"That'll teach these glory-huntin' sots not to come pirootin' around here like they owned the place," Nippert exulted. "We got a fella now who can talk to 'em."
"yeah, talk seems to be his strong suit," Mullins--whowas in the Red Light at the time--sneered. "Can't he use them guns when he's facin' a man?"
"There's an easy way o' findin' out."
"Shore, an' I ain't forgettin' it."
"You'd better, or I'll be shy yore custom," Nippert advised.
Jake went without replying; he had conceived an idea which called for immediate action. Some miles out of town the wagon road to the west sprung round in a wide curve where it reached the foothills of the Mystery Mountains, but knowledge of the country would enable one to save this detour. The nearest settlement was Drywash, fifty miles distant.
Towards this place the fugitive from Welcome was steadily making his way when he sustained a second shock in the shape of a curt order to halt and raise his hands. It was backed by the barrel of a rifle protruding from a bush on the edge of the trail. Squint obeyed.
"Good for you," the ambusher said. "I couldn't miss if I tried, an' it ain't worth it; all I want from you is information."
"What about?"
"Yoreself. Why did you run like a jackrabbit from Welcome?" The traveller looked perturbed, and craned his neck in an endeavour to see his questioner, but without success. "Who are you?" he asked.
The unknown laughed. "Not the fella you was so scared of," he replied. "An' I don't like him no more'n you do." This sounded better, and Squint's business instinct began to function. "What do I git out of it?" he growled.
"yore money, weapons, hoss--an' life," was the cool reply. "You know what they're worth better'n I do." The threatened man's tone betrayed irritation. "Killin' me won't git yu no place," he pointed out.
"Shore, but it will git you to hell. I'm givin' you one minute to decide."
"If I talk you won't let on to--anybody?"
"Not a whisper, an' anyways, I don't know you. Now, who is this fella what sent you packin'?"
"His name's James Green, but he's better knowed as `Sudden' in Texas, where he's wanted--had. With a six-gun he's lightnin' in a hurry."
"Sudden," the other repeated reflectively. "Wasn't it him cleaned up a place called Hell City?"1
"Yeah, damn his soul," the informer spat out viciously. "What's he doin' around here?"
"He was marshal o' Pinetown, murdered his pal, an' got away a flea's jump ahead o' the posse, so the tale goes."
"Shore it's the same man?"
"I got plenty reason to remember him," was the disgusted answer. "Cost me some good friends an' a pile o' bucks. He used to ride a big black with a white blaze--a fine hoss."
"That fits. Why didn't you down him? you had the chance."
"I guess you ain't seen him in action," Squint retorted. "He's a wizard, an' got as many lives as a cat." The hidden man laughed shortly. "He's goin' to need 'em, 'an eyes in the back of his head as well," he said. "On yore way, friend, an' if yo're aimin' to stay in Drywash, I may have a use for you. For now . ." He flipped a gold piece in the air and the horseman deftly caught and tucked it in a vest pocket. "Thanks," he said. "You'll find me there, an' if it's a matter o' squarin' up with that Sudden gent, I'll come in cheap. So-long." He resumed his journey and was soon lost to sight. Only then did Mullins step out, an ugly grin of satisfaction on his face.
"So that's the way of it?" he muttered. "It shore looks like I got you where the hair's short, Mister Methodis'. Sudden, huh? Well, the fastest gunman can't beat a rope." An encounter which caused the marshal a great deal more perturbation than that with Squint occurred the next morning when, for the first time, he met Mary Gray. Small, slim, with wide-spaced eyes and short, curly hair to which the sun imparted coppery gleams, she seemed still a girl. He was covertly admiring her as she passed; to his surprise and dismay, she stopped.
"You are the new marshal," she began. "I am Mrs. Gray, and I want to thank you." Sudden snatched off his hat. "I am shore glad to meet yu, ma'am, but yu got me guessin'," he stammered.
