Sudden--Strikes Back (A Sudden Western #1) (2 page)

‘
Nothin’ criminal in that, seh,’ opined Green, ‘an’ it shore
don’t prove anything against this Barclay feller.’

‘
Agreed, agreed,’ said the old man testily. ‘Wait ’til I’m
through. After a while I began to realize that Barclay owned quite
a piece o’ this valley. Anyways, all the land on the north side o’
the Sweetwater—that’s the river you musta crossed on yore way into
the valley.’

Green
nodded. He had indeed forded a wide, clear, shallow river earlier
in the day, and had reflected then that it would be the key to the
survival of the cattle he had seen dotted across the
foothills.

‘
Seen Barclay in town one day,’ Tate told him. ‘Taxed him with
the whole thing. He smiled like one o’ them Chessy cats and says to
me, “Tate, they ain’t no law against buyin’ land. I aim to own this
whole valley come next Spring, one way or the other.” I said that
he’d git my ranch over my dead body, an’ he looks at me cold as you
please an’ polite as an undertaker. “I shore hope that won’t prove
necessary,” he says.’

‘
Sounds like a pretty cool customer,’ offered Green.

‘
Cool? He’s as cold as a rattler an’ four times as
poisonous.’

‘
Ain’t you got a sheriff ?’ the cowboy asked.

‘
We ain’t—but Barclay has,’ was the meaningful reply. ‘Biggest
misfit the Good Lord ever put ears on, an’ that’s sayin’ plenty.
Even if we could prove Barclay was behind the rustlin’—which we
can’t, o’ course—Brady is Barclay’s man, hoofs, hide, an’ taller.
Anyways, what could we do? Barclay ain’t stepped outside o’ the
Law, an’ all the rest has been pinned on the Shadders.’

‘
All the rest?’

‘
Shucks, I’m about to tell you: no need to rush me. After it
became obvious that them who was goin’ to quit—for one reason or
another—had sold out an’ gone, the bigger spreads started gettin’
visitors.’

‘
The Shadows?’

‘
I’m guessin’ so, although nobody that’s been involved has been
what you’d call chattery about it. Far as I can tell, three or four
fellers wearin’ masks would ride up to a ranch at night, call out
the owner, and talk awhile. Allus the same kind o’ jaspers:
mean-eyed and bristlin’ with guns. Hired killers is my guess. Tom
Sheppard was the first one they talked to. He moved out real quick.
Nary a word to anyone. just pulled his stakes, sold his spread to
the bank, and lit out for yonder.’

‘
Whereupon friend Barclay bought the ranch off the bank,’ mused
Green.

‘
Like you say,’ agreed Tate. ‘Next in line was Harry Carpenter.
Same thing. Sold the Box 40 for what he could get. Piled his wife
an’ kids into a wagon, an’ pulled his freight outa
here.’

‘
No explanation from him either, I’m guessin’.’

‘
You ain’t whistlin’,’ Tate told him. ‘It was obvious
enough,

.
though.’

‘
They was told to move on … or else.’

‘
Exactly. Then it all come to a head. A couple o’ weeks ago,
Jess Stackpole over at the Diamond S—that’s just over the hill a
mile or two from here—got a night visit. Stepped out to talk to
them over the barrel of his gun. Fool play. Shot dead in his own
yard, he was, right in front o’ his woman an’ kids. Brady rode out
there, clucked around the yard like some fool hen. Couldn’t find
nothin’, o’ course. I misdoubt he could find Texas if he was
standin’ in San Antone.’

‘
An you, seh?’

‘
Well, like you saw, Jim, I been expectin’ company ever since
they hit the Stackpole place. Barclay’s bought that, o’ course.
Which leaves me the only ranch left on this side o’ the valley that
Barclay ain’t bought?

‘
Which is why you jumped me out there.’

‘
Shore, son, I wish you’d overlook that. If I’d ’a known ....
’

‘
Shucks, no need to apologize, seh,’ said Green. ‘Better to
make that kind o’ mistake an’ be proved wrong than to make
Stackpole’s kind.’

The old
rancher’s face turned grim, and a short silence ensued. Cookie
coughed, rose, and started to clear up the coffee cups. To break
the silence Green complimented him on his coffee. The old cook’s
wizened face wrinkled into a huge smile, and Tate’s dour expression
softened.

‘
You said the right thing, Jim,’ he said. ‘Cookie’s mighty
proud o’ his java.’ .

‘
Good coffee’s hard to find,’ agreed the cowboy. ‘What’s yore
secret?’

This to
Cookie, who, still smiling, replied, ‘Wal, Jim, good coffee’s
pretty easy to make. I got me a shore-fire method. First, you heat
up some water. Then you add about a handful o’ coffee. Then you let
’er bile for a while, an’ then add some more coffee. Let her roll a
mite longer, an’ then throw in some more coffee. Last thing, you
drop in a horseshoe. If the shoe floats, she’s ready to
drink.’

