Sudden--Strikes Back (A Sudden Western #1) by Frederick H. Christian Read Free Book Online Page B

a-hollerin’ “Git him offa
me, git him off!” so I done the only thing I could—I threw my gun
down and got a-hold o’ that big ol’ cat with my bare hands.’ The
listeners waited with bated breath as he paused again. ‘Course,
that ol’ cougar was so intent on tryin’ to get a bite—sized piece
o’ Dave, he just kinda shrugged me off. That ol’ cat’s pelt was
like a Mex rowel—took all the skin off my fingers, but he shore
didn’t scare me none—not while he was a-chewin’ on Dave, anyway. I
thunk a moment, then ran back a step, an’ hauled off an’ gave that
cat just about the hardest kick I ever gave any animal in my life,
an’ that includes a skunk once came to a picnic I was at. Well,
sir, I durn near broke my foot on that cat’s rump, so he turns
around to see who was a-bootin’ him, which allowed Dave to roll
clear from underneath. Cat looks back to see what’s a-happenin’ to
his meal and see’s old Dave’s face for the first time. He took one
look, an’ then, boys, he let out a yowl I bet they heard clear to
San Antone. Next think I knowed, he was boltin’ into the forest
like all Hell was on his tail. I guess Dave there must have given
him a powerful mean look.’
    By this
time, laughter was loud in the warm room, with George Tate slapping
his thigh, so Green concluded, ‘Anyway, boys, that’s how Dave got
his scratches an’ I got my limp. She ain’t much of a story, but
she’s the only one we got.’
    When the
laughter had subsided somewhat, George Tate said to everyone,
‘Boys, it looks like we’ve been took. Green gets a free drink next
time we’re in town.’ A chorus of agreement greeted this remark, and
Gimpy added, ‘A man that can tell tall ’uns like that oughta meet
Mike Mountford, an’ see who can come out on top.’
    ‘ Mountford?’ asked Green. ‘Who’s he?’
    ‘ One o’ the smaller ranchers over on the South Bend side. Yu’ll
be meetin’ him one o’ these days,’ Tate told him.
    That the
meeting was to be much sooner than any of them expected he could
hardly have foreseen.

Chapter
Three
    The
little town of Hanging Rock lay torpid under the blasting heat of
the summer sun. All along the single street the board-walks were
empty, and only a mangy dog, lying in the ineffective shade of
Diego’s saloon, gave any indication that there was life in the
town. All the citizens of the little cow town were prudently
avoiding the midday heat in the cooler corners of either their own
homes or one of the two saloons. A true frontier settlement,
Hanging Rock looked like any of a hundred other dusty cow towns.
Its buildings were of adobe or wood or both, with an occasional
‘dugout’ here and there along the straggling street, while the
spaces in between these inglorious edifices were littered with tin
cans, empty bottles, and even an occasional iron bedstead discarded
by itinerant pilgrims. Hanging Rock made no claim to being the
garden spot of the West, and presented in main an unlovely aspect
to any newly arrived traveler. Its residents were wont to remark
that ‘them as don’t like it don’t need to stay’, and most of those
arriving for the first time in Hanging Rock by means of the stage
line, its only link with the outside world, were apt to take one
quick look at the town and take the advice of its citizens at face
value. Hanging Rock relied for its existence upon trade from the
ranches in the valley and upon the miners on Thunder Mesa who came
in once a month on payday and scattered their hard-earned dollars
in an all-out spree which often ended in a brawl or a killing.
Hanging Rock took these as a small price to pay for the turnover.
Of the various buildings scattered along the street, very few were
of any importance. The biggest was Burkhart’s saloon and Dance
Hall, which possessed an imposing false front behind which crouched
the one-storey reality, an L-shaped building of thick adobe
construction whose thirty-six-inch walls were a guarantee