"The Bar O boys are apt to be noisy when they come to town," she reminded.
"Shucks!" he said confusedly. "Does the marshal get blamed for everythin' in this burg?" She smiled delightedly. "If he deserves it," she replied. "Sloppy--I hate calling him that, but he won't come to any other name--tells me "
"His tongue is hung on a hair-trigger," he interposed.
"He is a different being since you came," she said gravely. "The women have been very kind, but they have their own work, and I don't know how I would have managed if he hadn't done my chores, but it troubles me that he won't accept any payment."
"He's dead right, ma'am," Sudden said soberly... .
Sloppy was pottering about the marshal's domicile. His grin of greeting faded when he saw the owner's expression.
"Didn't I say for yu to keep yore trap shut to Mrs. Gray?" *
"I done it; Nippert telled her."
"She's complainin" 'bout yu," Sudden went on sternly, and chuckled inwardly at the resultant look of dismay. "Says yu been workin' for her and refused to take any pay." Sloppy detected the twinkle behind the spectacles. "I told her I'd 'tend to it. From now on I'm doublin' what I give yu for doin' nothin', an' if yore sinful pride suggests refusin' it . . ."
"Ain't got no pride--can't afford it," the little man sniggered. "I'm thankin' you, marshal; that'll whoop up my savin's."
"Savin's? To qualify for the calaboose again?"
"I've quit liquor--for a while, anyways." Sloppy jerked a thumb in the direction of the widow's abode. "That li'l shaver'll be needin' playthin's presently."
"Well, I'll be darned," Sudden breathed, and then, "Too bad she should have to work like that."
"You bet it is, when she oughta be ownin' the Dumb-bell range." The marshal, lounging in a tilted chair, straightened with a jerk. "Are yu loco?" he asked
"Not any," Sloppy replied. "It's a queer yarn."
"I love 'em--the queerer the better."
"Where will I start?"
"The beginnin' is considered a good place," Sudden told him solemnly.
"Well, Amos Sark owned the Dumb-bell range. He was a bachelor, an' all the relations he had was a sister an' younger brother, both of 'em havin' lost their pardners. When the sister passes out, Amos has her daughter, Mary, to live with him, but some years later, when Ray--the brother--vanishes complete leaving a growed-up son, he ain't interested, havin' disowned him a considerable while. Time tags along, an' nothin' is heard o' Ray or his boy. Mary sprouts up into a mighty pretty gal an' the of man thinks the world of her. Even when she falls for one of his riders, a good-looker named Gray, he makes the best of it, though he knows the fella is a waster. Then Amos is murdered."
"The devil yu say ! " The narrator nodded. "He starts out early one mornin' to pay a visit to Drywash. Two-three hours later, his pony sifts back to the ranch, showin' there's somethin' wrong. A search is made and they find him all spraddled out on the trail with a couple o' slugs in his back, dead as Moses. Thiswas 'bout a year gone, just before I come here. Ain't nothin' to show who done it, but Gray gits some hard looks, it bein' figured his wife'll have the ranch. But it don't work out that way. Right soon after the killin', a lawyer chap from Dry-wash, Seth Lyman--'Slimy' they call him, an' it fits him like his skin--turns up with a will drawed out by him an' signed by the deceased. It gives a thousand cash to Mary an' everythin' else to Jesse Sark, son o' the younger brother.
"Gray goes on the prod, but it ain't no use, so he starts hellin' round, an' Mary's legacy musta bin mighty near dissipated--an' that's the correct word--when, months later, he's picked up at the bottom of a gully with a broken neck. It's s'posed his hoss threw him, but he was a good rider, even when in liquor." The marshal had listened in frowning silence to the tragic tale. Now he said, "Mebbe the of man was set on the idea of a Sark followin' him at the ranch?" Sloppy snorted. "Amos was tough as tanned hide, an' there warn't a dime's worth o' sentiment in his body."