Sudden Takes The Trail

Sudden Takes The Trail

Oliver Strange

*

Chapter I

"MURDERER!" The man on the big horse spoke the word aloud, and never had the sound of it seemed so sinister, for he was applying it to himself. Then, as had happened many times in the past few days, his moody gaze swept over the vast expanse of semi-desert he was crossing. High overhead, an eagle, winging its unhurried way against the pale blue sky, was the only visible evidence of other living creatures.

"Reckon we've razzle-dazzled 'em, of hoss," the rider went on.

The black head of the animal came round to nuzzle its master's knee. He bent and stroked the silken nostrils.

"Fella can get away from his own kind but not from his-self," he mused. "Mebbe I'd oughta stayed an' took my chances, but hell ! there warn't no chances." His mind slipped back to that fatal evening only a week before, recalling the scene and the swift sequence of events which had forced him to flee for his life.

Absently he searched a vest pocket for cigarette papers and discovered a metal star which, in the bright sunlight, seemed to wink at him maliciously.

"Runnin' off with the marshal's badge makes me a thief too," he said with a mirthless smile. "Shucks, they can buy another with the pay I didn't collect." He had been peace-officer of Pinetown for some months, and his habit of doing thoroughly any task he undertook speedily made him unpopular with the unruly--and larger--section of the community. But if they hated, they also feared this hard-faced stranger, who bore a name which bred hesitancy in the boldest when it came to defying him. For this was Sudden, cowpuncher, gunman, and outlaw, whose speed on the draw and accuracy of aim with a six-shooter had earned for him an unenviable reputation in the South-West. Because of it, he had been appointed marshal, for only such men could maintain any semblance of decency and order in a land where every man carried his own life in the holster slung at his hip.

"Masters is in trouble at Miguel's. Hurry." He heard again the whispered message which a white-faced boy had crept into the saloon to bring, sent by a man whose face the messenger could not see. Sudden had not hesitated. What was Dave doing in Miguel's--a squalid hovel owned by a Mexican, where the vileness of the liquor was equalled only by the scum who consumed it? Outside the saloon, he had paused a moment to allow his eyes to adjust themselves to the darkness before stepping swiftly along the boarded sidewalk. Then, in a few tense seconds, the tragedy happened: the shadow of a building across the street was stabbed by two shafts of flame, an in- visible hand seemed to snatch at Sudden's hat, and the wind of the other bullet fanned his cheek. Instantly his guns were out, spitting lead at shapeless deeper patches of shade, and a groan, followed by a curse, told him he had not fired in vain. A point puzzled him; if these were the men he suspected, there should have been three shots.

Then came the clatter of hastening feet from behind. He whirled round, peering through the gloom, and as the indistinct figure stumbled past a lighted window he caught the gleam of a drawn gun. This must be the other man. His weapon spoke again, and he smiled grimly as he heard the thud of a falling body. For a brief space he waited, watchful, alert, but no more shots came and he retraced his steps. It was plain now that the message had been but the bait to lure him into an ambuscade, but he wished to make sure. A form, sprawling untidily face downwards on the sidewalk, arrested him. He stooped and struck a match. The hat had fallen off, and the upper half of the head was an ugly blur ofred, but one glance told him that he had shot the only man in Pinetown he could call a friend.

"God ! " he muttered, and in a broken voice, "Dave, I never dreamed it might be yu. I'd sooner ..." His stunned faculties began to function again as he became aware of a stir in the quiet street; heads were protruding from newly-opened doors. Shooting was common enough--noisy revellers frequently expressed their emotion hy emptying their revolvers, but four quick shots followed by a single one pointed to something different. Sudden stood up; he must get away, and speedily. He had slain one much more popular than himself, and with whom he could have no quarrel; his many enemies would see that he paid the extreme penalty.

He was not minded to give them this satisfaction, and though his heart felt like a stone, he hurried to his quarters for rifle, saddle, and horse. When he emerged upon the street again he was recognized and a yell of execration came from the crowd round the body.

