Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942) (4 page)

 
          
“Easy
as fallin’ out’n a tree,” he muttered. A yellow gleam in the longer grass
proved to be a cartridge shell. “A thirty-eight—they ain’t so common.”

 
          
Close
by he picked up
a dottle
of partly-burned tobacco,
tapped from the bowl of a pipe; the assassin had solaced himself with a smoke
while waiting for his victim. There was nothing else, but in a nearby clump of
spruce he found hoof-marks, a branch from which the bark had been nibbled, and
several long grey hairs. He followed the tracks down to where they merged with
many others in the main trail, and could no longer be picked out. Dover was
waiting.

 
          
“Any
luck?” he asked.

 
          
“Not
enough to hang a dawg on,” Sudden admitted, and told of his discoveries.

 
          
“Trenton
uses a pipe,” the boy said. “Let’s be goin’.”

 
          
They
set out, and the sad burden on the third horse kept them silent. There was but
a scant five miles to cover, most of it over open plain splotched by thorny
thickets, patches of sage, and broken only by an occasional shallow arroyo.
Soon they came upon bunches of cattle contentedly grazing on the short,
sunburned grass, and presently the ranch-house was in sight.

 
          
A
squat building of one storey, solidly constructed of trimmed logs chinked with
clay, it stood on the crest of a slope and afforded a wide view of the
surrounding country. It had been erected for utility rather than elegance in
the days when raiding redskins were not unknown, and save for three great
cedars which provided a welcome shade, there was nothing bigger than a
sage-bush for hundreds of yards all round. A little apart were the bunkhouse,
outbuildings, and corrals. At the foot of the slope a double line of willows
and cottonwoods told the presence of a stream. As they pulled up outside, a
grizzled, bow-legged little man came out, stared, and as he recognized the
laden pony, ripped out an oath.

 
          
“Hell’s
flames, boy, what’s happened?” he demanded. Dover dismounted wearily. “They got
Dad, Burke,” he said gruffly. “Tell you about it presently. Help me take him
in.” So the rancher came home for the last time. The sad spectacle was watched
by a thin-featured, sunken-eyed youth of about seventeen who had crept to the
door. He shrank aside to let the bearers pass, and then swung round, face
buried in a bent arm, and shoulders shaking.

 
          
“It
shore is tough luck,” Sudden consoled. “Don’t take it too hard.”

 
          
“He
was mighty good ter me,” came the mumbling reply.

 
          
“We
all gotta go—some time.”

 
          
“Yep,
but not that way—widout a chanct,” the lad replied fiercely. “Gawd, if I was
on’y a man, ‘stead of a perishin’ weed, I’d cut
th
’
hearts out o’ th’—” He finished with a torrent of vitriolic expletives.

 
          
“Yu
ain’t got yore growth yet, son,” the puncher said.

 
          
“Growth?”
the boy echoed bitterly. “What yer givin’ me? I’m a longer—one o’ Gawd’s
mistakes what nobody wants, an’ I’d ‘a’ croaked by now if it hadn’t bin fer
him.”

 
          
A
violent spasm of coughing racked his spare frame.

 
          
A
few moments later, Burke reappeared. “Dan’ll be along presently,” he began.
“He’s told me about you, Mister, an’
I
wanta say right
out that yo’re mighty welcome, ‘specially now. By the time we git shut o’ the
hosses, supper’ll be ready; we got a good cook, if he is Irish.”

 
          
As
they returned from the corral, carrying saddles, rifles, and blankets, the
little man spoke again:

 
          
“This
is a knockdown blow for
Dan,
he fair worshipped his
dad, which goes for the rest of us. It was fear o’ this happenin’ sent him to
the Bend. I’m goin’ to git a good man, Burke,’ he told me this mornin’, òne
who’ll put the fear o’ death into these cowardly dawgs.’ He glanced sideways at
the tall, lithe figure for each of whose long strides he had to take two. Ì’m thinkin’
he was lucky.’ ”

 
          
“How many on the pay-roll?”
Sudden asked.

 
          
“Eight
of us in the bunkhouse,” Burke replied. “I’m the daddy o’ the outfit—bin here
goin’ on twenty year.”

 
          
“I’m
takin’ it yo’re foreman.”

 
          
“We
never had one—the Ol’ Man ran his own ranch; you might call me sorta
straw-boss.”

 
          
“Yeah,
but now—”

 
          
“See
here, Mister—

 
          
“Make
it `Jim’.”

 
          
“I’m
obliged. Well, Jim, it’s thisaway: I’m a good cowman an’ so is the boy; I’ll
fight to a fare-you-well an’ he’ll do the same, but that ain’t enough in a war,
which is what yo’re hornin’ in on. The Circle Dot needs a fella with
experience; Dan ain’t had
none
, an’ I’ve had too
much—old men git sorta fixed in their notions.” A faint smile passed over the
wrinkled, sunburned features.

 
          
“Once
I had dreams o’ ownin’ a ranch, but now I ain’t got no ambition a-tall, but I’d
like to go on bein’ straw-boss.”

 
          
Sudden
nodded, realizing the tragedy behind the simple statement; the mounting years
of hard, dangerous work for a bare living, the gradual extinction of hope, and
the prospect of poverty when the heavy hand of Time prevented him from
following the only occupation he knew.

 
          
The
living-room of the Circle Dot ranch-house was spacious, with a great stone
fireplace, in front of which lay a fine grizzly pelt. The furniture comprised a
table, desk, and chairs, solid but suggestive of ease. Saddles, guns, and other
ranch gear made it comfortably untidy for a man. Burke read the stranger’s
thought.

