Sudden--At Bay (A Sudden Western #2) (8 page)

A chair shifted inside the jail, and footsteps
approached the door, stopping behind it.

‘
Who’s there?’ called a man’s
voice.

‘
Helm, Jackson Sudden said
gruffly. ‘Open up!’

He heard the bolts being withdrawn
behind the door, which opened about three inches to reveal a
whiskery face peering around the edge. The bulging eyes crossed
along the barrel of Green’s .45, cocked and deadly, which he had
whipped upwards to almost touch the man’s nose.

‘
One sound an’ yo’re the
late
Mr. Jackson,’ Sudden
grated. ‘Open up an’ back in!’

Jackson complied, his eyes still bugging at the
appearance of this man he thought long since murdered.

‘
Yo’re thinkin’ I’m mebbe a
ghost?’ jibed Sudden. Indeed, Jackson’s hands were trembling as if
Green were a real apparition.

‘
Turn around!’ snapped Sudden, and
the man complied hastily. A merciless blow with the barrel of the
.45 dropped Jackson like a sack of flour on the floor. Rummaging
around, Sudden found some rawhide thongs in a drawer of the
Sheriff’s desk, and efficiently bound Jackson’s hands and feet. A
tight gag completed the work, leaving Sudden free to spend another
two or three minutes finding his own guns and gun belts. Strapping
them on, he moved cat-footed into the corridor which led to the
cells. Memory guided him to the door, and he slammed the bolts
back, swinging the door wide to reveal Billy Hornby sitting with
his head in his hands, gazing morosely at the floor.

‘
Yu’ll never win my heart with a
face like that,’ Sudden said, and almost burst out laughing at
Billy’s exaggerated reaction to seeing him in the
doorway.

‘
Jim!’ gasped the boy. ‘How in the
name o’—’

‘
All done by mirrors,’ Green told
him. ‘Less questions an’ more action. On yore feet —-here, catch!’
he tossed the boy his spare gun belts and guns, the ones he had
stripped from the scar-faced Norris. ‘Time to get out o’ here,
afore Sleepin’ Beauty wakes up,’ he told Billy.

‘
Jim, I never thought I’d see yu
again,’ Billy said as he strapped on the gun belt. ‘How in
tarnation did yu get loose?’

He slapped the holsters into a
comfortable position and looked up as Green said ‘Later. First of
all we got to get clear o’ here. Listen to me: across the street a
hoss is tethered. It’s Doc Hight’s. Walk across there. Don’t run,
don’t even move fast. Act as natural as yu can. I’m goin’ around
the back to get my hoss down at the bridge. When yu get on the hoss
outside the Doc’s walk him down to the bridge. By that time I’ll be
mounted up. As soon as yu see me, turn him loose an’ head after me.
Yu got it straight?’

He looked keenly at the boy, who seemed preoccupied
with other thoughts.

Billy looked up blankly. ‘Oh:
shore, Jim. Don’t worry none.’

‘
Yu alright, Billy?’ the puncher
asked.

Billy looked surprised. He slapped
the guns at his side. ‘Shore, Jim. I’m fine, now. Go on, we better
git movin’.’

Frowning slightly. Sudden opened
the rear door of the jail house and after checking that the coast
was clear, edged along the back of the building and across the open
land towards the declivity which bordered the river. He slid down
it, watching from the corner of his eye for Billy to appear by the
horse outside the doctor’s house. The boy was not yet in sight,
perhaps blocked from Sudden’s view by the bulk of the jail. He
sloshed through the shallows of the river to where Midnight stood
patiently awaiting his master. He was just about to untie the reins
when he heard Billy Hornby’s clear young voice yelling:

‘
Buck Cotton! Come out
here!’

The boy had gone back to the saloon.

Buck Cotton was not in the Oasis. He had left town
for the ranch with his two brothers perhaps half an hour before
Sudden had released Billy Hornby from the jail, immediately after
Sim Cotton had given some special instructions to the Sheriff.

The conference had taken place in Mott’s house, the
banker sitting quietly in a corner of his own parlor, his eyes huge
as he listened to what Sim Cotton was saying. Harry Parris stood,
threading the brim of his hat through nervous fingers, around and
around, licking his lips occasionally but otherwise silent.

‘
I want that kid out o’ my hair,’
rumbled Sim Cotton. ‘Yu savvy, Harry? I want him gone —-no more
problems, no more wild talk, no gossip, just gone. I’m leaving Helm
to help yu.’