"There's the dawg what done it, that butcherin' marshal," shouted one who was nursing his right arm. "Never give the boy a chanct. Git him, fellas ! " A rush was made, and shots followed, but the light was poor; with a gesture of contempt, the fugitive vanished into the night. Pursuit had been prompt and patient, but Sud-den's Indian upbringing stood him in good stead and he was now satisfied that he had succeeded in throwing the posse off the trail. His body was free, but his mind was fettered by a merry, impudent face which grinned at him, mockingly, as it now seemed.

From a near-by sage-bush a rattlesnake--disturbed by their approach--reared its ugly head and sounded a warning. Instinctively the rider's right hand went to one of the walnut-butted weapons in his belt, only to drop away again.

"Hell, no," he said bitterly. "Can I do nothin' but kill? If it had been that whelp Javert now ..." The name of his chief enemy in Pinetown brought a 11 brooding frown. Javert' the gambler, whose crooked play he had exposed, thus earning the fellow's undying hatred; cunning, malignant, and cold-blooded as the reptile Sudden had just refrained from destroying. He it was who had planned the marshal's murder and so brought about Dave's death.

"I'm thinkin' a long whiles afore I draw a gun on a human bein' again, but that don't go for yu, Mister Javert; yu ain't human." The low voice, devoid of passion, made the threat doubly menacing.

"So Welcome is shy a marshal?" the customer said meditatively, as he stowed away the sacks of tobacco he had asked for.

The girl behind the counter nodded. "They got a meetin' about it--dunno why, seein' there's only one applicant," she replied.

"The job don't appear to be popular," he remarked. "It's unhealthy," she told him. "Our marshals seem to be unlucky, we've lost a couple in less than a year." The man's eyebrows rose. "Sounds kind o' wasteful," he said. "One o' them tough li'l towns, huh?"

"Our boys ain't so bad--mostly," the girl defended. "It's the no-'count visitors what drift in." She saw the dawning grin and blushed hotly. "O' course, I ain't meanin' "

"Shucks ! " the customer said gently. "Where did yu say this meetin' was?"

"At the Red Light Saloon--Ned Nippert, the owner, more or less runs Welcome. you ain't thinkin' of ?" She stopped, unaware that she was forgetting her Western upbringing.

"Why not?" came the unresenting reply. "I'm foot-loose 'bout now, an' a fella has gotta eat." He put down a bill and pushed back the change. "Buy yoreself a pretty," he smiled, and went out.

The girl's gaze followed him reflectively. "A cow-puncher,ridin' the chuck-line," she decided. "I hope he don't get that post--he couldn't hold it." Meanwhile, the object of her concern, having noted the name over the door, and mounted the black horse, was leisurely making his way to the Red Light. It proved to be a fair-sized building, constructed of timber and 'dobe, with a raised covered veranda in front. On this five men were sitting round a table bearing a bottle and glasses. The visitor got down and stepped towards them.

"I'm lookin' for a gent named Gowdy," he opened.

A stocky man with a wellnigh bald head stood up. "You've shorely found him," he said. "What you want?"

"Just bought some smokin' at yore place," the messenger explained. "Yore daughter asked me to mention that she's waitin'."

"Cuss it, I clean forgot," Gowdy exclaimed. "Ned, can't we settle this business now?" The big, red-faced fellow to whom he appealed shrugged his massive shoulders. "Seein' there's no other candidate, I s'pose we gotta appoint Jake Mullins," he replied.

In his tone was a very evident reluctance which was apparently shared by three of his companions, to judge by their silence. The fourth was Jake himself, a tall, big-boned, sallow-faced individual, with small eyes, thin lips, and snaky black hair which suggested mixed blood. The newcomer made a quick decision.

"Sorry if I'm hornin' in, gents, but I hear yo're needin' a marshal," he said quietly.

For a moment the only reply he received was a scowl from Mullins; the others were studying him with surprised curiosity. Nippert unconsciously betrayed his thought with a shake of the head.

"It's a risky job," he pointed out. "Unless you can handle yore hardware above the average. . . ."

