Sudden--Strikes Back (A Sudden Western #1) (18 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
On they
went; two tiny specks moving across the flat, empty wasteland.
Overhead, buzzards wheeled hopefully; a tall cactus spread lonely
arms towards them. Ahead, a roadrunner ratcheted crazily along for
a few minutes before rushing blindly into the rocky waste.
Somewhere the wicked buzz of a rattler sounded and
stopped.
The
midday sun was now growing unbearable, and Dave heaved a genuine
sigh of relief as his companion called a halt. Together, the two
men sought the shelter of a rocky gully where overhanging shelves
of rock threw a welcome shade. Here, they watered the horses
thriftily and with a small fire of tinder dry wood, made coffee and
ate some of the food Green had brought.
‘
Didn’t yu bring anything with yu to eat?’ asked Sudden in mock
exasperation.
‘
Hell, I didn’t know we was goin’ picknickin’,’ admitted Dave.
‘If I’d ’a known I’d’ve brought some o’ those fish eggs . . .what
d’yu call ’em—’
‘
Caviare, yu mean?’ asked Sudden.
‘
That’s the one,’ enthused Dave. ‘An’ some o’ them other fancy
foods they eat back East.’
‘
Shucks, yu wouldn’t like ’em,’ Sudden told him. ‘I tried that
fancy eatin’ one time. Shore pretty to look at, but they don’t do
more than whet a man’s appetite.’
‘
Them fancy restyraunts must be really somethin’,’ Dave
mused.
‘
Shucks, some of ’em’s all right; said
Sudden. Then, with a grin, ‘I recall one tough ol’ feller went up
to Kansas City with a herd, an’ went into one o’ them high toned
joints. Not knowin’ what to order—they give him a menu as big as a
newspaper, he plays safe and asks for steak. Well they done brought
him the toughest piece o’ boot leather man ever cut from cow. Ol’
Jesse he struggles with that steak for a while, tryin’ not to lose
his temper, then he finally calls the waiter across. “Lookahere,
feller,” he says. “I reckon yu oughta take this yere meat back an’
give ’er another broilin’.” The waiter takes a step back as if
Jesse’s just said he’s in favor o’ wimmin lawyers, an’ asks,
haughty-like, “Are you suggesting that our chef doesn’t know how to
cook a steak, sir?” Jesse thumps that skinny
hombre
on his back an’ yells, “Damn
me, I’ve seen cows hurt worse ’n that get better back in Texas!” I
reckon he had the right of it. Me, I’d sooner have bacon an’ beans
out in the open than all yore fancy city meals.’
They
finished their meal, cleaned out the plates with sand, put out
their fire by pouring the coffee grounds upon it and kicking sand
upon the hissing embers. Within half an hour, they were back in the
saddle heading westwards. Ahead of them the tumbled hills rose,
their serried sides cut diamond sharp and clear in the brilliant
sunlight.
Eventually Dave felt constrained to break the silence once
more, and inquired of his companion their destination.
‘
Up ahead a ways,’ was the reply, which gave the young cowboy
no information at all. ‘Bloomin’ clam,’ he muttered, ‘I could get
more chatter outa one o’ them cactus trees.’ A covert glance
revealed that if the other had heard this remark he was not going
to be drawn into comment. With a shrug, Dave settled grimly into
his saddle, hunching his shoulders against the blasting heat and
trying to ignore the itching trickle of sweat beneath his clothes.
The two men moved on into the faceless desert.
Curt
Parr was in an evil mood. After his summary dismissal from the
Slash 8, he had ridden into Hanging Rock. There he had discovered
that his grievances only floated on top of the liquor he poured
down his throat. The fiery spirit did, however, inflate his
shattered conceit, and by the time he had consumed almost a bottle
of Diego’s tequila he could see very clearly how indispensable he
was to Zachary Barclay. His fuddled brain reasoned that since the
Box B owner had been responsible for his working on the Slash 8-and
the others before it—it was now Barclay’s responsibility—no,
duty-to grubstake him before he departed this part of the country.
‘I got plenty on yu, Zack ol’ boy,’ he mumbled. ‘Yu better
be—reasonable.’
