Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) (8 page)

 
          
“Yeah,
but Sloppy’s on his way to bring the Bar O,” Nippert informed. “Trouble is,
they’ve further to come. Now, I want you to get hold o’ the decent fellas an’
convince ‘em that our proper play is to hand over the marshal—if he’s guilty—to
Pinetown; we don’t hanker for any messy business here.” Meanwhile, Mullins and
his visitor were sitting in the kitchen at the back of his eating-house,
discussing a bottle and the situation.

 
          
“We
oughta rushed ‘em,” Javert grumbled.

 
          
“Yeah,
you an’ me would’ve bin the first to stop rushin’; that marshal swine’d take
care o’ that,” Jake countered acridly. “I’ve seen him shoot.”

 
          
“The
liquor-peddler
don’t
exactly undervalue hisself.”

 
          
“No,
it’s ‘bout time his comb was cut, an’ I’ve sent for the man who can do it. When
Jesse Sark an’ his riders git here we’ll be able to talk down to Mister
Nippert.” Javert’s evil eyes gleamed. “I hope we’ll be able to do more than
just talk,” he said viciously. “Why not git busy afore he comes?”

 
          
“D’you
figure
I’m dumb?” Mullins asked. “Come an’ see for
yoreself.” At the eastern end of the street they entered the Red Light’s rival,
if a low drinking and gambling den could be so termed.

 
          
Known
as “Dirty Dick’s” after its shaggy-haired and bearded owner, it was frequented
only by the tag-rag of the town. The place was full, and Jake chuckled as he
elbowed a path through the throng.

 
          
“Nippert
ain’t
so
popular as he fancies—half o’ the guys here
are customers o’ his,” he whispered.

 
          
A
bleary-eyed member of the company, balanced precariously on a table, was endeavouring
to make
himself
heard above the hubbub.

 
          
“I
shay it’s a blot on Welcome,” he bellowed thickly. “Here we got a col’-blooded
murd’rer—admits it, don’ he?—an’ we do nothin’. He’s our meat, we catched him,
an’ oughta string him up.” A chorus of savage oaths, and cries of “That’s the
ticket,” and “You said it, boy,” greeted the suggestion. The speaker swung his
hat and shouted, “Let’s go.” Jake grabbed the nearest stool and stood on it. “Hold
on,” he said harshly. The surge towards the door ceased.

 
          
“You
all know I wouldn’t willin’ly give that rat another minute to live, but I’m
tellin’ you to wait.

 
          
I’ve
sent for Sark an’ his boys—they should be here soon. Nippert ain’t a fool all
the time, an’ he’ll give in when he’s outnumbered three to one.” The man who
had asked the question turned to the others. “Jake’s right; there’s no sense in
gittin’ shot up unnecessary.”

 
          
SLOPPY
was cudgelling his brains for new words—expletives which would adequately
describe the state of one reduced to desperation and despair. He had got away
from Welcome unobserved, travelling west before swinging round to make for his
real destination. For a time all went well and then Fortune played a scurvy
trick. Descending the slippery side of a gorge his horse stumbled and went to
its knees; when it rose he saw that the poor beast was too badly lamed to carry
him. The Bar O was more than six long up and down miles distant, and as he
realized what the accident might mean, the little man lifted up his voice and
told the Fates just exactly what he thought of
them,
and it was plenty.

 
          
There
being nothing else for it, he walked—and talked—leading his mount, and pausing
on the top of every rise in the hope of seeing or being seen by a Bar O rider.
As he did this for about the twentieth time, his anger broke out afresh.

 
          
“O’
course,
they’s
all workin’ elsewhere—they would be,”
he raged. “If I was here to rustle cattle, I’d ‘a’ bin spotted right off.” He
toiled on over the rough ground and the unwonted exertion soon began to tell.
The vertical rays of the sun blazed down, sore and swollen feet made every step
painful, and since—for such a short journey—he had neglected to bring a
canteen, thirst was soon added to the other discomforts.

 
          
Doggedly
lie stumbled on. His legs became lead, requiring an effort to drag one after
the other, but he dared not stop, knowing that he would never start again.
Staggering blindly forward he tripped over a rock his weary eyes failed to
note, and went sprawling. He was struggling to stand up when a voice said:

 
          
“What
th’
devil ?”
Sloppy looked round, his lips moved, but
no sound came from them.

 
          
John
Owen—for he it was—slipped from his saddle, unslung his water-bottle, and held
it to the sufferer’s mouth. An eager swallow or two and Sloppy found his voice,
hoarse but intelligible.

 
          
“Was
a-comin’ for you—my bronc went lame. We gotta hurry,
it’s
life or death.
Git yore outfit.”
The Bar O owner was a
man of action. Though he did not know what it was all about, he realized that
the messenger had not endured the agonies of that long tramp without good
reason.

 
          
Stepping
into his saddle, he said:

 
          
“Get
up behind me—we can talk as we ride. Leave yore hoss, the boys will gather him
in later.” The little man obeyed, and sighed with relief when his aching
extremities were no longer on the ground. They had something less than two
miles to travel and they did it at speed, but by the time they reached the
ranch, Owen was in possession of the main facts.

 
          
“Ned’s
afeard that when
them
Dumbbell outcasts show up there’ll
be a necktie party. It’ll be my fault if we’re too late,” Sloppy finished
miserably.

