Sudden--Strikes Back (A Sudden Western #1) (4 page)

‘
Ain’t likely we’d see any o’ them in town, if they really was
the Shadows,’ Parr said. ‘They shore don’t socialize much as I’ve
heard.’

At this
point the discussion was interrupted by the arrival of Cookie, who
came to the door and stood arms akimbo, with mock—or mostly
mock—anger written all over his face.

‘
You fellers gonna stand here jawin’ all night? If so, I’ll
feed yore supper to the hawgs an’ eat the pie myself.’

At this
‘invitation’ the hungry Slash 8 riders piled into the big dining
room and took their places at the big whitewood table, polished by
years of use, while Cookie brought in steaming platters of
food.

‘
Let’s eat,’ said Tate. ‘We can talk later.’

The next
forty minutes or so were devoted exclusively to the devastation of
the fine meal that the cook, despite his ordeal of the afternoon,
had rustled together. Juicy steaks, fried potatoes, fresh bread, a
formidable dried-apple pie, all washed down with what Green
smilingly called ‘horseshoe coffee’, disappeared like smoke before
the combined onslaught of these hardy outdoors men. Pushing his
coffee cup away after the cook had tried to refill it for the
fourth time, Green leaned back in his chair with a sigh and reached
for the makin’s.

‘
That was prime food, seh,’ he addressed the rancher sitting at
the head of the table. ‘I ain’t eaten like that since about last
Christmas.’

‘
We got the best cook in the Territory, bar none,’ Dave Haynes
told him.

‘
You oughta stick around, Jim .’

‘
Or are you headin’ West? There was a brittle silence following
the question gauchely put by Curt Parr. In this country, as they
all knew, it was considered neither polite nor wise to ask too much
about where a man was going—or where he had come from. Green did
not, however, seem to notice the silence, but smiled, and said ‘I
wasn’t headin’ for no place in particular. I just rid up from Texas
to see the country—sort of in the general direction of Santa
Fe.’

‘
Ridin’ the chuckline, Jim?’ Tate asked mildly. It was a polite
way of asking if Green had a job, or money.

‘
I ain’t broke, if that’s what you mean, seh,’ the cowboy told
him. ‘An’ I got a job—sort of.’ Green said no more, but many years
later, when the news reached them that his ‘job’ was finished,
those present were to remember his words.

Green
leaned back in his chair and through the smoke of his cigarette
surveyed the Slash 8 outfit as they joshed each other about the
day’s work. Gimpy, loyal, tough, and incorruptible, one of the old
breed of riders who would literally die for the ranch he worked on,
was obviously their unofficial leader. Dave Haynes, a straight,
open youngster without an ounce of guile in his system. Dobbs and
Shorty, both young, both full of high spirits, both likely to be
good men to have around when things got tough. Only Curt Parr
puzzled him; the man’s personality did not seem to fit in this
essentially happy—go-lucky group. Green resolved to ask the old man
about Parr later if he got the chance. At that moment, his reverie
was interrupted by the rancher himself, who pounded the table with
his fist for silence.

‘
Boys, I ain’t much on speechifyin’,’ the old man began, ‘but I
got somethin’ to tell you. I near stretched rope today, an’ I been
thinkin’ deep ever since. They say a man thinks better when he’s
nigh on meetin’ his Maker.’ He joined the chuckle which these words
prompted, then continued, ‘You boys got a right to choose yore own
trail. As far as I’m concerned, there’s goin’ to be trouble in this
valley. Barclay wants my land, an' these hired gunslicks o’ his
ain’t goin’ to give up easy. Which means some shootin’. Now, wait a
minnit!—’ He held up his hands to stem a rising tide of protest and
comment from his riders. ‘Afore you all buck-jump into a range war,
you better hear me out. This is about my girl Grace.’

Gimpy
leaned over to Green and murmured ‘The old man’s daughter. She’s in
some fancy school back East.’ Green nodded his understanding as
Tate continued talking.

‘
Grace is nigh on twenty-one years old, boys, and she ain’t
been out here for mebbe ten years. She’s been in a high-toned
school since I cain’t recall when, an’ I’m wagerin’ she ain’t
over-interested in running no ranch in New Mexico. I made me a
will, years ago, an’ if anythin’ happens to me, the Slash 8 goes to
Grace. You boys followin’ my drift?’

