Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942) (2 page)

 
          
“Pleased
to meet you,” the other replied. “I’m Dan Dover. My dad owns the Circle Dot
range at Rainbow, ‘bout fifty mile on from here. Mebbe you know it?”

 
          
Green
shook his head. “This is my furthest west.” His steady gaze rested on his
companion. “What’s yore trouble?”

 
          
“Did
I mention any?”
came
the counter.

 
          
“No,
but a fella doesn’t come such a caper as this for fun. At first I thought it
was a bluff, but when I called it an’ yu went through, I knowed different.”

 
          
“Well,
yo’re right, there’s trouble to spare, an’ more ahead unless I’m wide o’ the
trail. I want a man—a real one, to help me deal with it.”

 
          
“My
guns ain’t for sale,” the stranger said curtly.

 
          
“I
don’t want ‘em, but the fella who comes to us has gotta be able to protect
hisself; we’ve had a hand killed an’ two more crippled pretty recent.”

 
          
“How come?”

 
          
“Shot
from cover—every time,” Dover informed bitterly.
“Sounds bad.
Got any suspicions?”

 
          
“Plenty, an’ nothin’ else.
See, here’s the layout: the
Circle Dot ain’t a big ranch—‘bout a thousand head just now—times is poor, but
it owns good grazin’ an’ water—a stream from the Cloudy Hills runs right
through our land.”

 
          
“Plenty
water is shore an asset.”

 
          
“
Yo’re
shoutin’, but it can be a liability. The Wagon-wheel,
located east of us ain’t so well fixed. They tried to buy us out—at their
figure—but we
wasn’t
interested, an’ that started the
feud.”

 
          
“Feud,
huh?”

 
          
“Yeah.
I warn’t but a little shaver in them days—mebbe it’s
ten year ago, an’ Dad don’t talk much. Gran’dad owned the ranch then. He was a
hard case; straight as a string, but mighty set in his ideas—it’s a family failin’,
I guess. He was the first to go; they found him laid out in a gully one
mornin’, with two slugs in his back. There was no evidence, an’ not much doubt
either—the Wagon-wheel had been pretty free with their threats. Tom Trenton,
father o’ the present owner, just grinned when my uncle Rufe—Dad’s elder
brother—taxed him with the crime. Rufe was a red-head—all the Dovers are—an’ he
pulled his gun, but bystanders grabbed his arms, an’ Tom went away with a gibe.
Oh, he’d ‘a’ shot it out willin’ enough; there ain’t
no
cowards in the Trenton family.”

 
          
“Yore
gran’dad was downed from behind,”
came
the reminder.

 
          
“Yeah,
that’s one o’ the things I can’t understand; from all I’ve heard, finishin’ a
fella thataway wouldn’t ‘a’ give Tom Trenton much satisfaction. Sounds odd, I
guess, but I
..”

 
          
“He’d
have wanted the other to know; I’ve met that sort.”

 
          
“Well,
however it may have been, he didn’t have long to crow, for a coupla months
later he was picked up half a mile from the Wagon-wheel with a bullet between
the eyes; his gun was lyin’ near, but it hadn’t been fired. There was a lot o’
talk, near everybody reckoned Rufe had done it, an’ as the Trentons owned the
sheriff—an’ do now—he had to pull his freight. Allasame, that didn’t end or
mend matters; the quarrel dragged on, an’ like a slow fire, flared up at
intervals.

 
          
Dad
is carryin’ round some slugs, but he don’t weigh much anyways, an’ Zeb Trenton
has a limp he warn’t born with. For some years now there’s on’y been bad
feelin’ till a few months back when the trouble started again. That’s why I’m
here.”

 
          
“Meanin’
yu an’ yore father can’t handle it?” Green said.

 
          
“Just
that,” was the frank reply. “Dad ain’t the man he was afore we lost mother—it
seemed to take the heart out’n him—an’ me, I s’pose I’m kind o’ young. Our
boys is
a good bunch, but they need a leader, someone with
more savvy than a kid they’ve watched grow up.”

 
          
Green
was silent for a while, considering the curious tale to which he had listened.
He was not enamoured of the proposal, but liked the maker of it. The boy was
straight, modest, and possessed the pluck to take his own medicine, as the
shooting incident proved. His mind went back to a little ranch in Texas; he had
been just such another youth. But the world had used him roughly since then, moulding
him into a man, experienced, dangerous, and when occasion demanded, ruthless.
It had also given him another name. For this was “Sudden,” whose daring
exploits and uncanny skill with weapons had earned an unenviable reputation in
the southwest.’

 
          
Presently
he made his decision. “I’ll see yore Ol’ Man.”

 
          
Dover’s
relief was obvious. “I’m right glad,” he said, and then, awkwardly, “Anythin’
holdin’ you in this dump?”

 
          
The
other smiled. “I can start straight away if yo’re ready.”

 
          
“I’ve
got a call to make at a ranch ‘bout five mile north. Mebbe you wouldn’t mind
goin’ ahead. You see, I didn’t like leavin’—Dad’s venturesome—just refuses to
realize how real the danger is.”

 
          
“Then
he won’t be expectin’ me?”

 
          
“No,
but any traveller is welcome at the Circle Dot, an’ once yo’re there, I guess I
can get him to see the light. I oughta told you this before, but—” He bogged
down, and then added, “If he’d knowed why, he wouldn’t ‘a’ let me come.”

 
          
Green
nodded; he had a mental picture of the rancher, proud, independent, a man who
had fended for himself all his life, and little likely to admit that misfortune
and growing years had lessened his ability still to do so. He knew the type,
rugged, sturdy fellows, who would fight to their last gasp of breath against any
aggression. The boy before him would follow the same pattern, if Fate so willed
it. He grinned back at the smiling but anxious eyes.

