Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) (25 page)

 
          
A
few moments and she
was
back, but he would not let her
descend until he had tested the lasso by throwing his own weight upon it.
Anxiously he watched her scramble on to the sill.

 
          
“Grip
tight an’ come down slow—it ain’t far,” he warned.

 
          
Nevertheless,
she arrived with a rush, and would have fallen had he not been there to steady
her.

 
          
“My
hands—they’re on fire,” she murmured. “Oh, I never was so glad to see anyone,
but I knew—I hoped—you would find me. I think I can stand now.” Slinking along
in the shadow of the building, they made a dash across the open space, and
reached the spot where the horse had been left; there was no sign of it.

 
          
“You
haven’t mistaken the place?” the Widow asked. “No, there’s the branch I tied
him to—though that warn’t really necessary,” Dave replied. “It ain’t broke.”
They searched the surrounding brush without success, and then Dave said, “Well,
we’d never get out o’ this wilderness on foot; I’ll have to take a chance o’
swipin’ a pony, I guess.”

 
          
“Better
guess again, Masters,” a sarcastic voice advised. “A deppity-marshal ain’t
supposed to steal horses, an’ besides, it can’t be
did
.”
Dave whirled round, right hand on his gun, but could see no one. The voice
continued:

 
          
“Six
rifles are coverin’ you this moment, an’ we’re all hopin’ you’ll be obstinate.
Show him, fellas.” On all sides the moonlight glinted on gun-barrels thrust through
the foliage. Dave shrugged—resistance would be just suicide.

 
          
“The
pot is yores,” he said.

 
          
They
closed in on him and one took charge of his weapon. All were masked, a
circumstance which brought a sneer of contempt to the deputy’s lips.

 
          
“Yu
can take that rag off, Mullins,” he said to the leader. “Though I admit it
improves yore looks.”

 
          
“Clever,
ain’t you?” the ruffian replied. “If I hadn’t somethin’ else for you, somethin’
more interestin’, I’d blow you four ways this minit,” he threatened. “But—wait.”

 
          
“Whatever
the cost, it’ll be worth it,” Dave said defiantly.

 
          
“
you’ve
reached the limit a’ready,” was Jake’s reply. “Tie
him up an’ shove him in the wood-shed.” The young man had another inspiration. “See
here, I’ve had nothin’ to eat since mornin’; I won’t last no time at the
torture-stake if I’m starvin’.”

 
          
“Give
him grub; he’ll need to be good an’ strong tomorrow. I’ll ‘tend to the woman.”

 
          
Dejected
Mary Gray preceded him back to her prison. By the fitful light of the candle—which
was still burning—he surveyed her with evil exultation.

 
          
“Now
what do you think?”

 
          
“That
you are as great a liar as scoundrel,” she retorted, and for a moment her
sombre eyes regarded him.
“And that you have not long to
live, Jake Mullins.”
The sinister prophecy, uttered in a low passionless
tone, startled the bandit for the instant, but he threw off the eerie sensation
with a coarse laugh.

 
          
“Then
I’d best make the most o’ my time,” he gibed, and moved towards her.

 
          
Appalled
at his expression, she shrank back, whereat he laughed again, delighting in the
mental anguish he was inflicting. Cowering against the wall, faint with horror,
she knew that her fate hung in the balance. Then greed of gold triumphed over a
still baser appetite. Dave’s rope was still hanging from the window. He drew it
in and proceeded to secure her wrists and ankles.

 
          
“Safe
bind, safe find,” he quoted. “When I’ve dealt with yore lover, you an’
me’ll
have another li’l pow-wow.” He extinguished the candle
and went out, leaving her broken, despondent, her mind now obsessed by one fear
only—what would he do to the man who had risked all to rescue her?

 
          
Dave,
reclining with his head on a pile of kindling, was wakened in the morning by
the opening of his prison-door, and blinking in the sudden light, saw his
gaoler of the night before regarding him with an expression of amused surprise.
He noticed that the fellow was no longer masked.

 
          
“Got
rid o’ yore toothache, I see.”

 
          
“On’y
troubles me after dark,” the other grinned, and then, “If you knew what was
comin’
you wouldn’t be so peart.”

 
          
“Breakfast
is comin’, I hope,” was the jaunty reply.

 
          
The
gaoler reached a plate and steaming mug from behind the open door.
“Shore, I brung it, bread, fried hawg’sbelly, an’ corfy.”
The man slackened the rope on his wrists a little, and stood, gun in hand,
regarding him with reluctant admiration.

 
          
“Women
an’ food shouldn’t be kept waiting,” Dave remarked oracularly, and proceeded to
polish off the meal in quick time. This done, he rolled a cigarette, lighted
it, leaned back, sent a perfect smoke-ring quivering on the still air, and
resumed the conversation: “How come yo’re tailin’ after a fella like Jake—a
crook, an’ not smart at that? Lookit the mess he made o’ the bank affair.”

 
          
“Save
yore breath, Masters; you might as well try to corrupt me.” The interruption
came from Mullins himself, but if he expected the prisoner to be abashed, he
was mistaken.

 
          
“Which
would be a shockin’ waste o’ time—yu can’t corrupt anythin’ that’s rotten a’ready.

 
          
Beautiful,
here, tells me yo’re anxious about my health. Well, it’s fine an’ dandy.” The
sallow face darkened and became more malevolent.

 
          
“Good,
a well man dies the harder,” Jake replied.

 
          
Dave
looked round. “I allus wanted to pass out in the sunshine,” he replied coolly.