‘
Hell, boss, yo’re sayin’ that if anythin’ happens to you,
we’ll prob’ly find ourselves riding the chuckline,’ Dobbs
said.

‘
That’s about the way of it,’ Tate admitted.

‘
Well, only one thing we can do, ain’t there?’ Gimpy asked. The
Slash 8 crew nodded almost in unison. ‘Just make dang shore nothin’
happens to you!’ finished the old puncher.

A babble
of agreement and argument followed these words, while Tate pounded
the table trying to get them to stop and listen to him. After a few
moments his efforts met with success and the riders turned to face
him again.

‘
You boys ain’t makin’ sense,’ he told them vehemently. ‘This
place is awready mortgaged; I could easy sell out to the bank, move
out o’ here, give you all a grubstake. If you stay, I can’t
guarantee . . .’

That was
as far as he got. A chorus of yells, denunciations, and arguments
drowned whatever he was saying, until finally Gimpy pounded the
table with the butt of his six-shooter and, casting a cold eye upon
his fellows, stood up and announced, ‘I just ee-lected myself
spokesman for this yere outfit. Anyone got any complaints about
that, now’s the time to voice ’em!’

There
was a silence worthy of a cemetery, and Green smiled to himself at
Gimpy’s command over the crew.

‘
Boss, what we got to say can be said short an’ sweet. We-all
don’t care if you leave the Slash 8 to the Ol’ Ladies Home. Long as
yo’re here, we aim to stay here with you, come hell or high
water.’

A shout
of agreement followed this speech, and Tate looked at his riders
with an expression in which relief fought against and was
extinguished by affection. With misty eyes, the old man said,
‘She’s a gamble, either way, but I figger the Slash 8’s worth it.
Them night-ridin’ skunks’ll have a tough row to hoe.’

‘
You said it, boss,’ chimed in Dave Haynes, his eyes snapping
with eagerness. ‘Give Cookie a gun an’ there’ll be seven of us.
That’ll make ’em think twice afore they try anything.’

‘
Mebbe I didn’t oughta butt in on yore private scrap, seh,’
interposed Green, ‘but you can make that eight—if you an’ yore
boys’ll have me.’

Tate
looked up quickly. ‘You mean you’d—throw in with us,
Jim?’

‘
Why not?’ was the cool reply. ‘I ain’t shore but what I might
find what I’m a—lookin’ for right here in Sweetwater
Valley.’

‘
Well, dang me if you ain’t welcome, an’ that’s for true,’ Tate
chortled. ‘We can use all the help we can get.’

Green’s
eyes flickered quickly over the faces of the Slash 8 crew. In only
one pair of eyes did he see anything except whole-hearted
camaraderie.

‘
Boss is right, Jim,’ Dobbs added. ‘We can use extry
hands.’

‘
Yep,’ pointed out Shorty. ‘Someone’s got to double up to make
up for Ben, account o’ he’s so shy.’

‘
Shy? What do you mean, shy?’ fumed the outraged cowboy to whom
this remark was addressed.

‘
Work-shy, o’ course,’ grinned Shorty.

‘
Me, work-shy? Why, you fat tub o’ lard, I do more—’

‘—
eatin’ than workin’, we know,’ interrupted Gimpy. ‘Quit yore
chatterin’, boys, it’s time to hit the hay.’ So saying, he rose
from his chair and made his way to the door, pausing to call
goodnight to the old cook. Presently the others followed suit, and
Tate asked Dave Haynes to make up an extra bunk for Green in the
bunkhouse. Green stood as well, but Tate motioned him to stay, and
when they were alone, he faced the new Slash S man
squarely.

‘
Jim, I got to thank you—’ he began.

‘
I done told you, that ain’t half necessary,’ was Green’s
reply.

‘
I aim to get well paid in good eatin’.’

The old
man nodded, obviously deep in thought, and the two men smoked in
silence for a while. Presently, Tate spoke again.

‘
Jim, how would you feel about lookin’ after my affairs for
me—if somethin’ was to happen?’

‘
Shucks, nothin’s goin’ to happen to you, seh,’ Green told
him.

‘
Mebbe, mebbe not. I’d like to think that I got everythin’ in
order just in case. Won’t you think about it, Jim? I was thinkin’
mebbe I could make you my foreman, an—’

‘
Mister Tate, you don’t know anythin’ about me,’ Green told the
rancher. ‘I’m thinkin’ you feel beholden to me, account o’ what
happened. But—’

‘—
but, nothin’, Jim. I reckon I know how to size up a man. You
ain’t no long rider.’

