Sudden--Strikes Back (A Sudden Western #1) (13 page)

A flush
of crimson stained Barclay’s face and neck as these words reached
his ears, and with a lightness not normally to be expected in so
big a man, he sprang into the saddle and clapped his feet into the
stirrups in one swift movement. A gasp of admiration escaped the
watchers, so perfectly coordinated were the big man’s movements,
but hardly had the sound escaped their lips when the black stallion
squealed with rage and instantly became a fury of activity. Up into
the air it leaped, once, twice, thrice, in as many seconds, coming
down on legs as rigid as tempered steel, twisting and arching its
body from side to side in mid-air, never allowing the rider on its
back to recover from one shock to the next. In moments, Barclay’s
left foot was out of its stirrup, then his right, and finally,
within seconds, it was over. The big man reeled backwards, legs
horizontal with the ground, and as the stallion again sunfished
violently into the air, Barclay flew out of the saddle and fell
like a sack of sand. The enraged stallion whirled around, rearing
high, eyes rolling and flailing hoofs ready to strike the puny
man-thing lying beneath it when its owner, shedding the air of
indolence with which he had viewed the unequal contest between man
and beast, sprang forward. With a word, he brought the mighty
stallion down to a standstill, and then, talking quietly close to
its ear, led the horse back to the hitching rail, the muscles along
its flanks and haunches still flickering nervously. The crowd
parted rapidly to give the horse plenty of room at the rail, and in
the stunned silence not one pair of eyes looked at
Barclay.

The
owner of the Box B lay where he had fallen. Nobody came to help
him. A trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth, and his
face was as white as death. Slowly, like an aged man, he got to his
feet. Smeared with dust and blood, he stood stock still, rigid with
hatred. Then, with a curse, his face changed to that of a fiend,
the tableau broke, and his hand darted towards his shoulder,
emerging with a deadly, snub· nosed little Derringer from the
concealed holster. His intention was plain: he was going to kill
both the horse and its owner. The Slash 8 man’s broad back was
still towards him, and Barclay’s finger tightened on the trigger as
blind hatred shook his frame.

‘
Drop it!’

The
cold, deadly warning of the words cut into Barclay’s demented brain
like a knife, and he wheeled to find himself looking straight into
the muzzle of Dave Haynes’ forty-five. The cowboy had come upon the
scene unobserved, leading Grace Tate’s horse. Divining the big
man’s intention, he had slipped behind him. Barclay controlled
himself with an effort that cost him dear, for black rage boiled
inside him like molten lava.

‘
Aw,’ chided Dave. ‘I was hopin’ yu’d make a play so I could
drop yu.’

Green
had turned now, and taken three steps to face the burly
rancher.

‘
Damn yu!’ cried Barclay, ‘I’ll give yu a thousand for the
horse, if it’s only to shoot it!’

‘
Yo’re a mighty pore loser, Barclay.’ was Green’s contemptuous
comment. ‘Get outa my way: I don’t want to tread on yu.’

Without
another glance at the discomfited Barclay, Sudden turned and swung
into the saddle. Barclay cursed as the black stallion received its
master’s weight without even flickering an ear, and watched the two
men as they rode across the wide dusty street to the hotel. Only
then did Barclay realize that the a brawl had taken place in full
view of the hotel, outside which Grace Tate was standing even now.
Had she seen it? Even if she had not, that old Irish shrew would
rejoice in telling her; Barclay knew that Mrs. Mulvaney was no
friend of his.

As they
crossed towards the hotel, Dave asked his companion, ‘Yu aimin’ to
commit sooicide, turnin’ yore back on a side-winder like
Barclay?’

Green’s
face was serious. ‘Dave, I’m thankin’ yu—’

‘
An’ I’m tellin’ yu not to,’ interrupted his friend. ‘Call her
quits, if yu wanta. Me, I’m sorry I didn’t blow out that
poison-toad’s light anyway.’

‘
Now that wouldn’t have been sensible,’ suggested Sudden with a
grin. ‘We already got enough trouble with Her Majesty, without yu
go an’ exterminate her best friend in these parts.’

‘
Yu really figger she believes everythin’ Barclay told her,
Jim?’ queried Dave. ‘She seems—well—too nice—’

‘
Ask her yoreself,’ Green suggested. ‘She shore ain’t gonna be
talkin’ none to me on the way to the Slash 8.’

He
dropped back slightly to allow Dave to present the horse for Grace
Tate to mount. He watched his young friend’s eager face with keen
eyes warmed by friendliness. ‘So that’s the way she blows, huh?
Well, I’m hopin’ things’ll go yore way, Dave.’

