Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) (3 page)

 
          
“I
said you had acted
unwisely,
an’ unfairly to Mullins,”
Sark corrected. “He’s the better man.”

 
          
“An’
me a stranger to yu,” Sudden said softly.

 
          
“He
can shoot quicker an’ straighter than anyone in these parts,” the rancher
asserted meaningly.

 
          
“Well,
that makes it easy for him—mebbe,” the marshal retorted. “All he has to do is—prove
it.”

 
          
“He’ll
do that, give him the chance,” Sark promised, and with an ugly scowl, slouched
out.

 
          
Nippert
looked a little apprehensive. “Jake’s mighty good on the draw,” he offered.

 
          
Sudden’s
smile was enigmatic. “He shall have his chance, but not in the way that fella
thinks. I reckon
there’s
others around here who fancy
their shootin’ some?”

 
          
“Shore
is.”

 
          
“Good,
we’ll stage a li’l contest.” He went on to explain his proposal, and as he
listened the saloon-keeper’s face expanded in a broad grin.

 
          
So,
in the Red Light that evening, the saloon-keeper contrived to start an argument
on marksmanship, always a fruitful topic of interest among Westerners.

 
          
“I
reckon shootin’ ain’t what it used to be,” he opined. “Where are you goin’ to
find fellas like Bill Hickok, Doc Holliday, an’ the Earps, to name on’y a few?”

 
          
“Right
here in thisyer town—mebbe,” Jake retorted. “I’m holdin’ that
the doin’s o’ the ol’-timers ain’t lost nothin’ in the tellin’
—tales
don’t as a rule.” Nippert, who had been angling for this, smiled genially. “Boys,
we’ll try it out,” he said. “Welcome ain’t had much excitement recent an’ a
gun-slingin’ match, free to all comers, oughta be interestin’. I’ll put up
fifty dollars as a prize. It’ll take place the third day from now; I guess some
o’ the Bar O an’ Dumbbell outfits’ll want to take a hand.” The proposal was
received with acclamation and wagering on the result began immediately, Mullins
being easily the most fancied competitor. This swift popularity was fully in
accordance with
his own
views.

 
          
The
news of the contest spread rapidly, and despite the fact that the result was
regarded as foregone, there was a goodly gathering to look on or take part.
John Owen, of the Bar O, with Reddy, his foreman, and some of the punchers had
ridden in. Sark brought a half-dozen of his riders, craggy-featured,
rough-looking, and rather older than those from the other ranch. The two groups
kept apart, for there was no friendship between owners or outfits.

 
          
The
crowd was congregated in front of the calaboose, on one of the stout timbers of
which a card—the five of diamonds—had been nailed breast-high. From this,
Nippert stepped twelve paces and laid down a short board.

 
          
“Reckon
that’s about right,” he said. “What
d’you say
, John?”

 
          
“Seems fair to me.”
The owner of the Bar O was a tall, thin
man in the middle fifties, with a long face on which a smile was seldom seen.
His black coat, dark trousers thrust into the tops of his spurred boots, and
soft felt hat added to the gravity of his appearance.

 
          
“Who
are you aimin’ to gamble on, Red?” Owen asked.

 
          
“Well,
they all ‘pear to think there’s on’y one man in it, but I got my own notions,”
the young man replied.
“Hey, Jake, what odds yu offerin’ on
yoreself?”

 
          
“I
ain’t heard the conditions yet.” At that moment Nippert held up a hand for
silence.

 
          
“Entrants
will stand on the board, draw an’ fire on the word from me. One shot only, an’
any hesitation will disqualify,” he announced.

 
          
Mullins
laughed. “Snap-shootin’—that suits me fine. You can have four to one, cowboy.”

 
          
“Take
yu to five dollars.”

 
          
“Chicken-feed,
but every little helps,” Jake said insolently.
“Any more
donations?”

 
          
“I’ll
take the same bet—twice,” Owen said quietly. “An’ I’ll go you—once.” The layer
of odds spun round and saw that the last speaker was Sloppy. “You?” he jeered. “I
don’t trust wasters.” Sloppy searched his clothing, produced a crumpled bill,
and gave it to Owen. “Now you cover that,” he challenged. “Me, I don’t trust—anybody.”
Jake’s face was furious. “Why, you drunken little rat” he began, but the
rancher intervened.

 
          
“He’s
put up his stake, an’
it’s
on’y fair for you to do the
same,” he pointed out.

 
          
Having
no wish to quarrel with the Bar O man, the bully handed over the twenty. “You
won’t have it long,” he boasted, and turned to his latest client. “As for you,
next time yo’re starvin’ don’t come to my place beggin’ for a square meal.”

 
          
“Nobody
never
does git a square meal there, even if they pay
for one,” Sloppy retorted, with unusual hardihood.

 
          
The
bystanders sniggered, for Jake’s “place” was the local eating-house,
grandiloquently styled “The Welcome Restaurant,” and famous for neither quality
nor quantity. Jake opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again as the marshal
came up to greet Reddy and be presented to his employer. They shook, and the
rancher’s eyes travelled from the lean face to the worn butts of the guns in
his belt.

 
          
“Goin’
to have a try, marshal?” he asked.

 
          
“Why,
mebbe I will.”

