Sudden--Strikes Back (A Sudden Western #1) (12 page)
Read Sudden--Strikes Back (A Sudden Western #1) Online
Authors: Frederick H. Christian
Tags: #cowboys, #western fiction, #range war, #the old west, #piccadilly publishing, #frederick h christian, #oliver strange, #sudden, #the wild west
While
Sudden and Dave Haynes had been meeting the new owner of the Slash
8, Zachary Barclay had been undergoing an interview which was
giving him considerably less pleasure than his stagecoach idyll
with the young Grace Tate. After leaving the hotel, he had made his
way directly to the bank, where Jasper de Witt was awaiting
him.
‘
You took your time getting here,’ was de Witt’s waspish
greeting.
‘
I had a piece o’ luck,’ Barclay told the banker eagerly. ‘When
I was in the stage office at Santa Fé buyin’ my seat, who walks in
but Tate’s girl, just arrived from New York an’ in a tearin’ hurry
to get to Hangin’ Rock. I made shore she got on the same stage as I
did.’
‘
Grace Tate is here, hmm?’ mused de Witt. ‘Yu spent the entire
journey in her company?
‘
Every mile o’ the way,’ was the proud reply. ‘I shore filled
her ear. Good job yu sent me word o’ how things was back
here.’
‘
And she swallowed it all?’ de Witt’s voice was not as
enthusiastic as Barclay had hoped, but he plunged on. ‘Hook, line,
and sinker,’ he boasted. ‘I just left her at the hotel. She’s
already agreed with me that the best way to stop trouble is to
prevent it. She told me she aims to talk to her lawyer an’ fix a
price. Then she’ll sell the Slash 8 to me. I’m bettin’ we won’t
have any more trouble from the Slash 8. What do yu think o’ that?’
He clapped his meaty hands on his hips and regarded his master with
an air of triumph. De Witt’s expression did not alter, and
Barclay’s pose gradually crumbled.
‘
What … what is it?’
‘
I’m just wondering how you are going to talk that Slash 8
foreman into selling, now that you’ve got the girl convinced,’ de
Witt said.
‘
Yu tellin’ me the girl ain’t got the right to sell?’ gasped
Barclay.
‘
Damned right I am,’ snapped the banker. ‘Only found out about
it at the inquiry—too late to let you know. Tate made a paper
leaving Green in full control until the girl is twenty one. She
hasn’t got the right to cut the grass on that place without Green’s
approval.’
Barclay
was silent at this revelation. Another idea came to him. ‘But yu
got the mortgage on the place,’ he reminded the banker. ‘Yu’ve
foreclosed, ain’t yu?’
‘
That’s true, but I won’t be able to if Green fulfills his deal
to sell a herd in South Bend. If he does, he can pay off his debt,
and we have no hold on the Slash 8.’
Barclay
smiled evilly. ‘I reckon we can put a crimp in his
plans.’
‘
That’s what Linkham told me,’ snarled the banker. ‘He was
supposed to take care of this Green fellow. Instead of which, he
shot George Tate. There was no need to kill Tate-!had him over a
barrel. But Green is still around. I don’t see him looking
particularly worried about the fact that he’s supposed to be
dead.’
‘
Hell, yu can’t hold me responsible for Link’s mistakes,’
complained Barclay. ‘I wasn’t even here to make sure he done it
right.’
‘
He’s still your man, Zack!’ de Witt warned the rancher
sharply, ‘He’d better have a good explanation ready for me when I
see him.’
‘
If I’d been here, things woulda been different,’ Barclay told
the banker.
‘
I seriously doubt that,’ came the biting reply, ‘but you’ll
get your chance. In the meantime,’ he leaned forward in his chair
‘what did you find out in Kansas City?’ Barclay’s face broke into a
conspiratorial leer, and he leaned forward on the desk.
‘
You was right, Seth—’ he began, but stopped in sheer terror as
a look of demoniac rage came into the banker’s face.
For the
second time in the day, Barclay stepped back, flinching as though
expecting a blow. He was a big man, and could handle himself well
in rough and tumble street lighting, but the cold menace of de
Witt’s gaze turned his muscles to water.
‘
Damn you for a loudmouthed fool!’ screeched the banker. ‘If I
ever hear you use that name again, I’ll slit out your tongue and
feed you to the buzzards personally.’
Barclay
stuttered and held up his hand as though to ward off a
blow.