Two days
after her arrival at the Slash 8, Grace Tate was beginning to feel
as though she had some slight idea of the way that the ranch was
run. She was also finding, to her surprise, that the day-to-day
affairs of the ranch interested her, and the very country itself,
with its soft pale pink mornings, the cool minty perfume of the
sagebrush, and the glorious, multi-colored, constantly
awe-inspiring sunsets were fast making her forget the cities she
had left back East, She had to admit- although only to herself: she
would never have revealed her feelings—that Green was efficient. He
showed her how everything worked, what it cost, why it was being
done, in language that was simple enough for her to understand but
never gave her the feeling that she was being talked down to. The
men obviously liked him; indeed, David—she blushed slightly as she
said his name to herself—obviously worshipped the man. Yet she had
never heard Green once so much as raise his voice, nor get involved
in any kind of argument about how things should be done.
Nevertheless, Green’s control over her destiny irked the girl.
Shortly after their first arrival at the Slash 8, he had told her
briefly of his promise to her father, of the deed executed and sent
to judge Pringle in South Bend. The thought that she could not keep
her tentative bargain with Barclay had in one way dismayed her, and
yet in another, she felt relieved that the decision was out of her
hands. Grace Tate was not, however, a girl for long periods of
indecision, and thus it happened that the foreman, working down at
the corral one morning, turned to find Cookie regarding him
thoughtfully.

‘
The lady boss wants a word with yu, Jim,’ he
announced.

Sudden
found the girl waiting in the big living room. She looked pale, and
the dark shadows beneath her eyes brought it suddenly home to him
that she had been under severe strain during these past days. He
cursed himself for his thoughtlessness, and resolved to arrange for
Dave to get her out of the house and into the fresh air as soon as
possible.

‘
I’ve been looking through my father’s papers, Green,’ she told
Sudden. ‘You seem to have taken care of everything that was
outstanding.’

‘
I hope so, ma’am. That’s what yore Pa asked me to
do.’

‘
I found a letter addressed to me,’ she told him. Her voice
trembled as she fought for self-control. ‘It said … I should go to
see Judge Pringle in South Bend as soon as I could find
time.’

‘
He’s the gent yore Pa mentioned to me—like I told yu,’ Green
said. ‘I guess maybe he has some information about yore comin’ into
ownership o’ the Slash 8.’

‘
Judge Pringle was a dear friend of my father’s for many
years,’ Grace Tate said. ‘I want to ride over there and see him.
Will you get a horse ready, please?’

To her
chagrin, Green displayed not an atom of curiosity regarding her
reasons for wanting to visit the judge. He merely said, ‘Yu can’t
ride there on yore own.’ Hoping that he was about to offer to ride
as her escort, Grace framed a withering retort, but again Green
disappointed her. ‘Do yu good to get some fresh air. Dave can ride
with yu.’

‘
Very well,’ she said. ‘I must tell you, Green, that I find
this present situation intolerable. I don’t like to be in the
position of having to ask a complete stranger for every penny that
I spend.’

‘
Shucks, ma’am,’ expostulated the foreman, ‘Yu can do anythin’
yu want. I ain’t interferin’ in yore personal affairs—it’s only
ranch business that concerns me. Why—yu needin’
somethin’?’

Grace
shook her head. Womanlike, she had no particular reason for finding
Green’s stewardship of the Slash 8 irksome, and in all honesty,
admitted to herself that were it not for the conditions of his
appointment, she would have been perfectly satisfied to let him run
her ranch. As it was, however-she made a frustrated sound.
.

‘
I’ll get the hoss an’ warn Dave,’ offered Green, leaving the
room. Outside, he allowed a faint grin to cross his face. ‘Ain’t
makin’ any progress in the popularity stakes,’ he told
himself.

‘
Now I’m the wicked guardian who won’t let her buy any
pretties, even if she don’t want ’em. Huh!—wimmin!’

In short
order, a saddled horse was brought to the verandah, and Dave Haynes
led the way down to the trail which followed the river towards
Thunder Ravine and South Bend. At first, the young cowboy kept a
respectable distance from his employer, until Grace, growing tired
of the monotony of the plains and her own company, requested him to
ride alongside her. It occurred to her that Haynes might be able to
tell her more than her taciturn foreman about the situation in
the—valley, and in truth, she found herself attracted by Dave’s
honest, open appearance. Dave seemed to have little of the built-in
shyness with which-so many cowpunchers were afflicted in the
presence of women. After some idle small talk, she asked him about
Green.

‘
He’s a fine feller,’ was the enthusiastic reply, and upon its
heels followed an account of the events of the day when Dave and
Green had climbed the mesa. Dave told the story without embroidery,
but emphasizing Green’s role; he liked this girl and he wanted her
to like his friend. His efforts, however, fell upon stony
ground.

‘
He still looks like a professional gunfighter to me,’ Grace
said coldly.

‘
Aw, shucks, ma’am, beggin’ yore pardon, but yu wouldn’t know a
professional gunfighter from a gopher-hole. That’s just somethin’
somebody told yu. I ain’t sayin’ it ain’t true—just that labels is
sometimes justa mite misleadin’. Personally, I don’t reckon Jim is
a gunman—he ain’t got that killer streak. Just the same, I reckon
anyone pullin’ a gun on him would probably find hisself a mite
late.’

He went
on to talk to her about some of the famous gunfighters of the
times; of Wild Bill Hickok, who had tamed Hays and Abilene, of
Wyatt Earp at Dodge City, of Sudden, who had cleaned up Hatchett’s
Folly; he told her of trail towns and gold towns and the men who
had brought law and order into them, armed only with their own
courage and their speed on the draw.

‘
There’s some places yet, pockets where the law ain’t reached,’
he went on, ‘or it ain’t up to much, like Hangin’ Rock. Places like
that, a man has to carry his law on his hip. Me, I’m a peaceable
man, but I like to know I got the means to protect
myself.’