pines higher up.

 
          
Though
it did not seem to be far away, another hour passed before he got a second view
of it, this time close at hand. From the shelter of a leafy bush he studied his
surroundings.

 
          
The
trail he had been following ended on a gently-sloping
shelf,
and at the back of this was a solidly-fashioned, two-storied timber building.
The situation was well-chosen; at the sides and front, the ground had been
cleared save for the stumps of the trees which had been used in the
construction, while the rear was defended by the steep face of the mountain
itself.

 
          
Completely
concealed by the enveloping curtain of pines, it was an ideal haven for broken
men.

 
          
There
was no sign of life until a rider appeared from the far side of the clearing,
got down, and went in. The light was still sufficient for Dave to recognize
him; it was Javert.

 
          
“That
seems to fix it,” he muttered. “I’ve located Mister Mullins.” Night came at
length, bringing a patch of light from the cabin, and Dave could delay no
longer. Leaving his pony, but taking his rope, he stole to the back of the
house, and, flattened against the wall, stood listening.

 
          
Presently
a faint glow shone from one of the two upper windows, and he heard a gruff
voice say:

 
          
“I’m
lettin’ you have the candle while you feed.” A door slammed, followed by the
heavy tread of boots on a board stair. Evidently there was a prisoner, but was
it the one of whom he was in search? When he deemed the coast was clear, he
began to whistle, very softly, “The Cowboy’s Lament,” about his fondness for
which Mary Gray had more than once chaffed him. A moment, and from above his
head, a whisper floated down:

 
          
“Is
is you—Dave?”

 
          
“Shore
thing,” he replied, and executed a miniature wardance, for not only was it the
Widow’s voice, but she had used his first name. “Are you tied up?”

 
          
“No,
but I can’t leave without my baby.” When the significance of this had seeped
in, he swore under his breath. “They ain’t got him,” he told her.

 
          
A
deeply-breathed “Thank God!” reached him.

 
          
“Can
yu grab my rope, make it fast to somethin’, an’ slide down?” he asked, and when
she eagerly promised, added an afterthought, “Fetch that food along—we’ll need
it.” He heard the window open and sent the loop of his rope spinning up to her;
she caught and went to secure it.