Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 10 - Sudden Plays a Hand(1950)

 
          
“KEEP
yore
han’s
mighty still an’ explain yoreself.’

 
          
The
curt command was delivered in a tone which was, in itself, a menace, and the
appearance of the speaker did little to lessen it.
A big
fellow, seemingly in the mid-thirties, with enormous shoulders and a gross body
to match.
From beneath the brim of his slouched hat black eyes gleamed
fiercely, and his thick lips, unhidden by a straggling moustache, were pursed
in a savage pout.

 
          
The
man to whom the order was given seemed in no hurry to reply. He, too, was big,
but less heavily built, and perhaps eight years younger than the other. His
clean-shaven face was hard and reckless. Sitting their horses, some dozen paces
apart, on opposite sides of a tiny break in the woods through which a faint
trail led, they eyed one another steadily. At length the younger man spoke: “
What
right you got to hold me up thisaway?’

 
          
The
ghost of a grin passed over the other’s lips. “No right, on’y a left,’ he
replied, raising that hand enough to reveal a leveled revolver. “This is my
country.’

 
          
The
threatened man merely shrugged his shoulders. “I ain’t passed any fences,’ he
pointed out.

 
          
“You
wouldn’t—my name’s better’n barb’ wire,’
came
the
boast. “
Bardoe—Bull Bardoe.
Mebbe
that wises you up some?’

 
          
“Not
one damn bit,’ was the drawled reply. “
Never heard tell o’
you.’

 
          
Bardoe
did not detect the lie, but he was very sensible of the sneering tone, and it
deepened his scowl of aggression.

 
          
“You
must shorely be a pilgrim,’ he gibed in turn. “What might yore name be?’

 
          
“It
might be Judas Iscariot, but it ain’t,’ the stranger retorted. He appeared to
be deliberately trying to incense the other. “You’ll have heard o’ Old Nick?
Well, I’m Young Nick. I was called after the Devil, an’ have been on the way to
him ever since.’

 
          
“Cease
foolin’ or I’ll shorten yore journey,’ Bardoe snarled, and then a surprised
look of comprehension widened his eyes. “Tellin’ me
yo’re
Nicholas Drait, o’ Shadow Valley? And you never heard o’ me?’

 
          
“Brother,
that was a slip,’ Drait returned mildly, but his narrowed eyes watched warily. “What
I meant to say was that I never heard any good o’ you. Rustler, road-agent,
train hold-up, murd…’ He saw the movement he was waiting for, and his own
weapon—long held in readiness—came up. The reports merged into one, shattering
the silence and causing a frightened fluttering in the greenery overhead. The
younger man felt the burn of a bullet on his cheek, and then saw Bardoe lean
forward and
pitch ,sideways
to the ground.

 
          
“Hell!’
he cried.

 
          
The
exclamation was one of amazement; where he had looked for an empty saddle he
saw a girl astride the stricken man’s horse; Bardoe’s bulky body had
effectually concealed her from his view. She was young—not much over twenty, he
judged, and was dressed in a worn calico gown, clumsy shoes, and an old
sun-bonnet which had slipped back to reveal an untidy mop of golden-brown hair.
She seemed pitifully small on the back of the big beast she bestrode. Drait got
down, dropped the reins over his pony’s head, and stepped towards her. As
though frozen with horror, she remained bent and motionless, her gaze glued to
the sprawling form of the shot man.

 
          
“Who
the
deuce are
you?’ Drait asked roughly.

 
          
Getting
no answer, not even a look, he muttered an impatient oath and turned to his
victim. With cold, callous eyes the victor surveyed his work, stooped to lift
the wide-flung left hand, let it fall limply back to the ground, and began to
search the body. In a vest pocket he found a slip of paper, and on it, scrawled
in pencil: “One hundred three-year-olds at 10 a head-1,000 bucks.’

 
          
“C’rect,’
he commented grimly, and thrusting it into his own pocket, bent to his task
again.

 
          
Around
Bardoe’s middle, concealed by the slack of his shirt, he discovered a
money-belt—a heavy one. He began to buckle it about his own waist, but on
second thoughts, rolled it up and placed it in one of the saddle-pockets of the
owner’s horse. This brought his attention back to the girl, and he stood
considering her with a sombre puzzled expression. At length he appeared to have
reached a decision. She was looking at him now, her large eyes full of fear.

 
          
“Climb
into the saddle,’ he said. “We’ve a long way to go.’