‘
Hell … I didn’t even realize I’d said it … Jasper, I’m plumb
sorry … it won’t happen … again. For God’s sake, Jasper. It was a
slip of the tongue.’
‘
Let it be the last,’ snarled de Witt, ‘Mister Barclay.’ He
paused significantly on the name. ‘Your real name spoken, even in
this town, would get you hanged in an hour, so never forget
yourself. If you speak that name again, you will die—very
slowly.’
‘
Yu—yu wouldn’t,’ Barclay muttered, struggling to draw the
tatters of his shattered dignity together. ‘After all I’ve done for
yu .... ’
‘
You have done nothing for me!’ spat de Witt. ‘I’m the one who
pays the bills, hires your gunmen, owns your ranch, and buys your
women, your drink, and the fancy clothes you strut around in. But I
don’t need you. If you think I do, defy me.’
The cold
eyes bored into Barclay’s, and the big man said nothing.
‘
Remember what I tell you,’ de Witt said. ‘I shall do exactly
as I please. For the moment, it pleases me to keep you around but I
can change my mind.’ Then, discarding the menacing tone, he said,
more cheerfully, ‘Now, once more—what did you discover in Kansas
City?’
Barclay
smiled like a human imitation of a cringing, beaten dog who now
sees the hand of friendship once more extended.
‘
Like I said,’ he told the banker eagerly, ‘yu was right. The
plans are complete, and the surveyors will be movin’ along the
proposed route in about a month. They should reach here in another
month. They’ll start buildin’ the railr—’
‘
Damn your eyes, keep your bull voice down!’ hissed de Witt.
‘Do you want to share your pickings with every derelict in Hanging
Rock?’
Barclay
mumbled another apology. His vain and callow soul writhed in
torment under the constant lash of this inhuman leech behind the
desk who continually shattered Barclay’s self-esteem. He longed to
reach across the desk with his huge hands and choke the life out of
that scrawny neck. But he knew, and the banker knew that he knew,
he would never do it. De Witt’s hold upon him was too strong, and
he knew that his evil master would have placed proofs of Barclay’s
identity where they could be easily found should he be
killed.
‘
So.’ De Witt made a steeple of his fingers, a habit of his
when he was considering a problem. ‘We have roughly six weeks to
finalize all our arrangements.’ He was silent for a moment. Then,
‘You, my over-sized friend, get out of here and be ready to move
whenever Green starts that herd towards South Bend. Stop the herd.
Stop Green, too. Permanently, do you hear? With that authority of
Tate’s he has too much power. He could wreck the whole thing. With
Green gone, the girl will have no choice but to sell.’
Barclay
nodded again. His face was still sullen, and his soul burned with
hatred of this man, who had so mercilessly tongue-lashed him. This
now-friendly tone did nothing to dispel his rage. He knew de Witt
detested him. An’ it’s mutual, he thought, but what he said was,
‘Anythin’ else?’
‘
Be silent,’ de Witt told him, ‘and I’ll make you rich.
Remember that.’ Barclay knew that he was dismissed. Still seething,
he stumbled out into the street. The hot, bright sunlight brought
him back to reality after the evil gloom of the bankers office, but
his tormented ego knew no peace. Zachary Barclay wanted to kill his
master, but he knew that in doing so he would merely kill
himself.
‘
There’s one trick yu’ve overlooked, though, yu buzzard,’ he
said to a mental image of a cringing de Witt. ‘An’ if I can pull
it, yu’ll be finished. An’ then, by God! I’ll kill yu with my bare
hands.’
But his
black nature knew no peace. Hands clenching and unclenching, he
prowled up the dusty street of Hanging Rock, looking for something
or someone to hurt, break, or destroy. It was at this moment that
his narrowed eyes descried, preparing to mount a black stallion
outside Dutchy’s saloon, the ramrod of the Slash 8. Zachary Barclay
lengthened his stride.
Eight
SUDDEN
had just finished tightening the girth on Midnight’s saddle. He
looked quickly over his shoulder to see if Dave was coming up the
street from the livery stable with Grace Tate’s horse. There was no
sign of his friend, so with a shrug Green prepared to mount and
ride down the street to meet him. He had his left foot in the
stirrup when a rasping voice stopped him.
‘
Fine horse.’
Sudden
looked around to see Zachary Barclay, leaning casually against one
of the uprights supporting the verandah roof. The Box B owner’s
dour visage gave no hint of the fires raging within him.
Sudden
nodded, and swung into the saddle.
‘
I’ll give yu a hundred dollars for him.’