‘
Me, I figger Cookie owns a few shares in Arbuckles,’
interposed Tate, referring to the well-known coffee makers whose
goods were in use throughout the West. Knocking out his pipe
against the stone fireplace, he rose and went to the window through
which he peered into the yard. The late afternoon shadows were
lengthening; already the tall trees around the house were laying
their long lines across the yard. ‘No sign o’ the boys, yet,’
muttered Tate.

‘
How many men you got?’ Green asked him.

‘
On’y five,’ replied the old man. ‘Used to have eight, but the
others kinda drifted. Can’t say as I blame them. They probably seen
trouble shapin’ up an’ they didn’t want in. Makes things a mite
difficult around the place, but we manage.’

Cookie
popped his head around the door and announced,

‘
I’m makin’ apple pie. I figger you’ll stay fer supper,
Jim?’

‘
Shucks, it completely slipped my mind to ask you, Jim,’ said
Tate, slapping his leg. ‘Course yo’re stayin’, young feller. Least
we could do to make up for that reception you got!’

The cook
threw in his persuasion with the old man’s, and Green admitted that
he’d admire to sample fresh apple pie. The old man came out on to
the porch and pointed out the bunk-house and the
stables.

‘
Yu go an’ unpack yore gear, feed yore hoss. I’m figgerin’ on
havin’ me some company for talkin’ to. Yo’re stayin’ over the
night, whether yu like it or not. So yu may as well pretend yu like
it!’

Whereupon the old rancher clapped Green on the shoulder and
clumped back into the house, leaving the cowboy to lead the black
stallion over to the stable.

‘
Our Mister Barclay shore sounds like an unpleasant sorta gent,
‘Night,’ he confided to the horse as he unsaddled the magnificent
animal and rubbed down the sleek black hide. ‘The old man’s got his
share o’ guts, but it looks like he’s buckin’ heavy
odds.’

Green
reflected on the activities of Barclay and his outfit as he
methodically did the chores of caring for his horse. It was an old
pattern, of course, Barclay’s. The big, powerful combine with the
men and the money ousting the smaller, longer-established settlers
from the range. And the smaller ranchers, too proud to ask for help
and too ineffective to tight alone, would be no match for the
imported gunfighters who would be roped into the fight when all
else failed. But … a frown crossed Green’s saturnine
face.

‘
Why would he want all the land in the valley, though, 'Night?’
The horse nickered in response to his name. ‘He’s got plenty of
access to the river, an’ all the grazin’ land he can use … shore
beats me why he’d want more. I guess some men is just born
hawgs.’

His
soliloquy was obviously unsatisfactory; anyone watching Green would
have seen him stop as though struck by a thought, then shake his
head, and then go about his tasks once more. ‘Seems ridiculous
enough, 'Night,’ he told his horse, ‘to be probably true. I wonder
whether Barclay employs the Shadows . . .or they employ
him?’

Midnight
playfully nipped at his master’s arm.

‘
G’wan yu ol’ bag o’ bones, or I’ll trade yu in for a hoss,’
grinned the cowboy. ‘Yu shore ain’t much of a help.’

At that
moment, he tensed as the sound of several horses came through the
open doorway from the yard; but he relaxed as he told himself that
it was probably Tate’s riders in from the range. He idled over to a
window to catch a glimpse of the Slash 8 crew in time to see four
riders come to a milling halt before the verandah of the ranch.
Soundlessly, Green moved back from the window; the glint of light
on drawn guns showed that these men were on no friendly
errand.

Outside,
the leader of the quartet shouted in a thick, grating voice: ‘Tate,
come out, you ol’ buzzard!’

A moment
or two passed, and then the old man came out of the house, the same
shotgun with which he had threatened Green canted menacingly
towards the four men facing him on horseback.

‘
Buzzard, is it?’ he snapped. ‘An’ who sent you, big mouth?’
Before the leader had even time to open his mouth, Tate went on,
‘Don’t tell me, let me guess. Yore boss Barclay sent you. Well, you
came. Now turn round an’ git. Whatever you came for, the answer’s
no.’

Green
smiled to himself; old Tate had more than his share of sand. He
kept watch through the window on the other side of the stable,
which gave a clear view across the yard.

The
leader dismounted. He was a big man, dressed in the common garb of
the range seen everywhere in that country. As he approached Tate,
the other three dismounted in unison and fanned out behind their
leader so that Tate was forced to keep the shotgun barrel weaving
in an arc to cover them. The big man spoke again. ‘Afore you turn
me down, Tate, you’d better listen to my offer.’