"I don't go much on gun-play," was the reply. "I'm what yu might call a methodis' an' " A guffaw of mirth from Jake cut him short. "A psalm singer, huh?" he sneered. "Prayer an' fastin' won't land you nowhere in this man's town, brother, 'cept mebbe the cemet'ry." The grey-blue eyes behind the goggles surveyed him sardonically. "Yu got me wrong. I'm not strong on religion, but I have my own ideas o' dealin' with trouble; shootin' ain't allus the best way." Distant high-pitched yells, punctuated by the cracking of pistol-fire, interrupted the conversation. Away down the trail they could see a billowing cloud of dust in which moved the indistinct forms of scampering horsemen.

"Some o' the Bar O boys, an' by the look of 'em they're aimin' to stand the town on its ear, as usual," Nippert said. "What's yore notion o' tacklin' the situation, Jake?"

"Hold 'em up an' perforate the first one what pulls a trigger." The saloon-keeper frowned. "They're good spenders an' pay for any damage they does," he objected.

"Mebbe this fella has a better plan," Jake jeered, with a jerk of the thumb at his rival. "Good chance to try out his methody ideas; if he can make the Bar O see the light without a ruckus I'll throw in my hand." Nippert looked at the stranger. "That's fair enough."

"Suits me," was the reply. "Wipin' out customers is shorely pore policy." He stepped into the street and went to meet the advancing riders, who, shooting, shouting, and spurring their ponies, bore down upon him like a human avalanche. When they were but a few yards distant he raised his right hand, palm downwards, the Indian sign of peaceful intention. To avoid running him down--for he was directly in their path--the cowboys, with a chorus of oaths, pulled their mounts to a slithering stop, and the leader, a sandy-haired youth, regarded him darkly.

"What's the giddy game, stickin' us up thisaway?" he demanded.

The man on foot studied them for a moment. They werefive in number, all young, reckless, and ready for any devil- ment, but, he decided, not evil. His answer took the form of a question :

"Yu happen to know Widow Gray?"

"Shore, her man let his bronc throw him a piece ago. Pore luck for her, though mebbe--well, he didn't amount to much anyways. What of it?"

"She's sick an'--expectin'," the stranger explained. "I don't savvy much about it, but I reckon a racket can't help a woman none at them times. I figured yu'd like to know."

"Is that the straight goods?" Red-head asked.

"I'm stayin' in town," was the meaning reply.

"I take that back," the cowboy said, and thrust his gun into his belt. "Friend, we're shore obliged. Widow Gray is one nice woman, an' we ain't savages." He looked at his followers. "Boys, the jamboree is in the discard for this trip."

"That goes, Reddy," they chorused, and pistols were promptly replaced.

"This is one time Welcome is lucky two ways--she gains a citizen an' don't risk losin' any," Reddy remarked, and grinned at the man who had put a stop to their pleasure. "What about takin' a snort with us an' gittin' acquainted?"

"I'll be glad--presently," was the reply. "Got a li'l business to settle first."

"So've we," Reddy smiled. "Allus begin with our buyin', 'case we don't have any coin left later." They got down at the store and the peace-maker rejoined the party on the veranda, who had watched the scene wonderingly. Unable to hear the conversation, and knowing the Bar O outfit, it seemed little short of a miracle.

Nippert was the first to speak.

"Well, friend, I dunno how you worked it, but you must shorely have a medicine tongue."

"Why, there's no mystery," was the quiet reply. "I just told 'em that Widow Gray is sick, an' liable to add to the population o' Welcome any time."

"Hell!" Jake said disgustedly. "Anybody could 'a' done that."

"Yeah, anybody could 'a' discovered America, but Columbus did it," Nippert retorted. "Stranger, I like yore method, an' you win." He fumbled in a pocket, produced a nickel star, and proffered it to the new officer. "Jake, you'll have to wait till there's another vacancy." The disappointed candidate's face was poisonous. "Which won't be long, I'm bettin'," he snarled, with a disparaging glare at the man who had beaten him. "You others standin' for this?" and when he got no reply, "Helluva note, ringin' in a perishin' tramp; reckon Jesse Sark may have somethin' to say." Jake flung away; the saloon-keeper lifted his shoulders and turned apologetically to the visitor.

