Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) by Oliver Strange Read Free Book Online

sneaked into the Black Hills, dodging the troops sent by the
Government to keep them out, and risking a horrible death by torture at the
hands of the Indians; days of feverish toil, with a rifle always within reach,
and the knowledge that at any moment they might hear the dread war-whoop. They
had found fortunes in a day and lost them in a night—and still hoped.
                 There
was a constant hum of conversation, punctuated by bursts of laughter, and an
occasional oath as the goddess of chance favoured or flouted a gambler.
                 Lounging
carelessly at one end of the bar, Sudden’s eyes were busy, not that the scene
was any novelty, but he had come to live amongst these people for a time, and he
wanted to know something of them. Presently the proprietor noticed the solitary
stranger and spoke to him.
                 “Would
ye be after stayin’ wid us, Mister Green?” he asked.
                 “I’m
all undecided,” the puncher told him with a smile. “I like the look o’ the lay-out,
but, yu see, my appetite keeps regular hours, an’ I gotta work. I had a notion
to find me a gold-mine.”
                 The
saloon-keeper regarded him humorously. “Good for ye,” he replied. “But take it
from me, the best way to look for wan is from the back of a hoss somewan is
payin’ ye to ride.”
                 The
hint was plain enough, and the man to whom it was given nodded a smiling
acquiescence. “I guess yo’re right,” he said. “As a matter o’ fact, I’m seein’
Purdie in the mornin’.”
                 The
remark, coming from a stranger, amounted to a question, and the Irishman took
it as such. “A good man, Purdie,” he said. “His, sort, they don’t make ‘em no
better.” He studied the other furtively for a few moments and decided that he
was capable of taking care of himself.
                 Nevertheless,
he uttered an indirect warning. “Chris is takin’ the loss of his only boy
hard,” he went on. “I misdoubt it’ll mean bad trouble between the C P an’ the
Circle B, which is the Burdette brand. Easy now, here’s a couple of them.”
                 Through
the swing-doors came two men in cowboy trappings, tall, big-boned, dark of hair
and brow, with bold, hard faces and insolent, dominant eyes. Though one was a
few years the elder, and a veritable giant in build,
they were sufficiently alike for their relationship to be obvious. Magee looked
uneasy.
                 “Mart
an’ Sim Burdette,” he said in an undertone. “Pretty well
primed too, begad.” Then, as he turned to welcome the newcomers, the
puncher caught the added words, “An ugly pair to draw to.”
                 Through
narrowed eyes Sudden watched the brothers swagger up to the bar, and decided
that the landlord was right. He noted that each wore only one gun in sight, a
heavy Colt’s .45, slung below the right hip. Though they were laughing, their
eyes were as cold as those of a snake. They greeted the saloon-keeper
boisterously and inquired for the marshal. At that moment Slype came in.
                 “Hey,
Slippery, I hear yo’re tryin’ to pin this Purdie play on the Burdettes,”
Mart—the bigger man—said threateningly.
                 “Yu
heard a lie,” the marshal retorted. “One or two things sorta suggested Luce,
but he claims he had nothin’ to do with it.”
                 “Did
yu expect he’d own up?” sneered the other. “An’ if he
did down Purdie I’ll say he done a good job, though it don’t even the score.
What yu goin’ to do about it?”
                 He
glared round the room as though daring anyone present to dispute his callous
assertion. The marshal, who knew the challenge was directed chiefly at himself , shrugged his shoulders in a poor assumption of
indifference.
                 “Ain’t no call for