 
          
“I’ll
take a chance,” he said, and rose.

 
          
“Dessay
I’ll overtake you if I can persuade the owner o’ that black in the corral to
sell.”

 
          
“He
won’t part.”

 
          
“You
seem mighty shore. Is he a friend o’ yores?”

 
          
“That’s
somethin’ I’ve never been able to decide,” the gunman said with a sardonic
twinkle. “Yu see, the black is mine.”

 
          
Dover’s
expression was rueful. “Cuss the luck. Saw him this mornin’ when I turned my
bronc in; I never come so near to bein’ a hoss-thief.
Made up
my mind to buy him if it busted me.
He’s a peach.”

 
          
“He’s
a pal,” was the grave reply, and the young man—to whom also a horse was more
than a beast of burden—understood.

 
          
“Well,
life’s full o’ disappointments, ain’t it?” he rejoined cheerfully. “I guess I
won’t be overhaulin’ you; Thimble is a /Related in Sudden—Outlawed.
George Newnes Ltd. good li’l cowpony, but in a race that black
would make him look like he was standin’ still.

 
          
See
you at the Circle Dot, an’ o’ course, we’re strangers. If Dad thought I was
puttin’ one over on him, he’d dig his heels in an’ a team o’ mules wouldn’t
make him budge. But don’t get a wrong impression; he’s the finest fella I ever
knowed, but he’s got his own ideas.”

 
          
Green
laughed. “I’m a mite thataway my own self,” he confessed. “A saplin’ what sways
with every wind ain’t the tree to trust yore weight to.”

 
          
“Shore
is an up-an’-down country, an’ any fella what likes his scenery mixed couldn’t
rightly complain.”

 
          
It
was late in the afternoon, and the black-haired man from Sandy Bend, in default
of other companionship, was communing with his horse. The deeply-rutted trail
he had been following, after a steady climb, brought him to a small plateau
which afforded a view of what lay before. It was a daunting spectacle for the
unaccustomed eye—a vast rampart of grey-spired, arid-topped mountains, their
lower slopes shrouded by dense growths of yellow and nut-pine, stretched along
the horizon beneath the slowly sinking sun. They did not seem remote, but the
traveller knew they must be about forty miles distant. Between them and where
he sat lay a jumble of lesser hills, interspersed by valleys, sandy stretches
of sage, greasewood, and cactus, with innumerable tracts of timber.

 
          
“Reckon
we can’t be far from that Rainbow town,” Sudden continued. “I guess we won’t
trouble it. If that young fella was correct, headin’ south a bit should fetch
us to the Circle Dot, havin’ o’ course, lost our way. Might happen to anyone,
Nigger, ‘specially a fool hoss, huh?” At the mention of the name, the black
head swung round, the lips curled back from the white teeth.

 
          
“That’s
right, grin while yu can, yu of pie-buster, for I’ve a notion we’ll have little
to be amused about as time ticks along.”

 
          
He
rode on for a mile or so and came to a spot where the wagon-road forked, one
branch leading southwest. This was a smaller and less-used trail, formed—as the
tracks showed—mainly by cattle and horses. Sudden swung into it.

 
          
“Shore
oughta be a ranch at the end of it,” he soliloquized. “Which one
don’t
matter much to a stranger.”

 
          
The
trail proved easy to travel, winding snake-like to avoid obstacles such as
steep inclines, gullies, and thick plantations of trees, all of which would
render the passage of a herd difficult. Some miles were covered at an easy
pace, and then the muffled report of a rifle shattered the almost absolute
stillness. The horse pricked up its ears, and the rider spoke soothingly:

 
          
“Easy,
boy, it can’t be us they’re after,” he said. “Too far in front, an’ we ain’t
got enemies around here—yet. Allasame, we’ll be careful.”

 
          
A
pressure of a knee and the animal lengthened its stride. Sudden, no longer
sitting slackly in the saddle, kept keen eyes on the path they were following.
There were plenty of quite innocent reasons for the shot, but he was reaching
the region of a range war, and … A mile was traversed without further incident,
and he was beginning to blame himself for over-caution when he turned into a
sandy gully, the sides of which were hidden by brush. Here, nibbling at the
tussocks of coarse grass along the edge of the trail was a saddled pony, and a
few yards away, a man sprawled, face downwards.

 
          
To
all appearance, he might have been thrown by his mount, but an ugly red stain
between the shoulder-blades pointed to a more sinister explanation. Standing
beside the body, Sudden saw it was that of a man on the wrong side of fifty,
with thinning grey hair, and deeply-lined features. His eye caught the Circle
Dot brand on the grazing horse; what Dan Dover feared had come to pass. The
gunman’s face grew grim.

 
          
“The
cowardly skunk never gave him a chance,” he muttered, and with a glance at the
enclosing walls of vegetation, “Hell, he picked the right place too; small hope
o’ findin’ any traces.”

 
          
Nevertheless,
he fixed in his mind the exact position of the corpse in case it might assist
in locating the spot whence the shot was fired. Then he bent to examine the wound;
the bullet had smashed into the spine, and death must have been instant.

 
          
“Stick ‘em up.
Pronto!”

 
          
At
the harsh command the stooping man straightened—slowly, to face four horsemen
whose approach the soft, sandy floor of the ravine had deadened. Looking
unconcernedly into the muzzles of four rifles, he raised his hands, but only
far enough to hook the thumbs into the armholes of his vest.