"A pore loser, an' would 'a' bin a wuss marshal," he said. "I'm mighty glad you drifted in, Mister ?" His eyes were on the black horse, the left hip of which bore the brand J. G.

"Stands for `James Grover' but `Jim' will do just as well," the owner told him.

Nippen nodded; he had noted the momentary hesitation, and knew that for some reason the newcomer was sailing under false colours, but that was too common in the West to have much significance, and he liked the man. Moreover, he was grateful for the opportunity to turn down Mullins, whom he regarded as something lower in the scale of Nature than the Gila monster. So, when the Bar O riders arrived, he duly presented the new officer under the name given. Reddy's eyes twinkled.

"We've met," he said, and then, "Jake looks like someone had trod on his tail." They all laughed and, at Nippert's invitation, lined up at the bar and drank with the man who had been put in power --as they well knew--partly on their account. When Gowdy had departed to placate his daughter, Rapper drew the saloon-keeper aside.

"Good work, Ned," he complimented. "We won't have no trouhle with the Bar O from now on; Jim has made a hit with them."

"Quick thinkin' will beat quick shootin' off'n as not, an' the two of 'em is a combination hard to win against," Nip-pert replied. "Them guns he's totin' don't look exactly new. Jake will be difficult, but I figure this fella can take care of hisself." The evening passed off quietly enough. In the course of it, the newcomer met most of the townsmen, and, save for the rougher faction which disapproved of restraint as a matter of course, created a favourable impression. He spoke and drank sparingly.

One incident alone called for the exercise of authority, and it occurred in the Red Light. Two men were playing cards, a doubtful-looking stranger who had ridden in late and a citizen known as "Sloppy," reputed to be rarely sober.

The marshal strolled over and stood watching the pair. Presently what he had anticipated happened : the Welcome player had won at first, but now he began to lose, and as the pile in front of him diminished, his caution and temper followed his cash. A further reverse which would have nearly wiped out his winnings proved the last straw and in a drunken fury he hurled an accusation calling for only one reply. Rasping an oath, the other man rose and reached for his gun, only to find an empty holster. A calm voice said :

"I've got yore shootin'-iron, hombre. The door is straight ahead." Out of the corner of one eye the trouble-maker saw the marshal just behind him. A gentle jab in the short ribs from the muzzle of his own weapon apprised him that he was helpless, and with a lurid epithet he moved forward. Outside the saloon he ventured a protest :

"This ain't no way to treat a visitor. Did you hear what that soak called me?"

"Shore, an' he got yu right," the marshal replied.

"If I had my gun ..."

"Here she is--I don't want her--got two better ones." The fellow snatched the weapon eagerly, hesitated a bare second, and then--as he discovered it had been unloaded--thrust it into his belt with a curse.

The marshal laughed.

"I'm growed up," he said. "Get agoin' an' keep agoin'our graveyard is middlin' full." The cold, ironic tone carried conviction. The speaker waited while the fellow found his pony, mounted, and was gathered up by the gloom. Returning to the saloon, he found Sloppy sprawled across the table in a half-stupor. Hoisting him to his feet, he piloted the drunkard out and down the street to a stout log shack standing next to the marshal's quarters, pushed him in and turned the key of the big padlock. When he entered the Red Light again, the proprietor met him with an approving smile.

t'Slick work, marshal. What you done with the pilgrim?"

"Sent him on his way, not exactly rejoicin'. A cheap tinhorn, lets the other fella win till he's too pie-eyed to notice crooked play. We can do without his kind."

"We can that. Where's Sloppy?"

"Sleepin' it off in the calaboose. I'll deal with him in the mornin'."

Chapter II

UNEVENTFUL days slid by, and the marshal's reputation grew. His calm demeanour, ready smile, and brevity of speech afforded a striking contrast to the bullying, loud-voiced, intemperate peace-officers so frequently found in frontier settlements. Sloppy became his slave and, to the amazement of all, a sober man. He had appointed himself general factotum to his preserver, doing all the domestic duties at the quarters which Welcome provided for its representative of the law.

