Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) by Oliver Strange

reply, he added, “P’r’aps the
Bar O can loosen your lips.” Fear flickered in the sullen eyes, but the said
lips were only clamped the tighter.
                 “Why
bother Owen when there’s a mort o’ good trees right here?” Dave asked, with
studied callousness. “S’pose we feed an’ think it over?” Sitting a little
apart, so that their conversation could not be heard, they began the meal the
Widow had provided. The prisoner watched enviously.
                 “Don’t
I eat?” he asked querulously.
                 “Yu
gotta find another use for yore mouth first,” the marshal replied.
                 “An’
remember that dyin’ on an empty stomach is a mighty dangerous thing to do,”
Dave supplemented.
                 His
solicitude earned him only a scowl. They finished eating, smoked a cigarette,
and made a start, the prisoner walking between the riders. The sun’s rays had
now become shafts of fire, and since their way led across the open range, there
was no respite for man or beast. Mile after mile through the blinding heat the
man on foot stumbled doggedly until they had covered two-thirds of the journey,
and then he dropped like a stone.
                 “I’m
all in,” he gasped, through parched, cracked lips. “Have a swig at this,” Dave
said, passing his water-bottle.
                 The
sufferer drank eagerly, and after sitting for a while, stood up. Rustler or no,
he was possessed of a stubborn determination, and Sudden—who had forced this
ordeal upon him in the hope of breaking down his obstinacy—began to doubt its
success. Fists and teeth clenched, eyes half-shut, and
body limp with fatigue, the tortured man dragged one blistered foot after the
other until at length the Bar O building came in sight. A hail brought the
owner, Reddy, and some of the outfit.
                 “‘Lo,
marshal, what you got there?” Owen asked.
                 Sudden
explained, and the rancher’s face grew dark. “Good,” he said, and turned to the
prisoner. “What you gotta say?”
                 “Nothin’.”
                 “Right. You’ve till sunrise; if you ain’t opened up hy then,
you swing. Lock him up, Reddy.”
                 “Yu
think he’ll squeal?” Sudden asked. “That tramp would ‘a’ busted the nerve o’
most; he’s tough.”
                 “A
hemp rope is tougher,” the rancher replied. “Pity the other got away.”
                 “He
certainly chose the right place,” the marshal admitted, and described it.
                 “Ah,
the Silver Mane fall , plenty o’ hidin’ there.”
                 “He
would ‘a’ tried to pot me.”
                 “That’s
so. Well, I dunno how he got clear; that barrier —which we call The Step—runs
for a mile or more each side o’ the stream, an’ she’s straight up, ‘cept at the
south end.”
                 “What’s
back of it?”
                 “Sort
of plateau, with some biggish cracks. The Step is my western boundary; past it
is Dumh-bell range, but they don’t use it, the feed bein’ poor.” When they got
up to go, the cattleman pressed them to stay the night, but Sudden shook his
head.
                 “Gotta
make a show o’ earnin’ our pay,” he smiled.
                 On
the way back, the marshal was unusually silent. In truth, his mind was far away
on the Mexican Border. There, too, what appeared to be a simple case of
cattle-rustling, had uncovered a deep-laid plot to steal a range, and he was
wondering …

  Chapter
IX
                 THE
marshal and his assistant were enjoying an after-breakfast smoke when a pony
scuttered to a stop outside and the Bar O foreman strode in. He had not shaved,
and his customary cheerful expression was missing. Dropping into a seat,