 
          
She
scrambled over the cantle, while he shortened the stirrup leathers so that her
feet could reach. Then, handing her the reins, he mounted his own beast and
rode out of the glade. Sitting slackly, head down-bent, she followed. They
moved slowly, for the nature of the country, rough and broken, made speed only
an invitation to accident. Several times he spoke to her but received no reply,
and with a lift of his shoulders, he relinquished the attempt to make her talk,
and gave his attention to the tricky trail they were traversing. But from time
to time, when it was possible for them to ride abreast, he found himself
studying her. The sun-bonnet had been pulled on, hiding the face, but he noted
the youngness of her, and the smallness of the toil-worn hands which gripped
the reins.

 
          
“Bull
Bardoe’s woman,’ he told himself. “Well, if that’s the best he could give her
in the way o’ clothes, I guess she won’t lose on the exchange.’

 
          
When
the dropping sun set the western sky ablaze, warning that the day was about to
die, Drait halted on the bank of a small creek and turned off the trail,
following the water, to stop finally on a little grassy level shut in by
undergrowth.

 
          
“We’ll
camp here,’ he said. “Get down an’ rest—you look tuckered out.’

 
          
She
obeyed in silence, seating herself on a slight mound, whence she watched
listlessly while he unsaddled and led off the horses to picket them some fifty
yards away where the grass was more luxuriant. Returning with an armful of dry
wood, he built a fire, and while it was burning up, opened his blanket roll to
unearth a battered coffeepot, a frying-pan, and a tin mug. He surveyed the
latter with a half-grin.

 
          
“On’y
got one,’ he remarked. “We’re a mite short o’ grub, too. You see, I warn’t
expectin’ comp’ny.’ If the girl heard, she gave no sign, and he went on, “Mebbe
Bull can help us out.’

 
          
A
search of Bardoe’s blanket revealed another mug, coffeepot, part of a loaf, a
slab of cooked deer-meat, and a tin which Drait took to be salt, out on
tasting, found to be sugar.

 
          
The
coffeepot, filled from the creek, was set on the glowing embers. When it
boiled, he cut two slices of bread, put a layer of meat between them, and
poured steaming liquid into one of the mugs.

 
          
“Cawfee
should be hot as hell, black as a nigger’s soul, an’ sweet as sin,’ he grinned.
“Come an’ get it.’

 
          
“I’m
not hungry,’ the girl said.

 
          
It
was the first time he had heard her voice, and he was struck by the low,
vibrant tone—clear-sounding, like the note of a harp. The effect was curious—it
made him angry.

 
          
“Allasame,
you’ll eat, drink, an’ like it—I don’t want a sick woman on my hands,’ he grated,
and when she still made no movement, “
Do
I have to
take my quirt to you?’

 
          
This
brought her to the fire, where she ate and drank in sullen silence. Drait took
no futher notice, devoting himself to the meal, and the fact that it had been
mainly provided by the man he had shot did not appear to have affected his
appetite. When they had finished, she looked up and said abruptly: “
Why
did you kill him?’

 
          
Drait
laughed harshly.
“To save myself.
His gun was out
first; he meant to get me—a stranger he’d never set eyes on.’

 
          
This
silenced her; she had seen Bardoe furtively draw his weapon the moment they had
met. Moodily she looked on while he replenished the fire and spread the
blankets, one on each side, with the saddles for pillows.

 
          
“There’s
yore bed,’ he said. “Better turn in—we’ll be makin’ an early start.’

 
          
He
set the example, rolling himself in the blanket, and in a few moments, regular
breathing told that he was asleep. The girl lay down, but only to stare,
wide-eyed, at the dark dome above, in which points of light were now beginning
to peep. The one thought in her mind was to get away, somehow, somewhere.
Presently she raised herself, making a little noise, and gazed at the recumbent
form across the fire. It remained motionless, and satisfied that her captor
slept, she stood up and stole in the direction of the horses.

 
          
No
sooner had she melted into the shadow than the sleeper flung aside his blanket,
a heavy scowl on his brow. Cat-footed, he followed, reaching her as she stooped
to pull the picket-pin of Bardoe’s mount.

 
          
Tryin’
to run out on me, huh?’ he said, as she shrank back in alarm. “Well, I treated
you fair, but now …’

 
          
He
left the sentence unfinished, and gripping her wrist, dragged her back to the
camp. Obeying his gesture, she sank on the bed again. Drait fetched his own
blanket and saddle, arranged them, stretched
himself
beside her, and slid an arm about her shoulders.

 
          
“I
ain’t trustin’
you no more,’ he said gruffly.

 
          
Swift-born
panic seized her and she struggled to rise. Her resistance infuriated him, and
his fingers, vice-like, bit into the soft flesh of her arm as he pulled her
nearer. She fought back, to her own undoing, for contact with her lithe young
body roused a devil of desire and rendered him ruthless. His hot breath scorched
her cheek, and then avid lips found her own, and held them.