But the popularity of the new officer was by no means universal; Jake had his following, and though he made no open move, he was not idle. Nippert had news of this when, about a week after the appointment, a visitor strode into the Red Light and greeted him gruffly. Tall, heavily-built, little more than thirty, he had a puffy, clean-shaven face, small bloodshot eyes, and a weak sensuous mouth, the downward droop of which gave him a petulant expression.

"'Lo, Sark, anythin' troublin' you?" the saloon-keeper asked.

"I hear you've given the post o' marshal to a stranger."

"You heard correct."

"Then you gotta make another change."

"When did you buy it?" Nippert asked ironically. "Buy what?" Sark snapped.

"This town." The rancher glared. "Jake had the job comin' to him."

"Jake has a lot comin' to him," was the retort. "He'll be lucky if he ain't here when it arrives."

"Quit foolin'," Sark said angrily. "What d'you know about this outsider?"

"Mighty little, but we knowed a deal about Jake, an' there you have it." Nippert grinned as the door was darkened. "'Lo, marshal, meet Mister Sark, o' the Dumb-bell ranch." The cattleman spun round and stared at the new arrival, his beady eyes clearly conveying hostility, but they soon fell before the steady gaze which met them. Neither man put out a hand.

"Mister Sark was sayin' I oughta bounce you an' give the job to Jake," the saloon-keeper went on.

"I said you had acted unwisely, an' unfairly to Mullins," Sark corrected. "He's the better man."

"An' me a stranger to yu," Sudden said softly.

"He can shoot quicker an' straighter than anyone in these parts," the rancher asserted meaningly.

"Well, that makes it easy for him--mebbe," the marshal retorted. "All he has to do is--prove it."

"He'll do that, give him the chance," Sark promised, and with an ugly scowl, slouched out.

Nippert looked a little apprehensive. "Jake's mighty good on the draw," he offered.

Sudden's smile was enigmatic. "He shall have his chance, but not in the way that fella thinks. I reckon there's others around here who fancy their shootin' some?"

"Shore is."

"Good, we'll stage a li'l contest." He went on to explain his proposal, and as he listened the saloon-keeper's face expanded in a broad grin.

So, in the Red Light that evening, the saloon-keeper contrived to start an argument on marksmanship, always a fruitful topic of interest among Westerners.

"I reckon shootin' ain't what it used to be," he opined. "Where are you goin' to find fellas like Bill Hickok, Doc Holliday, an' the Earps, to name on'y a few?"

"Right here in thisyer town--mebbe," Jake retorted. "I'm holdin' that the doin's o' the ol'-timers ain't lost nothin' in the tellin'--tales don't as a rule." Nippert, who had been angling for this, smiled genially. "Boys, we'll try it out," he said. "Welcome ain't had much excitement recent an' a gun-slingin' match, free to all comers, oughta be interestin'. I'll put up fifty dollars as a prize. It'll take place the third day from now; I guess some o' the Bar O an' Dumb-bell outfits'll want to take a hand." The proposal was received with acclamation and wagering on the result began immediately, Mullins being easily the most fancied competitor. This swift popularity was fully in accordance with his own views.

The news of the contest spread rapidly, and despite the fact that the result was regarded as foregone, there was a goodly gathering to look on or take part. John Owen, of the Bar O, with Reddy, his foreman, and some of the punchers had ridden in. Sark brought a half-dozen of his riders, craggy-featured, rough-looking, and rather older than those from the other ranch. The two groups kept apart, for there was no friendship between owners or outfits.

The crowd was congregated in front of the calaboose, on one of the stout timbers of which a card--the five of diamonds--had been nailed breast-high. From this, Nippert stepped twelve paces and laid down a short board.

"Reckon that's about right," he said. "What d'you say, John?"

"Seems fair to me." The owner of the Bar O was a tall, thin man in the middle fifties, with a long face on which a smile was seldom seen. His black coat, dark trousers thrust into the tops of his spurred boots, and soft felt hat added to the gravity of his appearance.