 
          
Jake’s
expression was that of a devil. “You’ll shore git yore wish—an’ regret it.
Fetch him along, hoys.” Four others appeared, leading horses. Dave was dragged
to his feet, hoisted into the saddle of his own pony, and securely tied. The four
mounted, and with their leader, closed in on him.

 
          
“So
long, Beautiful,” Dave said. “Pity yu gotta herd with the jackals—yu might ‘a’
been a reg’lar fella.” The gaoler watched them disappear into the woods. “He’s
got grit, that boy,” he muttered. “Too bad, but I can’t do nothin’.” Dave rode
in silence, his face set and unreadable.

 
          
Theywere following a faint trail, sun-splashed where a break in the
overhead foliage permitted the rays to penetrate, but for the most, darkened
and dismal.

 
          
Presently
they arrived at a small level clearing of sand and short grass hemmed in by low
bushes, and here the leader dismounted.

 
          
“This’ll
do fine,” he said.
“Plenty o’ sun—as I promised.”
Dave
stared about him curiously; there were no trees of any size adjacent. Mullins
read his thought.

 
          
“We
ain’t goin’ to stretch yore neck—that would be too easy, an’ wouldn’t near pay
what I owe you,” he said, and to his men, “Git busy.” Hauled from the saddle
and flung to the ground in the middle of the clearing—an operation which
resulted in sundry bruises for those who performed it—the prisoner was still
undaunted. Hands and feet were fettered, but his tongue was free. He knew that
he was about to die a lingering death; if he could provoke a swift one…

 
          
“Yo’re
a cowardly cur, Mullins,” he taunted. “If yu had the pluck of a rabbit, yu’d
deal with me yoreself, but yu get four other white-livered houn’s to do the job
yo’re afeard to handle.”

 
          
For
an instant he thought he had succeeded, for Jake stepped towards him, gun
gripped, stark murder in his eyes. Then he laughed, and motioned to his
minions.

 
          
Their
procedure was singular. Two of them held the victim down while the others
attached strong cords to his wrists and ankles, and drove four stout pegs into
the earth. His other bonds were then removed, each cord pulled tight and
secured to a peg, leaving him spreadeagled on his back, arms and legs at full
stretch. Jake, having inspected the knots, stood looking down with sadistic
satisfaction at the man he was about to leave to a dreadful fate.

 
          
“Take
yore fill o’ sunshine yo’re so fond of,” he said, and with a loathsome leer, “While
you frizzle here, I shall be with—Mary.”

 
          
“Jim
Green’ll send yu to hell for this,” Dave promised.

 
          
“I
think you’ll beat me to it. In two days I shall come an’ look at yore scattered
bones, picked clean by wolves, coyotes, buzzards or—somethin’.” Dave could not
see that his glance had gone to a little mound of sand at one side of the
clearing. He shot his last arrow.

 
          
“Two
days?
yore
own bones will be moulderin’ by then —yu
got the death sign on yu a’ready.” The shaft went home. With a savage curse,
the bandit climbed into his saddle. When one of the
band
asked a question, he shook his head.

 
          
“They’ll
happen on him, sooner or later,” he said. “An’ I hope it’ll be later.” They
departed, and for some time, Dave made no attempt to move; it was possible they
were watching, and he had no desire to afford amusement. Presently he raised
his head the few inches he was able, but no cackle of mirth greeted him, only
the chattering of the birds. Desperately he strained at the cords, but the pegs
were immovable, and the men who had tied the knots had done their work
thoroughly. Moreover, his position prevented him obtaining any purchase.
Repeated efforts failed to loosen the tie-ropes even a fraction, and at length
he gave it up as hopeless, and lay there, gazing into the blue dome in which
the sun hung, a polished brazen disc, with no vestige of cloud to dim its
radiance. In a few hours it would be directly above him, the vertical rays like
jets of flame, sucking the moisture from his body.

 
          
“A
couple o’ days,” he mused. “Fella can last that long without grub, but water …”
The sun had climbed higher, scorching his bared skin, and his limbs, held in
that one posture, were becoming numb and cramped. Wearily he closed his eyes,
but the rays seemed to pierce the lids, causing a dull ache.

 
          
But
however dire his extremity, a young, healthy man instinctively clings to life,
and Dave was no quitter. Wellnigh blinded by the incessant glare, his flesh
blistered, and his whole frame crying for water, he lay, supine, listless.

 
          
A
tiny bite, followed by another, aroused him. Twisting his head, he could just
see his right hand; several insects were crawling upon it, and more were coming.
Ants !
The significance of Jake’s last words was clear
enough now. They had found him, these terrible little scavengers, who in tens
of thousands would invade every inch of his carcass, and leave it only when
nothing remained save bones to bleach in the burning sun. In that one bitter
moment of realization Jake had his revenge, and then Dave steeled himself to
meet the agony to come.

 
          
WHEN
the marshal set out to search for his assistant, he rode straight to the
Dumbbell ranch-house. Sark, he argued, would be the first to fall under Dave’s
suspicion, and he hoped to pick up the missing man’s trail there. To his
surprise, he found the place deserted, but for the black cook, who eyed his
badge of office with evident trepidation.

 
          
“Where’s
yore master?” Sudden inquired.

 
          
“I
dunno, sah,” was the reply. “He’s out—deys all out.” The marshal took out a
coin, spun it in the air; and caught it; the darkie’s eyes gleamed at the glint
of the gold. “It usually pays to tell the truth, Juba—that’s yore name, ain’t
it?” he said, and when the
negro
nodded, “Right.