It was
dawn by the time he reached the Box B, but the slow, solemn beauty
of the sunrise meant less than nothing to Parr. At this early hour,
he encountered no one until he was in the yard of the Box B, where
a light shining from the main house window apprised him of the fact
that someone was already up and about. Congratulating himself on
his luck, Parr stumbled up the steps and hammered on the door. In a
moment it was thrown open, and Parr’s drunken warmth froze in his
veins as the barrel of a .45, held in the huge list of Burley
Linkham, was thrust into his face.
‘
It’s me, Link, Curt Parr,’ he gasped hurriedly. Linkham’s face
did not change, nor did he lower the six-gun. He simply looked at
the sniveling Parr, whose liquor bolstered courage was rapidly
evaporating. ‘Burley, for God sake, it’s me, Curt. I got to see
Barclay,’ he whimpered.
‘
What for?’ was the cold query.
Without
volition, Parr’s voice spilled out of him; he recounted the events
of the proceeding evening at the Slash 8, his dismissal, his need
of a grubstake. Linkham cut in on his whining, harshly. ‘What makes
yu think anyone cares about yore bad luck?’ he growled
callously.
Parr
drew himself up carefully. ‘Link,’ he said, in as level a voice as
he could muster, ‘Just ’cause I allus reported to yu, don’t mean
yo’re the boss. I want to talk to Zack.’
‘
What about, Curt?’ Linkham’s voice had gone softer, soothing.
Parr felt better. Linkham knew that he was important. That Zack
needed him.
‘
Yu know,’ he told Linkham coldly. ‘I need a stake. I’m getin’
out.’
‘
Well, okay, yo’re goin’. Why should Zack stake yu?’
‘
Because I know plenty, that’s why.’ Parr’s defiance was his
last effort. He stood there, hating this big brutal man who stood
between him and Barclay. Linkman would show no sympathy, offer no
help. Only Barclay. Barclay would have to listen.
‘
What do yu know, Curt?’ Linkham’s voice was almost
gentle.
‘
Enough,’ snapped Parr. ‘Now let me talk to Zack.’
Linkham’s answer was a casual, almost lazy movement with his
right hand. It described a short, vicious arc, and the six-gun it
held caught Parr across the bridge of the nose and hurled him
backwards off the porch, writhing in agony and pawing at the blood
spurting from his shattered face. Linkham looked at him
unemotionally.
‘
Yu know nothin’,’ he told the prostrate figure in the
dust.
‘
Yu’ll say nothin’. If yo’re in this country tomorrow I’ll kill
yu. The word will go out today, Parr. If any Box B man or any of my
boys sees yu, he’ll have orders to kill yu like the coyote yu are.
Now get out o’ here before I kill yu myself!’
Linkham
stepped back quietly into the house. The whole scene had taken only
a few minutes; moving carefully, he opened the door of Barclay’s
bedroom and listened. The sound of even breathing told him Barclay
was not yet awake. He nodded to himself, and said, ‘What he don’t
know won’t bother with.’ An evil smile lit his face as he returned
to the window and watched the blood-spattered Curt Parr climb into
the saddle and ride off into the morning, his body lurching with
every movement that the animal made.
Curt
Parr was a sorry picture. Blood had stiffened all the front of his
shirt and spattered his pants. His face between forehead and chin
was a solid mass of puffed skin and blue-black bruises, and every
step his horse took jarred a curse from his aching lips. In his
mind, Parr cursed in a steady monotone the man whom he held
responsible for his condition, and many were the vicious revenges
he visited in his imagination upon the foreman of the Slash 8. The
sun was already becoming hot, and Parr realized he was too far into
the Badlands to head for the river. Almost without volition, after
leaving the Box B, he had headed west towards South Bend. In the
back of his mind was the knowledge that he must get out of
Sweetwater Valley as soon as possible. By now, the Box B crew would
have been given their daily orders by Linkham; and Linkham would
have told them to shoot Curt Parr on sight. As the sun grew hotter,
so Parr’s thirst grew worse. The drinking of the previous night,
and the treatment he had received this morning, conjured fantasies
of running water in his mind; there on the desert floor he could
see blue lakes of icy water. He laughed. Then he sobered and told
himself that if he didn’t find water soon, he would collapse. He
spurred the tired horse towards a group of rocks ahead; he would
sit in the shade a while and rest before going on to the only
waterhole he knew in the Badlands. And it was in this state of half
delirium that he found the traces of a two-man camp. Instantly, he
forgot his pains and an animal cunning and alertness Hooded his
body. Had he been travelling too slowly? Had a couple of Box B men
already gotten ahead of him? Like a skulking wolf Parr sidled up to
the camp-site and carefully checked the nearby gully. There was no
one in sight. He felt the ashes of the fire. Still hot. That meant
that the men had only left a few minutes, possibly a quarter of an
hour ago.