‘
You ain’t got anything to offer me that I’d take,’ snorted
Tate.

‘
So—afore I lose my patience—’

‘—
I’m offerin’ you yore life,’ snapped the big man, and Tate’s
face changed as the words were uttered.

‘
Yo’re what?’ His voice was incredulous.

‘
You heard, Tate,’ smiled the big man. His voice assumed a
gloating tone as he mistook Tate’s disbelief for fear. ‘I got a
message for you from The Shadows—get out o’ this valley, an’ get
out fast. The air ’round here is bad for yore health. If you stay,
it might prove—fatal.’

‘
Well, damn me if you ain’t got more gall than a Pawnee Injun,’
crackled old George Tate, his voice tight with anger. ‘You climb
back on yore nag and take this message back to King Barclay. Tell
him I’ll see him in Hell afore I’ll move off my range. An’ tell
yore friends ahind you there to keep their itchy feet still, or
you’ll be cartin’ them home belly down—I’m gettin’ mighty tired o’
totin’ this cannon, an’ it wouldn’t take much to make it go
off.’

‘
You shore are the tough one, ain’t you?’ jeered the leader of
the quartet. ‘Anyone’d think you had someone in the house there
backin’ yore play.’

The
import of the big man’s leering tone suddenly registered on Tate,
and on the hidden watcher in the bam at the same time. Moving like
a prowling cat, Green headed silently through the stables and
around out of sight behind the outbuildings. Meanwhile Tate’s
uncertainty was deepening. ‘You figgerin’ on yore cook backin’ you
up, old man? Why don’t you give him a shout?’ The big man laughed
as at some huge joke, and Tate called, without turning his head,
‘Cookie! Cookie, are you all right? The silence was deathly.
Unwittingly, Tate turned his head to call again, giving the big man
an opportunity which he seized instantly. With a tigerish leap, the
intruder grabbed the barrel of the shotgun and wrested it from
Tate’s grasp, and in the same movement, delivered a backhanded blow
which sent the old rancher reeling to the ground. Blood trickled
from Tate’s mouth as he gasped, ‘You scum-what have you done to
him?’

‘
He’s all right, old man,’ said the leader. ‘He’s bein’—taken
care of.’ He raised his voice. ‘Ain’t that right, Ray?’

‘
Right,’ came a voice from the house.

‘
Damn yore eyes,’ said Tate, weakly, struggling to rise. ‘If my
boys was around, you’d—’

‘
Well they ain’t,’ snapped the big man with finality. A gesture
brought two of the gang to his side. They grasped the rancher
firmly by the arms and dragged him to his feet. The leader lifted
Tate’s drooping chin with his hand. ‘So you’ll see us in Hell afore
you’ll run, will you?’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Looks like kind words
ain’t no use at all with ornery ol’ birds like you.’ With an oath,
he tossed the shotgun away into the corral, and reached to his
saddle horn for the coiled rope hanging there.

Tate’s
eyes widened. ‘What you aimin’ to do?’ he asked, apprehension in
his tone.

‘
Why, we aim to give you somethin' a mite more lastin’ than
advice,’ grated the ruffian. ‘Bring him over here.’ He turned
towards the tall cottonwoods which threw their shade over the yard
of the ranch. The shadows were now deepening along their base, and
the last sunlight was softening the outlines of the distant mesas.
He turned to face the old rancher. ‘We got a remedy for roosters as
crow too much,’ he grinned evilly. ‘We stretch their necks a
mite.’

Meanwhile Green, moving across the back of the ranch house,
had rapidly assessed the situation. Unseen by the riders intent on
binding Tate’s hands and feet, he circled noiselessly around the
back of the house and moved silently through the kitchen; and into
the hallway. There he paused a moment to orient himself with the
unfamiliar house. The faint shuffle of a man’s feet came
startlingly clear. Risking a quick glance around the edge of the
door, Green saw the old cook’s body sprawled beside the window,
half sitting up, and obviously dazed from a blow dealt him by the
tall, gangling man who now, his back to Green, was watching the
proceedings outside. In one swift, merciless movement, the cowboy
leaped across the room and slashed the man Ray across the back of
the head, behind the ear, with the barrel of his forty-live. Ray
fell like a pole-axed steer, and without a wasted motion, Green
stripped the man’s belt and gun belt from his waist and with them
tightly bound Ray’s hands and feet. A moment or two more sufficed
to revive Cookie sufficiently for Green, finger to his mouth to
enjoin silence, to thrust Ray’s pistol into the cook’s hand, and
motion him to keep the stunned ruffian covered. Cookie nodded;
without a word Green retraced his path out of the house and back
towards the stables. This route brought him around the side of the
building within a few yards of the tall cottonwood where the four
men had thrust Tate roughly into the saddle of a horse.