Green
smiled, and the old man misinterpreted Green’s
expression.

‘
Yo’re thinkin’ about what happened this afternoon. Hell, boy,
that was a mistake .... ’

‘
No, seh, it ain’t that.’ All traces of humor disappeared from
Green’s face as he spoke, and something akin to sorrow took its
place. ‘I’m right proud o’ yore confidence. But I better tell you
how wrong you are: down in Texas, where I come from, I’m known by
another name. They call me “Sudden”.’

Sudden!
Tate’s eyes widened at this revelation. So this quietly-spoken
young man who had already so ably demonstrated his wizardry with
the six-gun was Sudden, the daredevil whose exploits were already
becoming a legend in the West. Sudden, who had cleaned out Hell
City and Lawless! Few had not heard of his lightning speed on the
draw, his amazing adventures, or of the fact that he was wanted for
murder. Tate looked afresh at the man who had saved his
life.

‘
Jim,’ he said slowly, ‘I don’t care where you come from, or
what you done. From here on in, I ain’t never believin’ another
lyin’ word I ever hear about Sudden the outlaw. Although I never
figgered on this nohow . . .’

‘
It’s true enough, seh,’ Green said. ‘If I hadn’t told you, it
mighta come back on you some day.’

Tate
puffed on his pipe furiously for a moment.

‘
What I said still goes,’ he announced finally. ‘If anythin’
happens to me, I want you to run this ranch until my girl is of
age. I’m a-makin’ a paper tonight to that effect. Tomorrow, I’ll
send it over to my old friend Judge Amos Pringle in South Bend.’ He
hesitated a moment. ‘I’ll have to tell him, boy.’

Green looked up quickly. ‘You trust him.’ It was not really a
question, but Tate nodded just the same. ‘Then tell him the whole
story,’ continued Green. His voice was harsh and compelling. The
two men sat limned by the lamplight, Tate listening in amazement as
the black-haired cowboy proceeded to tell the story of how blind
Fate had thrust upon him the unenviable reputation he owned. In
awed silence, the old rancher heard of a boy’s promise to a dying
man, of a blind search for two killers which had ensued, and of the
false accusation that had sent Green, then a mere youth, wandering
in the West with a price on his head and every man’s hand against
him. At the end of the story, Tate shook his head and said, ‘What I
said goes, Jim. If yo’re Sudden, then there’s been some damn lies
told about you. In the meanwhile’—he held out his hand—‘I’m backin’
you to a fare-thee-well. You’ll take the job?’

‘
I’ll do the best I can, seh,’ promised Sudden. The two men
shook hands gravely.

‘
Never expected nothin’ else,’ was Tate’s gruff
rejoinder.

They
said goodnight and Sudden left the old man alone with his pipe in
the comfortable room. ‘So that’s Sudden,’ Tate reflected. ‘He’s all
o’ that, I reckon. I’m mighty glad he’s on my side o’ the river.’
Nodding to himself, he knocked out the ashes of his pipe in the
huge fireplace, and sat down at the battered old roll top desk,
pulling out pen and paper. He scratched away laboriously for some
time until what he had written was entirely to his satisfaction,
and then stood up, stretching. He walked over to the kitchen door
and called for Cookie, who came in wiping his hands.

‘
Want you to read that,’ Tate nodded at the letter, ‘an’
witness my signature.’ Without comment, Cookie picked up the letter
and read what Tate had written. Surprise came and went in his
expression, but he finished the letter before asking, ‘You know
what yo’re doin’, I hope?’

‘
I hope,’ was the non-committal reply.

‘
What’s this bit mean here?’ the cook asked, ‘ “When Green is
ready to tell you about himself, be prepared for a surprise,
perhaps a shock, but judge him by his actions up to then as you I
know them and nothing else.” ’

‘
It means I ain’t tellin’ you no more’n I told Judge Pringle,’
was the waspish reply. ‘Just sign the letter.’

‘
I’ll sign,’ muttered the cook, ‘but yo’re shore puttin’ a lot
o’ trust in a man you only met today. He could be planted by
Barclay, you ever think o’ that?’

‘
Shore,’ was the equable reply. ‘I’m gamblin’ on it not bein’
so. In fact, you might say I was stakin’ everything I own on
it.’