Moving
snake-like across the small clearing, Parr eased his way up the
side of one of the overhangs until he reached the flattened crown
of the rock pile. From this vantage point he could see clearly in
every direction, and he swept the glittering surface of ·the desert
floor with narrowed eyes, cursing as the sun roasted him on the
flat rock. Down below him, perhaps a mile away, he espied two
figures on horseback moving slowly in a westerly direction. Good.
Traveling slowly, he could stay behind them and dodge into the
hills at nightfall. He was about to turn and descend from his
lookout when something familiar about one of the riders tugged at
his memory and he looked again, shading his eyes from the
sun.
Green!
There
was no doubt at all, he exulted. There weren’t two black stallions
like that in the valley. One of the two men ahead was the foreman
of the Slash 8, and that was enough for Curt Parr. Feeling as if
his prayers had been answered, he slithered—down to his tethered
horse, climbing into the saddle and pushing the tired animal into a
loping route that would take him around and ahead of the two
riders. His aching body forgotten, Parr chanted soundlessly to
himself as he rode, patting the stock of the rifle he had pulled
from its saddle scabbard.
‘
Now, Green,’ he muttered, ‘Now, now, now!’
Thirteen
The
trail across the Badlands was at best only faintly defined, and
several times, Dave found himself lost in admiration of his
foreman’s uncanny skill in charting their way across the monotonous
drifting sandy waste; he relieved himself of a long-drawn sigh of
relief as a small clump of trees appeared on the rim of the desert,
and Green, hearing the sound, straightened up in the saddle and
grinned, ‘Water ahead. Yu can have a bath—an’ yu could use
one.’
‘
Shucks,’ replied Dave. ‘I just hope I get to the water afore
yu dip yore beak in, or she’ll be plumb spoiled for
drinkin’.’
With a
whoop of high spirits which came as a complete surprise to Dave,
Sudden whisked off his hat and slapped Dave’s horse across the
ears. The young cowboy spent the next few minutes trying to control
his pony, which was giving a creditable imitation of a horse trying
to fly; by the time he had the animal under control once more, the
Slash 8 foreman was a fast-receding figure at the head of a plume
of dust arrowing towards the waterhole some miles ahead. With a
mild oath, Dave pointed his still-edgy bronc after Green, and
rocketed in pursuit.
‘
Shore beats all the way that gent’ll look so sleepy, an’ then
jus’ when yo’re lulled, he’ll pull a fool stunt like that,’ he
soliloquized.
By the
time he reached the waterhole, Green was already hunkered in the
shade of one of the few trees, starting a fire. His horse,
unsaddled, was cropping the sandy tufts of grass.
‘
What kept yu?’ Green asked innocently as Dave reined up
alongside. ‘No—don’t tell me. The minnit I leave yu alone for a
second, yu go an’ get yoreself lost. Shore beats me how yu ever
find yore way home, the way yu keep harin’ all over the landscape.
O’ course, if yu could control that bone-bag yu call a hoss ....
’
He
subsided into laughter as Dave’s pent-up fury threatened to burst
him at the seams, and continued to smile as his companion’s
choicest invective rolled like a cascade about his ears.
When
Dave began to run out of adjectives and breath, Green inquired, ‘Yu
want some coffee? I figgered so. In which case, whyn’t yu just
toddle down to the water an’ fill this yere pot. And wash out yore
mouth while yo’re at it…I ain’t never heard such scandalous
talk.’
With a
mock swipe at Sudden’s head, Dave took the coffee pot and proceeded
down to the edge of the pool where its muddy sides were pocked by
the footprints of the many animals that drank there. He caught a
glimpse of the track of a mountain cat, and turned to call
Green.
He never
heard the shot. Parr, up on the hillside overlooking their camp,
had been watching the two men ever since they arrived at the
waterhole. When Haynes finally took the coffeepot down to the
water’s edge, the dark-visaged ambusher had his first clear aim at
the two men, and he acted almost instantly.