Parris’ eyes met Helm’s briefly. He wanted to
protest, but something in the man’s flat gaze stopped him.

‘
Yu don’t need to do that, Sim,’ he
said, a faint air of complaint in his voice. ‘My boys can take care
o’ things.’

‘
Mebbe they’ll be tired after their
long ride,’ Helm put in quietly. ‘It’s hard work. Yore boys didn’t
ought to have to do all the hard work, Harry.’

‘
They ain’t—–’

‘
Yore boys, that’s right,’ snapped
Sim Cotton. ‘So what I say goes, right? An’ what I say is, I want
this job done properly. Which means I want Helm to handle
it.’

‘
I wish yu’d let
me
take care o’ that
son-of-a-bitch,’ Buck Cotton interposed. ‘I shore owe him
somethin’.’

‘
Yu?’ Sim Cotton laughed out loud.
‘From what I hear yu was wettin’ yore pants when he come after yu
with a gun in the Oasis. Hell, boy, I wouldn’t put yu in charge o’
drowning three kittens in a gunnysack!’

Buck Cotton’s face set angrily, and he bit his lip.
He knew better than to retort, however. Being Sim Cotton’s brother
would not exclude him from Sim’s violent methods of dealing with
anyone who opposed his dictator’s will.

‘
Well, whatever yu say, Sim,’
Parris said, eventually. ‘Although I can’t see…’

‘
Yu don’t have to see,’ was the
brutal rejoinder. ‘Yu just do what I tell yu, yu broken-down
imitation.’

Parris bridled at this tongue
lashing. ‘Now see here, Sim, there ain’t no call to take that kind
o’ line with me. I —–’ he stopped in mid-sentence. Sim Cotton was
regarding him with baleful eyes, and Art was leaning forward in his
chair with a peculiar light dancing in his eyes.

‘
Yu want me to talk to Harry some,
Sim?’ asked Art. Parris went cold at these words. Art Cotton was
one of the dirtiest, roughest fist-fighters he had ever seen in
action; the cold light in his eyes came from, Parris was sure, a
pathological hatred of his fellow man. Art Cotton was never happier
than when he was using his hands. Parris had seen him once beat up
a man they had caught with two stolen Cottonwood steers in his
possession. Art had sy
stematically,
scientifically beaten the man into a raw and bleeding
pulp, whimpering for mercy, helpless, blinded in
his own blood. And the man had been hard, tough -and nobody had
held him. He looked beseechingly at Sim Cotton.

‘
No need for that Art,’ rumbled the
rancher, and a great sigh of relief escaped involuntarily from
Parris’ fat lips. ‘Harry’s scared enough just thinkin’ about it.’
The rancher laughed aloud, an ugly sound.

‘
All right, there’s nothin’ else
for us to do here. I’m headin’ back for the ranch. Yu, Buck, leave
yore horse here. Helm’ll need a better nag than he’s got, to get
back to the ranch by tomorrow. I want yu to get back as fast as yu
can, Helm. Art, yu stay here —-make shore everything’s taken care
of, an’ properly. Bucky, let’s go.’

They got their horses and rode out of town, leaving
one of the Cottonwood riders with Helm and Art Cotton. After their
departure, the three Cottonwood men went down the street to the
saloon. They were playing a desultory game of monte over a drink
when Billy Hornby’s words sliced the silence of the afternoon.

As the boy’s challenge rang in the still room, the
rider, whose name was Ricky, was lolling backwards on his upright
chair. He went over backwards in a flailing, startled welter of
arms and legs.

Art Cotton swore at him and
struggled to disentangle himself from the man’s grasp, for Ricky
had clutched at him as he fell, almost dragging Art to the floor
with him. Blass, who had been polishing glasses behind his bar,
froze in mid-polish, but did not fail to notice that Helm had risen
to his feet in one smooth movement, the right hand gun snaked from
the tooled holster without apparent thought.

‘
Well, well,’ said Helm in
amazement, as Cotton and Ricky scrambled to their feet. ‘It sounds
as if our li’l rabbit done broke out o’ his hutch.’ He turned to
the bartender. ‘Don’t yu make the mistake o’ openin’ yore
squawkbox,’ he warned Blass. ‘Or yu’ll be out of a job an’ the
undertaker’ll be in one.’