"Who are you aimin' to gamble on, Red?" Owen asked.

"Well, they all 'pear to think there's on'y one man in it, but I got my own notions," the young man replied. "Hey, Jake, what odds yu offerin' on yoreself?"

"I ain't heard the conditions yet." At that moment Nippert held up a hand for silence. "Entrants will stand on the board, draw an' fire on the word from me. One shot only, an' any hesitation will disqualify," he announced.

Mullins laughed. "Snap-shootin'--that suits me fine. You can have four to one, cowboy."

"Take yu to five dollars."

"Chicken-feed, but every little helps," Jake said insolently. "Any more donations?"

"I'll take the same bet--twice," Owen said quietly. "An' I'll go you--once." The layer of odds spun round and saw that the last speaker was Sloppy. "You?" he jeered. "I don't trust wasters." Sloppy searched his clothing, produced a crumpled bill, and gave it to Owen. "Now you cover that," he challenged. "Me, I don't trust--anybody." Jake's face was furious. "Why, you drunken little rat " he began, but the rancher intervened.

"He's put up his stake, an' it's on'y fair for you to do the same," he pointed out.

Having no wish to quarrel with the Bar O man, the bully handed over the twenty. "You won't have it long," he boasted, and turned to his latest client. "As for you, next time yo're starvin' don't come to my place beggin' for a square meal."

"Nobody never does git a square meal there, even if they pay for one," Sloppy retorted, with unusual hardihood.

The bystanders sniggered, for Jake's "place" was the local eating-house, grandiloquently styled "The Welcome Restaurant," and famous for neither quality nor quantity. Jake opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again as the marshal came up to greet Reddy and be presented to his employer. They shook, and the rancher's eyes travelled from the lean face to the worn butts of the guns in his belt.

"Goin' to have a try, marshal?" he asked.

"Why, mebbe I will."

"Wanta risk anythin' on yore chance?" Jake invited . "I never gamble on my shootin'."

"Well, you know it better'n we do," came the sneer. "Hello, they're startin'." The onlookers were closing in, taking advantage of any inequality in the street--and they were many--which would give them a better view. Amid cheers and ironical advice, the first competitor--Gowdy--took up his position on the board and, at the word, snatched out his gun and fired, missing the target by nearly a foot. Shouts of laughter rewarded the effort.

"you hit the calaboose, anyways," one comforted.

"Yeah, an' if you'd bin standing where the card is you wouldn't be chirpin' none," the storekeeper grinned.

And indeed, as one after another men stepped forwardand shot, it became evident that Gowdy's attempt was better than it had seemed, for few of the citizens did as well, and Chips--the carpenter--covered himself with ignominy by hitting the sand yards in front of the building.

"Them `rickoshay' shots need a lot o' practice," Rapper said gravely, as the unlucky marksman retired in confusion to face the banter of his friends.

Among the competitors were many who knew that only a lucky fluke could gain them the prize, and when this did not materialize, they accepted defeat with good-humoured grins. But there were others who took the affair seriously--the punchers, to whom victory meant more than a month's pay, and a reputation.

The Dumb-bell representatives fired first, and though their lead thudded all round it, the target remained undamaged. The Bar O followed, and Reddy--the star performer--got within an inch, the best so far, a feat which gained him a round of applause. The ranchers and Nippert having declined to compete--the latter modesty stating that he did not wish to win his own money--Mullins swaggered forward, a confident smirk on his face. Feet firmly planted on the board, right hand hanging in close proximity to his gun, he waited the word, and when it came the report followed almost instantly. It was a good draw and shot, for the bullet cut a neat half-circle out of the top of the card. He looked triumphantly at the saloon-keeper.

"I'll trouble you for that fifty," he said.

"Back up an' git out'n the way," was the reply. "There's another to come." Mullins turned to see the marshal waiting to take his place.

If he could have read the officer's smile aright he would not have made his next remark, "I'm layin' five to one he can't better my shot."