 
          
“Skittles!
you
couldn’t help yore
hoss playin’ out on you,” Owen consoled.
“Might happen to
anybody.”
As soon as they sighted the ranch, he drew out his rifle and
fired three shots at equally-spaced intervals.

 
          
“That’ll
bring in most of ‘em,” he said. “They ain’t far afield to-day.”

 
          
“Don’t
I know it,” was the feeling reply.

 
          
They
found the place deserted, save for the Chinese cook —Owen was a bachelor.
Sloppy hobbled to the bench by the door, sat down, and emptied the glass his
host hastened to bring.

 
          
“
Gosh !
I needed that one,” he said, but refused a second. “I’ve
bin fightin’ shy o’ liquor lately, but I reckon a fella who can’t take one an’
leave it at that ain’t o’ much account.”

 
          
“Shorely,”
the rancher agreed, and then, “You think a lot o’ the marshal, don’t you?”

 
          
“He’s
done a deal for me.”

 
          
“An’
you say he admitted the killin’?”

 
          
“
yeah
, but he claims it was an accident.”

 
          
“He
didn’t deny bein’ this outlaw—Sudden?”

 
          
“No,
but I’ll bet there’s an explanation for that too,” the little man said stoutly.
“I’d stake my life on Jim bein’ straight.”
The scamper
of galloping ponies cut short the conversation, and Reddy, with four others,
raced in and pulled up, sending the dust and gravel flying.

 
          
“What’s
doin’, Boss?” the carroty one inquired, and noticing the visitor,” ‘Lo, Sloppy,
how’s the marshal?”

 
          
“Still
alive—I’m hopin’.” Reddy’s eyebrows lifted. “How come?” he
asked.

 
          
“No
time for chatter,” his employer cut in. “You’ll need fresh hosses, an’ bring
yore rifles.

 
          
We’re
for town—you can feed there.”

 
          
“Shore,
at the Widow’s—that’s worth ridin’ twenty-five mile for any day,” Reddy cried,
and swinging his mount round, darted for the corral.

 
          
But
precious time was lost waiting for more of the men to put in an appearance, and
when at length a start was made, Sloppy was in a fever of impatience; he knew
that the Sark contingent must have reached Welcome before he arrived at the Bar
O. If Nippert could hold them off … He glanced hopefully at these riders he had
come to fetch, familiar, all of them, yet he seemed to be seeing them from a
new angle. Instead of a band of reckless young devils,
who
played as they worked—hard, and were ready for any prank when they came to
town, he saw men with set faces which told that their task would be done—at any
cost.

 
          
Sloppy’s
fears were only too well-founded; little more than two hours after he had left
Welcome, Sark and his outfit rode in, and instead of pulling up, as usual, at
the Red Light, went on to Dirty Dick’s. Here their leader left them, and
repaired to Jake’s abode.

 
          
“Howdy,
Sark, this is Mister Javert, from Pinetown; Dutch will have told you ‘bout him,”

 
          
Mullins
greeted.

 
          
The
rancher acknowledged the introduction with a curt nod, sat down, and poured
himself a drink, his gaze on the swollen, battered features of his host.

 
          
“That
fella can certainly use his fists,” he remarked. “If I’d met you anywhere else
I wouldn’t ‘a’ knowed you.”

 
          
“He
had all the breaks, an’ at that I damn’ near got him,” Jake retorted savagely. “This
afternoon I’m goin’ to—” Dutch burst unceremoniously into the room. “I got
news,” he cried.

 
          
“Ned
disarmed the marshal when he locked him up, an’ took his belt into the Red
Light.”

 
          
“How
very thoughtless of him—might just as well have signed his death-warrant,” Sark
murmured.

 
          
“You
said it,” Jake gritted. “What’s yore strength, Sark?”

 
          
“Twelve, besides myself.”

 
          
“Thirteen
is an unlucky number,” commented Javert, who had all a gambler’s superstition.

 
          
“It
will be—for the marshal,” was the sinister answer. “Let’s move.” Dirty Dick’s
was a human beehive, and the motley crowd, reinforced by the Dumbbell riders,
fed Sark’s vanity with a cheer. From his saddle, the rancher addressed them:

 
          
“Well,
friends, I’m told you want me to argue with Nippert.”

 
          
“
Argue
nawthin’,” came a harsh voice. “We aim to take an’
string that gunman. Ain’t that so, fellas?” Affirmative yells answered the
question, and Sark, with a lift of his shoulders as one giving in to the
popular desire, led the way down the street. His cowboys closed in behind him,
and the mob followed.

 
          
Outside
the calaboose, the saloon-keeper, with less than a dozen men, stood on guard.
He had witnessed the arrival of the Dumbbell party, heard the riotous clamour
at Dirty Dick’s, and knew that an attempt would be made to deprive him of the
prisoner.

 
          
“Pity
you took away Jim’s guns,” Gowdy said. “If it comes to a battle, he’d be
useful.”

 
          
“I’ve
got his belt on under my coat,” Nippert replied. “If things git that far, I’ll
agree to fetch Jim out an’ slip it to him. Here they come.” Sark and his
outfit, rifles across their knees, had pulled up about ten paces away, and the
others spread out in a half-circle behind them, glaring with avid eyes at the
prison which held their prey. A menacing silence prevailed until Nippert spoke: