Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) (27 page)

 
          
“Put
him to sleep first; it makes surgery easier, and safe —for the operator,” Lyman
ironically advised. “Well, how are matters progressing?”

 
          
“Smooth
as silk,” Sark said, and produced the missive he had received from Mullins.

 
          
“It’s
a lot of money for us to lose,” the lawyer commented. “When are you collecting
the girl?”

 
          
“Early
mornin’; one more night in Jake’s company oughta put her in the mood to make me
welcome. Besides, holdin’ that brat, we got her cinched, an’ with Green settled—nobody
around her will be able to talk down to me.” The baleful, deep-sunk eyes of the
little man rested on him with malicious contempt; he hated this thing he had
created for his own purposes, realizing that it would turn and rend him at the
first opportunity.

 
          
“So
you’re prepared to pay off the mortgage?” he said quietly.

 
          
The
question brought Sark to earth again with a bump. In his exultation, he had
forgotten this dried-up specimen of humanity whose feeble fingers held him in a
steel vice. With a sulky look, he replied:

 
          
“You
know I ain’t got the dollars, Seth.”

 
          
“That
four thousand would help, eh?”

 
          
“I
gotta give it to Mullins—no other
way ”
He stopped.
Lyman had
risen
, his face suddenly furious. “You lie,”
he accused. “I was outside the bunkhouse door just now and heard what you told
your men.
Trick Jake out of the money if you can, but
planning to put it in your own pocket is double-crossing me, and for that I’ll
have you hanged.”
The violent outburst did not have the usual effect. “We
go together, remember,” Sark retorted.

 
          
“You’re
even a bigger fool than I thought,”
came
the sneering
reply. “What can they charge me with? It can’t be shown I ever saw Jesse Sark,
and when you came to me, knowing all about him and his affairs, why shouldn’t I
accept you as the real Simon Pure?”

 
          
“You
wrote the will.”

 
          
“At your uncle’s dictation, of course, as his man of business.
Who’s to prove he didn’t sign it? You needed money to pay your debts and for
running expenses, so I lent it to you on the security of the ranch—a perfectly
natural and lawful proceeding. No, I’m the innocent victim of your imposture,
and all I can be blamed for
is too easily believing
you the man you claimed to be.” The blood suffused Sark’s features. He knew it
was the truth. This wily old scoundrel had kept himself well in the background,
and his specious excuses would leave him his freedom. Like a wild beast in a
trap, he sought a way of escape, vainly, until the cold, jeering voice
suggested one.

 
          
“I
had nothing to do with the murder of Amos Sark,” it went on. “My evidence,
given for the State, while not incriminating me, will swing you high and dry,
Ezra Kent, and then I shall foreclose and the Dumbbell will be mine.” Though he
did not know it, the speaker had sealed his own fate. Caught in this spider’s
web of intrigue, Sark saw that, whatever happened, so long as this man lived,
he himself would never be more than a mere tool, a means to an end. In a frenzy
of fear and hatred, he snatched a knife from his belt, and as the lawyer turned
to go, drove it to the hilt between the thin, bowed shoulders. With a choking
grunt, Lyman sank in a huddled heap on the floor. Panting with passion, the
murderer stood over him, teeth showing in a wolfish grin.

 
          
“Do
yore squealin’ in hell,” he hissed.

 
          
Callously
he jerked out the weapon, wiped it, and replaced it in his belt. Then he lifted
the slack form, carried it upstairs, locked it in an empty room, and put the
key in his pocket. The lawyer’s horse he hid in a disused shed.

 
          
“Tomorrow
I’ll bury him an’ the hoss,” he decided. “An’ if Juba knows he was here …”

 
          
His
expression boded ill for the
negro
. “Wonder where
them
damn docyments is?” Absently he wiped
a wetness
from his fingers on the front of his shirt and
swore when he saw the red stain.

 
          
“Curse
it; can’t go a-courtin’ in clothes that’s all bloody; I’ll have to spruce up.”
It was late when the marshal arrived at the Dumbbell to find it wrapped in
silence. One gleam of light from the kitchen behind the bunkhouse alone showed.
There he found Juba, and learned that Sark and his men had ridden away earlier,
where, the cook did not know.

 
          
“Any
visitors
to-day?” Sudden asked.

 
          
“Sho
figure I see Mistah Lyman’s grey outside de house, but she ain’t dere no mo’.”

 
          
Sudden
rode away, but once out of sight, returned to the ranch-house. The door of the
living-room not being fastened, he went in, and lighted a candle on the table.
He did not know quite what he hoped to find, but it was certainly not the
sinister pool of red on the carpeted floor.

 
          
Blood;
and not yet dry. There was a splash a yard distant, and others, leading to the
door, the handle of which was moist and sticky. He followed the trail of spots
up the stairs to a locked door which a sturdy thrust of his shoulder burst
open. On the floor, face downwards, a man was lying. Setting down his light,
Sudden knelt beside him, noting the ugly gash in the black coat and the
spreading stain in the cloth.

 
          
“Stabbed
in the back,” he muttered, and turned the body over. “Lyman, by
thunder !
” He could detect no sign of life. Hurrying to the
kitchen, he told Juba of his discovery. “I’m afraid he’s dead, but see what yu
can do,” he said. “I’m goin’ after the red-handed rat
who
did it.” It was obvious that Sark had thrown off the shackles, and if he had
taken his men to the hide-out in the hills, some important move was impending,
and he could not doubt that this had to do with the presence there of Mary
Gray.

 
          
“I
shore hope Dave has stayed on that borried bronc,” he told himself. “If he ain’t,
we’ll be too late.” Dave had done not only that, but managed to convince the
animal that speed was an essential factor in their affairs. Nevertheless, since
riding a half-wild cow-pony without a saddle, and with only a hackamore to
guide it, is both a difficult and uncomfortable feat, it was a very sore and
weary young man who staggered into the Red Light, grabbed a glass and bottle
from another customer, poured, drank, and poured again.

 
          
Twenty
voices asked the same question.

 
          
“Yeah,
Jake’s got her hid up in the hills. Jim’s
there,
an’ I’ve
come for help. Ned, can yu get the boys organized while I rope in the Bar O?”

 
          
“You
snatch a snooze—yo’re done,” the saloon-keeper said. “I’ll fix things. Take him
away, Sloppy.”

 
          
“Is
Jim all right?” the little man wanted to know, as they went to the office.

 
          
“Shore,
when I left him.”

 
          
“An’ Mrs. Gray?”

 
          
“How
could she be, in the power of a rat like Jake?” Dave retorted irritably. “Jim
thinks Sark planned the kidnappin’.” Sloppy swore—a thing he did seldom. “If
that’s so, I’ll…”

 
          
“What?”

 
          
“Nothin’.
I guess I was talkin’ wild. Turn in; I’ll roust
you out in good time.”

 
          
“An’
roust me out a hoss, rifle, an’ six-shooter,” Dave said. “They got mine.”

 
          
“That’s
bad.”

 
          
“It’s
goin’ to be—for them,” the deputy promised. The twenty-four hours following the
frustration of her escape were passed by Mary Gray in a state of dull apathy.

 
          
Then,
after a day of deep despair, came a shaft of light which dissipated the clouds
and sent her to her knees in an agony of gratitude. A different man fetched her
supper, and as he put it down, whispered, “Yore friend has got away, but he’s
comin’ back.” Before she could say a word of thanks, he had hurried from the
room. Long after he had gone she sat gazing into the gloom, the food untouched.
Happiness possessed her.

 
          
It
was after midnight when Sark reached the hang-out alone, to find only Mullins
to receive him.

 
          
“Where
are yore fellas?” he asked.

 
          
“Oh,
they’re around,” was the answer. “Got the ransom?”

 
          
“Why
else should I be here? Have you got the girl?”

 
          
“Why
else should I send for you?” Jake countered. “Want-in’ to make shore?”

 
          
“
you
won’t git the coin until I do.”

 
          
“Pretty
early to wake her, but mebbe she won’t mind, seein’ yore errand,” Mullins said,
and pulled out a key.
“Top o’ the stairs—door on the left.”

 
          
“Ain’t
afeard I’ll run off with her?” Sark sneered.

 
          
“You
wouldn’t git far,” was the reply, and the rancher realized why the bandit
leader was alone. He grinned to himself as he went up; his men were “around”
too.

 
          
Mary
Gray had lain down in her clothes, and the rasp of the lock awoke her
instantly. She stood up, trying to pierce the darkness. Then a familiar voice
said:

 
          
“Don’t
be frightened, Mary; it is Jesse.” He stepped in, lighted the candle, and
looked round. “A filthy hole,” he commented. “Well, I’m here to take you out of
it. On’y got the news this afternoon, an’ I had to raise the money.”

 
          
“Money?”
she repeated.

 
          
He
handed her the note he had received. “Jake values you at four thousand; I
wouldn’t part with you for ten times that.” She read it, trying to fathom what
lay behind this amazing situation: one of the two men she most detested and
feared holding her to ransom, and the other paying it.

 
          
“Let
us go then,” she said quietly.

 
          
Sark
laughed. “It ain’t all that easy,” he replied. “I gotta settle with Jake first—an’
with you.”

 
          
“With
me?” she cried.

 
          
“Shore,”
he said eagerly. “
you
know what I want, Mary —allus
have wanted. We can ride to Drywash from here, git hitched, an’ you’ll be
mistress o’ the Dumbbell again.”

 
          
“Is
that part of the price Mullins is demanding?” Sark seized on the suggestion. “In
fact, it is,” he lied. “I didn’t wanta speak o’ that. Jake’s a queer chap. He
thinks Amos treated you shabby, an’ this is his way o’ puttin’ things right. I
guess he’s soft on you hisself.”

 
          
“But
he is willing to part with me for four thousand dollars. Well, I refuse to be
sold.”

 
          
“You
ain’t considered that letter very careful,” Sark protested. “Up to now these
fellas have behaved decent because they expected to make money out’n you. Take
that chance away an’…”

 
          
“They
will kill me?”

 
          
“No,
but you’ll live to wish they had,” was the brutal reply. “If yo’re relyin’ on a
rescue, Green an’ Masters are both dead, an’ nobody in Welcome knows where you
are.” She knew he was lying—Dave was alive and coming back to her. She must
gain time.