Outside the saloon, Billy repeated
his challenge, misled by the presence of Buck Cotton’s horse at the
hitching rail.

Helm turned to his companions.
‘Art, yu an’ Ricky slide out the back door. Git aroun’ behind him.
I reckon we’ll have ourselves a passel o’ fun trimmin’ this young
rooster’s comb!’

He made an impatient gesture with his hand, and the
two men nodded and sidled out of the saloon through the back
entrance while Helm moved swiftly, silently, tall and catlike,
towards the batwing doors. The bartender glanced helplessly towards
the window.

‘
Yu on’y get one warnin’, boy,’
Helm said, sibilantly, and shook a warning finger. His voice was
almost playful, but Blass was not fooled. He knew that any attempt
to warn Billy Hornby would result in his own death. The bartender
was brave enough, but he was not a fool. He stayed rooted to the
spot.

‘
Whatever yu say, Helm,’ he
managed, hoarsely.

Helm nodded, and then ignoring the bartender, pushed
out through the batwings on to the sidewalk, his thumbs hooked in
his fancy belt.

‘
Bucky ain’t here, sonny,’ he told
Billy softly. ‘But I am.’

He stepped down off the sidewalk
into the dusty street, took three paces forward, and stopped. His
demeanor was casual, unperturbed. He had the situation under
control. Billy glanced nervously up and down the empty street. He
had not been prepared for the appearance of the gunfighter. He took
an uncertain step.

‘
Yu goin’ someplace?’ Helm’s
question was delivered in an unemphatic tone. Only the man’s eyes
belied the offhand words. They were cold and deadly.

Billy frowned, nonplussed. He knew
he could handle a gun
reasonably well
enough to possibly outdraw Buck Cotton
—-
but a professional gunman was
another matter. Against this man he would have no chance. A
movement to one side caught his atten
tion,
and dismay spread across his face as Art Cotton and the man
called Ricky stepped out from the shadowed alley
between the
saloon and the livery stable.
They made no overt move, but walked coolly out into the street,
parting slightly to spread around the boy,
making him shift his position to keep them in sight. Helm
grinned
like a hunting coyote.

‘
Yu didn’t even have brains enough
to run,’ he grated. ‘Who turned yu loose?’

Billy shook his head. Maybe Green had got clear.

‘
Yu better tell us, boy,’ rasped
Art Cotton. ‘It has to be some
one in this
town. Whoever it was, we’ll be wantin’ to talk to him.’

‘
I … I got loose on my own,’
protested Billy. ‘Nobody helped me.’

Cotton nodded, his face
disbelieving. ‘Ricky, go take a look in the jail.’ The Cottonwood
rider nodded, and hastened off across the street towards the
jail.

Art Cotton took several paces
forward, until he was almost near
enough to
Billy to reach out and touch him.

‘
That’s far enough!’ snapped the
boy. ‘Keep back!’

‘
O-ho,’ smiled Helm, mirthlessly.
‘Cat’s got teeth.’

‘
Yu aimin’ to draw on me, sonny?’
asked Art Cotton, his voice
flat. ‘Even if
yu could outdraw me
—-
which I misdoubt
—-
yu reckon yu can beat Helm?’

Billy shook his head.

‘
I don’t reckon, he said. ‘But
I’ll take yu with me if yu come one
step
closer!’

Cotton smiled. The expressionless
eyes bored into those of the
youngster. He
took a step forward.

‘
Don’t take another,
Cotton!’

The voice from across the street
was icy with menace, and it froze Art Cotton where he stood. Helm
wheeled to face this new
challenge, his
hands flashing towards his guns. He too froze as he
saw the rock-steady twin revolvers in Sudden’s
hands. He shrugged
and relaxed his crouched
stance. His eyes flickered over towards the jail as Sudden
approached cautiously from his position at the
corner of the sheriff’s house. Sudden saw the look and a
sardonic
smile touched his grim
lips.

‘
If yo’re hopin’ yore rider’s
goin’ to bail yu out, forget it,’ he told
Helm. ‘He had an overpowerin’ urge to lie down’. He gestured
with his right hand gun. ‘Damn near bent the barrel.’

A curse escaped Art Cotton. ‘So
that’s how the boy got loose,’ he swore. ‘An’ that means Norris an’
Rodgers is cashed, too, I’m takin’ it.’