 
          
“Dave
wouldn’t have a woman in the place after he lost his wife,” he explained. “I
reckon Paddy—he’s the cook—ain’t got the instincts of a home-maker.”

 
          
At
that moment Dan came in, haggard, but grim-faced. “You’ll feed with us
to-night, Bill,” he said. “We gotta talk things over.”

 
          
The
meal was brought in by the cook, a short and incredibly fat man, whose chubby
countenance wore an expression of gloom utterly out of keeping with his
deep-set twinkling eyes. While they were despatching it, Dan related the
happenings of the day, and by the time the tale ended, Burke was regarding the
newcomer with increased respect.

 
          
“How
did Dad come to be on that trail?” Dan asked finally.

 
          
“Came
to meet you,” was the reply. “He had a message askin’ him to, left by a
stranger who claimed to have run into you; must ‘a’ bin soon after you
started.”

 
          
“I
never sent it, an’ didn’t see a soul till I was halfway to the Bend; it was
just a trap.”

 
          
Another
thought brought his brows together. “Nobody outside o’ here knowed I was goin’
—I on’y decided this mornin’.”

 
          
“Either
they’re watchin’ yu, or someone passed the word,” Sudden remarked. “Shore o’
yore hands?”

 
          
“They’ve
all been with us some time ‘cept one, who came a few months back. Dunno much
about him—Dad warn’t the suspectful sort, unfortunately.”

 
          
Sudden
smothered a smile; Dave Dover had passed on his trustfulness to his son
apparently, as witness his own case.

 
          
“Flint
is wise to his work, an’ does it,” Burke put in.

 
          
“If
he’s here for a purpose, he’d naturally wanta stay,” Sudden pointed out. “Who’s
the boy?”

 
          
“Dad
picked him up at the Bend ‘bout twelve months ago.
Just a
hobo kid stealin’ a ride on a freight car what come further west than he
figured on.
He was precious near starved, an’ his lungs is all shot to
pieces. Wouldn’t give any name, but he talked a lot o’ New York, so the boys
christened him `yorky.’ He’s s’posed to help the cook, but spends most of his
time smokin’ cigarettes an’ damnin’ everythin’ an’ everybody.

 
          
“A
queer li’l runt—‘pears to have a spite agin hisself—but he’s got guts. Soon
after he arrived, he goes with one o’ the men in the buckboard to Rainbow. Said
the ranch was deadly dull, an’ he wanted some excitement. He got it. The
storekeeper’s son, a big lummox of a lad an’ the town bully, started on him.
They fought, an’ Yorky was fetched home with a bruise on every inch of his
body. But not a chirp could we git out’n him.—.”

 
          
“Dad
was hoppin’ mad. He rides into Rainbow next mornin’, learns the truth, an’
tackles the storekeeper. ‘I want a word with your boy, Evans,’ he sez. `You
needn’t to trouble, Dover, he’s had his lesson,’ the storekeeper replies.
`Right now he’s in bed, both eyes bunged up, two teeth missin’, an’ a neck what
looks like he’d had a turn-up with a cougar.’

 
          
“`Yorky
was half-dead to begin with, an’ yore boy twice his weight,’ Dad points out.

 
          
“`Mebbe,
but the half what ain’t dead is lively enough,’ Evans retorts. `He fought like
a wild thing—fists, feet, teeth, an’ nails, anythin’ went, an’ when I drags ‘em
apart, he stands there spittin’ out blood an’ curses. “No blasted hayseed can
call me names an’ git away with it,” he sez, an’ keels over.’ ”

 
          
Dan
was silent for a moment, his eyes sombre. “That was Dad,” he said. “Hard as
granite at need, but with ever a soft spot for sufferin’ in man or beast; I’ve
knowed him mighty near kill a man for maltreatin’ a hoss.” He roused himself,
striving to thrust aside the burden of grief which oppressed Hun. -Well, this
ain’t gettin us no place. Burke, l’m minded to ask Green to be foreman.”

 
          
“What
you
say,
goes, Dan,” the little man replied steadily:
Sudden shook his head. “That won’t do nohow; I’ve a better plan,” he said.
“Burke here, knowin’ the range an’ the outfit, oughta be foreman; that’s on’y
right an’ fair. I can be more use to yu if I ain’t tied. Call me stray-man,
say; that’ll give me a chance to snoop around, learn the country; an’ keep my
eyes an’ ears open.”

 
          
Burke’s
despondent face brightened amazingly at this proposition, but Dover still
seemed doubtful. “I’d like a lot for Bill to have the job—it’s due him,” he
admitted. “But it
don’t
seem much to offer you.”

 
          
“Shucks!”
was the smiling reply. “It ain’t what a man’s called but what he does that
matters.”

 
          
“If
Jim slept here ‘stead of in the bunkhouse he’d be less liable to have his
comin’s an’ goin’s noticed,” Burke suggested.

 
          
“Which
is one damn good notion,” Dover said eagerly. “I’ll be glad to have you, Jim;
it’s goin’ to be lonesome …” He broke off and swept a hand across his eyes as
though to disperse the mist of misery which enveloped him every time he thought
of his loss. “Hell
burn
them,” he burst out. “They
shall pay, the curs.” The moment of fury passed, and he looked up wearily.

 
          
“Didn’t mean to let go thataway.
Burke, the boys will have
the bad news by this; go an’ tell ‘em the good—‘bout yoreself; I reckon they’ll
be as pleased as I am.”

 
          
“I’m
obliged, Dan,” the foreman replied. “I’ll do my best.” He turned to Sudden.
“I’m thankin’ you too, Jim; mebbe I was lyin’ about that ambition.”

 
          
“Yu
didn’t deceive me, ol’-timer,” the puncher grinned.