The westering sun was sinking behind the hills in a flare of crimson fire when Sudden rode into the town. The place presented no features of interest, and save for the surrounding scenery, might have been any one of the many he had passed through. The same dusty, hoof- and wheel-rutted street formed by two irregular rows of buildings, the most pretentious of which were of log or 'dobe, the others being mere shacks with dirt roofs, or dug-outs. Only a few of the erections boasted a second storey; several displayed the false front, but the sun-scorched, warped shingles rendered the device a transparent one in both senses of the word. The absence of paint was remedied by the grey-white alkali dust which covered everything, and a rubble of tin cans which hemmed in each habitation formed a sordid substitute for vegetation. A cynic might well have reflected that in the whole of the valley only the work of mankind was an abomination.
Sudden found the street deserted, but before he had ridden far along it a man emerged from one of the shacks and paused, staring, when he saw the new arrival, who promptly asked for the marshal's office.
"Furder up, but if yo're needin' Sam, yu'd better try Magee's. I'll show yu," the man replied. "Whose remainders are yu totin'?"
"That's what I wanta find out," the traveller told him.
Anxious to be first with the news, the other asked no more questions. Clumping along the board sidewalk, he made better time than could the horses in the loose sand, and presently disappeared through the swing-doors of one of the larger buildings, which bore on a battered sign the inscription "The Lucky Chance." By the time the puncher reached the spot he had a following of every person he had met, and this was soon augmented by those in the saloon. The last to appear was the marshal, a smallish, wizened fellow of about thirty-five, with a narrow, crafty face, mean eyes, and a still meaner mouth which a drooping black moustache unfortunately failed to conceal. Sudden recognized the type, a bullying, arrogant jack-in-office, who would take every advantage and give none. The man's first words confirmed this impression.
"Yu wanta see me?" he asked truculently.
"No, but I reckon I gotta," Sudden said acidly. "I've brung yu a job."
The retort evoked an audible snicker from the onlookers and a spot of colour in the sallow cheeks of the officer. He looked disgustfully at the limp form on the led horse.
"What d'yu s'pose I am--the undertaker?" he sneered.
"I'm reckonin' that as marshal it's yore job to find out who bumped off this fella," the puncher retorted.
At a word from the marshal two of the bystanders untied the body and laid it on the sidewalk. "Hell's flames, it's Kit Purdie--thought I reckernized his roan! " cried one of them; adding meaningly, "yu won't have far to look for them as did this, Sam."
"Keep yore fool trap closed--Up to now there ain't nothin' to show who done it," the officer snapped, but his forehead wrinkled in a worried frown. "Why didn't the damn young idjut pull his freight like I told him?"
He hent over the body and then straightened up. "Somebody fetch Doc. Toley," he ordered, and turned to the puncher. "What d'yu know 'bout this?"
Sitting slackly in his saddle, the puncher told his story. The mention of the glimpsed grey horse brought a curse from Slype. He looked malignantly at Sudden.
"We on'y got yore word," he said. "Yu mighta done it yoreself."
The accused man smiled in derision. "An' fetched him into show yu? Oh, yeah," he scoffed.
"It would 'a' bin a good bluff," retorted the officer. "Lemme see yore gun."
At this demand the stranger stiffened, and there was an ominous rasp in his voice as he replied, "Which end would yu like to look at? She's a Winchester .44 an' the barrel is foul; I told yu I fired once."
Ere the marshal could reply to this obvious challenge, a short, fat man, with long, unkempt hair, and a clever if somewhat bloated face, pushed his way unceremoniously through the crowd. He was clearly the worse for liquor, but his speech was careful, precise.
"What do you want now, Slippery?" he asked, and then, as he saw the outstretched figure, "young Purdie, eh? So the Burdettes have downed him?"
The marshal gritted out an oath. "We dunno; yu got no right to say that, Doc.," he growled.
"I have a right to say just what I damn please, Slippery," the medico retorted. "If you and your friends the Burdettes don't like it, suit yourselves. What's the use of sending for me now? I can't put life into a dead man."
The marshal's mean eyes flashed an ugly look at him. "Ain't askin' yu to," he said sullenly. "Want yu to dig suthin' out--the bullet; mebbe it'll give us a pointer."
Toley turned the corpse so that it lay face downwards, cut away the clothing which covered the wound, and began to probe. With the morbid curiosity of a crowd the world over, the onlookers jostled one another to get a view, and the doctor cursed them when the stamping feet threatened to engulf him. At length the gruesome task was done and he stood up, the bloodstained pellet of lead between his fingers. The marshal examined it.
"Looks like a .38 to me," he said reluctantly, and the frown on his face was heavier.
"Shore is," agreed half a dozen of the nearest spectators. "What did I tell yu, Sam?" cried the fellow who had spoken before. "Luce Burdette uses a .38."
"Yu didn't tell me nothin' 'cept that yore mouth opens too easy, an' I knowed that afore," snapped the officer. "Luce ain't got the on'y .38 in the world, has he?"
"He's got the on'y one in these parts that I knows of," was the reply.
"King Burdette'll be glad to hear o' yore interest in his family," sneered Slype. "Hell! Here comes Ol' Man Purdie; what cussed luck brought him to town to-day?"
Stepping heavily but swiftly along the sidewalk, with the short, clipped stride of one who has spent much of his life in the saddle, came a sturdily-built, broad-shouldered man of around fifty. His strong, clean-shaven face, which should have expressed good-humour, was now drawn and haggard. Before his advance the crowd opened, and in a moment he was beside the body. One glance was enough.
"God ! " he muttered. "It's true, then." He dropped on one knee and touched the pallid face. "My lad--my only lad," he whispered brokenly.
For some moments there was silence; men who had not thought of it before furtively removed their hats. Then the bereaved father heaved himself to his feet, tragedy in every line of his face, his eyes shining wetly in the half-light. But there was no weakness in voice or bearing when he turned to the marshal.
"Who did this?" he asked harshly.
"Yu know near as much as I do, Chris," Slype replied. "This fella fetched him in"--he jerked a thumb at the cow-puncher. "Claims he saw it happen."
Purdie turned his misted eyes on the stranger; his look was an invitation. Sudden repeated his story of the shooting.
"Yu didn't see the skunk?" the old man asked.
"No, I caught the flash of a grey hoss through the brush an' took a chance," the puncher told him. "The shell I found was a .38 an' the bullet bears that out. If I could 'a' sat in the game I'd 'a' been right pleased."
"I'm obliged to yu, friend," Purdie said.
From the outskirts of the crowd a voice rang through the gathering gloom : "He'll take the Black Burdettes."
The cattleman's head jerked up. "Yu said it, whoever yu are," he grated. "This is their work, shore enough."
"Hold yore hosses, Purdie," the marshal broke in. "We got mighty little to justify that."
"The hoss an' the gun tally, an' Luce was seen headin' that way a bit before it happened," Purdie said bitterly. "Yu call that mighty little, huh?"