‘
Nope,’ replied Green. ‘He ain’t for sale.’
Several
loungers outside Dutchy’s had heard Barclay’s offer and the Slash 8
man’s refusal. Three or four of them drifted nearer to hear the
exchange better.
‘
Two hundred,’ insisted Barclay, his face darkening, and when
Green again shook his head, ‘Three.’
The word
had spread rapidly into the saloon, and a small crowd was forming.
Their eyes flicked from the mounted cowboy to the burly figure of
Barclay, and they hung breathlessly on Sudden’s reply to the
fantastic offer the owner of the Box B had made. Even in a country
where good horseflesh was money on the hoof, three hundred dollars
was a lot to pay. Not a few of the onlookers sighed with envy,
thinking of just how many shots of Dutchy’s red-eye such a fortune
would buy.
‘
I thought the Slash 8 was short on ready cash,’ one muttered
to his friend. The man addressed shook his head impatiently to tell
his friend to be quiet and tuned back to hear Green’s reply. When
Green shook his head once more, a sound not unlike a sigh escaped
the onlookers.
‘
Four hundred, then, damn yu!’ snapped Barclay. ‘That’s more
than yu an’ the horse together are worth!’
One or
two of those watching noticed the change in the Slash 8 ramrod’s
expression as Barclay uttered these words. Green’s lips tightened,
and a wintry look was in his eyes.
‘
I told yu,’ said Sudden coldly. ‘The horse ain’t for
sale.’
Barclay
frowned. This wasn’t going the way he had intended it to. His
half-formed idea had been to demonstrate—to himself as much as to
anyone else-that he was still powerful; to make the Slash 8 man
look small by showing Hanging Rock that Zachary Barclay could pay
whatever he wanted when he wanted something. Money was as a rule a
much more humbling weapon than fists or guns, and its failure to
work on the Slash 8 man puzzled Barclay. He had offered the man
well over half a year’s top wages; there were few who would have
refused such an offer, no matter how attached they were to their
mount.
‘
Name yore own price, then,’ he cried. ‘I aim to have that
horse.’
Sudden
regarded Barclay sourly for a moment, and then, as if coming to a
decision, slid out of the saddle to the ground. Barclay experienced
a flush of relief. Evidently it had been just a question of more
money—it usually was. They always had their price.
‘
Yo’re sellin’, then,’ he cried triumphantly.
‘
Not exactly,’ said the Slash 8 man. Barclay’s expression of
triumph turned to one of bewilderment as the cowboy, holding the
reins in his hand, told him, ‘I’ll make yu an offer. If yu can ride
him for five minutes, he’s yores—free.’
This
surprising counter offer aroused a buzz of comment among the
spectators, for it was a sporting one, and Barclay, hearing it,
knew he could not back down. He regarded the horse carefully.
Thinking rapidly, he recalled that it had not even given a
self-respecting buck, as most cow-ponies do, when Green had stepped
into the saddle. That meant it was trained, well-trained. Was it
also trained to buck? He doubted it: no cowboy working on the range
had the time or the inclination to own or train at trick horse, and
this was a working mount. In addition, his rapid inspection showed
him that Green’s horse was indeed a magnificent animal—a mount fit
for a king. The simile pleased him, and with an expansive gesture,
he stepped forward.
‘
Yo’re on, Green!’ he laughed. ‘But Zack Barclay accepts gifts
from no man. When I ride him, I’ll pay yu what I
offered.’
‘
First catch yore hare,’ was the cutting reply, and
again
Barclay
felt that pang of misgiving that had plagued him ever since he had
spoken his first words to the saturnine ramrod of the Slash
8.
Sudden
handed Barclay the reins and stepped aside. Immediately, the
crowd—swollen now by a goodly number of Hanging Rock’s
citizenry—began to exchange bets.
‘
Five dollars says he gets the hoss!’ yelled one man, and was
immediately swamped with bets and counter—bets as Hanging Rock’s
gambling—conscious fraternity put their money up. Speculation was
high as Barclay took the reins from Sudden’s hand, and proceeded to
set his foot in the stirrup. He had no sooner placed himself
alongside the horse, however, when the animal whirled, teeth bared,
and a vicious snap missed Barclay’s arm by a fraction of an inch.
With a curse, the big man jumped hastily back, casting a venomous
glance at the unperturbed Green. A snicker of laughter trailed from
the crowd. ‘Two to one Barclay gives the hoss back!’ offered one
wag.