 
          
“Wanta
risk anythin’ on yore chance?” Jake
invited .
“I never
gamble on my shootin’.”

 
          
“Well,
you know it better’n we do,”
came
the sneer. “Hello,
they’re startin’.” The onlookers were closing in, taking advantage of any
inequality in the street—and they were many—which would give them a better
view. Amid cheers and ironical advice, the first competitor—Gowdy—took up his
position on the board and, at the word, snatched out his gun and fired, missing
the target by nearly a foot. Shouts of laughter rewarded the effort.

 
          
“You
hit the calaboose, anyways,” one comforted.

 
          
“Yeah,
an’ if you’d bin standing where the card is you wouldn’t be chirpin’ none,” the
storekeeper grinned.

 
          
And
indeed, as one after another men stepped forward and shot, it became evident
that Gowdy’s attempt was better than it had seemed, for few of the citizens did
as well, and Chips—the carpenter—covered himself with ignominy by hitting the
sand yards in front of the building.

 
          
“Them
`rickoshay’ shots need a lot o’ practice,” Rapper said gravely, as the unlucky
marksman retired in confusion to face the banter of his friends.

 
          
Among
the competitors were many who knew that only a lucky fluke could gain them the
prize, and when this did not materialize, they accepted defeat with
good-humoured grins. But there were others who took the affair seriously—the
punchers, to whom victory meant more than a month’s pay, and a reputation.

 
          
The
Dumbbell representatives fired first, and though their lead thudded all round
it, the target remained undamaged. The Bar O followed, and Reddy—the star
performer—got within an inch, the best so far, a feat which gained him a round
of applause.
The ranchers and Nippert having declined to
compete—the latter modesty stating that he did not wish to win his own money—Mullins
swaggered forward, a confident smirk on his face.
Feet firmly planted on
the board, right hand hanging in close proximity to his gun, he waited the
word, and when it came the report followed almost instantly. It was a good draw
and shot, for the bullet cut a neat half-circle out of the top of the card. He
looked triumphantly at the saloon-keeper.

 
          
“I’ll
trouble you for that fifty,” he said.

 
          
“Back
up an’ git out’n the way,” was the reply. “There’s another to come.” Mullins
turned to see the marshal waiting to take his place.

 
          
If
he could have read the officer’s smile aright he would not have made his next
remark,

 
          
“I’m
layin’ five to one he can’t better my shot.”

 
          
“Yo’re
on—fifty dollars to ten,” Nippert snapped, adding, “This fiesta ain’t goin’ to
cost me nothin’ after all.” The wager concentrated attention still more on the
man who, with bowed head, stood slackly waiting for the signal.

 
          
No
one there had seen those guns drawn from their holsters, and his aversion to
using them was known. Certainly he did look like a world-beater, and his
seeming indifference worried the saloon-keeper.

 
          
“Ready?”
he called. “Go!” As the word left his lips the marshal’s right gun rose
hip-high, exploded, and the middle pip on the card was blotted out. Then,
quicker than a man could count, came four more shots, each of which partly
obliterated a corner diamond.

 
          
Thrusting
the smoking weapon back into his belt, the marshal turned away without even a
glance at the target. The jarring crash of the gun was followed by a complete
silence; the speed, deadly accuracy, and absence of undue care betrayed a
mastery the like of which no man there had ever seen, and for the moment they
were dumb. Reddy was the first to recover.

 
          
“My
Gawd!” he said, in a tone of awe. “An’ I nearly pulled on him the day he
come
.”

 
          
The
naive remark raised a laugh and relieved the tension. Then came the applause,
for even those who had lost their money on Mullins could not refuse this
tribute to superlative skill. But the man who, in the very moment of triumph,
had received this shattering
blow
to his conceit,
stood motionless, his murderous eyes on the stranger who had again beaten him.
A bystander provided a vent for his rage.

 
          
“Tough
luck, Jake,” he commiserated.

 
          
“Keep
yore blasted sympathy for them as needs it,” Mullins snarled, and stalked away.

 
          
“A
pore loser, as I told you,” Nippert said to the marshal. “Here’s the prize, an’
you shorely won it.” Sudden did not take the proffered money. “It’s comin’ back
to yu,” he smiled, and raising his voice, “Everybody drinks with the winner.”
This produced another cheer and the crowd promptly headed for the Red Light.
Nippert followed, having first removed the target, which some of the curious
were examining.

 
          
“This’ll
be somethin’ to show next time there’s any talk about gun-play,” he remarked,
and in reply to a question, “No, it was a surprise to me—I’d never seen him
shoot.”

 
          
“I’ve
met some o’ the best in my time, but …” Owen finished with an expressive shrug.

 
          
“Yeah,
an’ you’ll be sorry yet,” Sark rapped back. “A fella who can sling a gun like
that is bound to have a dirty record, an’ I’ll bet there’s a sheriff or two
lookin’ for him right now.”

 
          
“They’ll
be unlucky if they find him, I’d say,” Reddy grinned.

 
          
Later,
when the crowd had dispersed, the storekeeper drew Nippert aside and
congratulated him.

 
          
“It
was Jim’s notion. Look at it: he puts it over Mullins, services notice on the
other rough-necks that he’s dangerous to monkey with, an’ no blood spilled.
He
shore is a methodis’.”