"Yo're on--fifty dollars to ten," Nippert snapped, adding, "This fiesta ain't goin' to cost me nothin' after all." The wager concentrated attention still more on the man who, with bowed head, stood slackly waiting for the signal.

No one there had seen those guns drawn from their holsters, and his aversion to using them was known. Certainly he did look like a world-beater, and his seeming indifference worried the saloon-keeper.

"Ready?" he called. "Go ! " As the word left his lips the marshal's right gun rose hip-high, exploded, and the middle pip on the card was blotted out. Then, quicker than a man could count, came four more shots, each of which partly obliterated a corner diamond.

Thrusting the smoking weapon back into his belt, the marshal turned away without even a glance at the target. The jarring crash of the gun was followed by a complete silence; the speed, deadly accuracy, and absence of undue care betrayed a mastery the like of which no man there had ever seen, and for the moment they were dumb. Reddy was the first to recover.

"My Gawd ! " he said, in a tone of awe. "An' I nearly pulled on him the day he come." The naive remark raised a laugh and relieved the tension. Then came the applause, for even those who had lost their money on Mullins could not refuse this tribute to superlative skill. But the man who, in the very moment of triumph, had received this shattering blow to his conceit, stood motionless, his murderous eyes on the stranger who had again beaten him. A bystander provided a vent for his rage.

"Tough luck, Jake," he commiserated.

"Keep yore blasted sympathy for them as needs it," Mullins snarled, and stalked away.

"A pore loser, as I told you," Nippert said to the marshal. "Here's the prize, an' you shorely won it." Sudden did not take the proffered money. "It's comin' back to yu," he smiled, and raising his voice, "Everybody drinks with the winner." This produced another cheer and the crowd promptly headed for the Red Light. Nippert followed, having first removed the target, which some of the curious were examining.

"This'll be somethin' to show next time there's any talk about gun-play," he remarked, and in reply to a question, "No, it was a surprise to me--I'd never seen him shoot."

"I've met some o' the best in my time, but ..." Owen finished with an expressive shrug.

"Yeah, an' you'll be sorry yet," Sark rapped back. "A fella who can sling a gun like that is bound to have a dirty record, an' I'll bet there's a sheriff or two lookin' for him right now."

"They'll be unlucky if they find him, I'd say," Reddy grinned.

Later, when the crowd had dispersed, the store-keeper drew Nippert aside and congratulated him.

"It was Jim's notion. Look at it: he puts it over Mullins, services notice on the other rough-necks that he's dangerous to monkey with, an' no blood spilled. He shore is a methodis'."

"So's Jake, but his methods is different. An' Sark ain't none pleased; he musta bin raised on curdled milk he's that sour. Jim's got trouble comin', certain as cats has kittens."

"Well, I guess trouble an' him ain't exactly strangers," Nippert said shrewdly. "I'll bet he can handle it."

Chapter III

FoR a week or so it appeared that Gowdy's fears were groundless; the town remained quiet. Only once did the peace seem to be in danger and that was when, on a broiling afternoon, a shaggy-haired, wild-eyed rider came rocketing in at the eastern entrance, rolling from side to side on his saddle, gun out, and yelling like one possessed.

"I'm a lone wolf from Pizen Springs, an' I'm yere to blow this prairie-dawg community to hellangone. Emerge from yore holes, you varmits, or I'll smoke you out." Receiving no answer to this challenge, he pulled up, his slitted, drink-inflamed eyes roving right and left.

"Ain't there a man amongst you with spunk enough to Show hisself?" he vociferated.

There was : the marshal stepped from his office and walked unconcernedly towards the intruder, whose weapon was at once slanted upon him.

"Stop right there an' h'ist yore paws," came the command.

The marshal obeyed the first order only when he was a yard from the horseman, and ignored the second entirely. "Yu were allus a fool, Squint," he said.

The low voice brought a quick look of apprehension on the bluster's unpleasing face, and he bent forward to peer at the man who defied him so casually. The marshal pushed his hat back, and taking off his spectacles began to polish the lenses; the simple act appeared to have a mesmeric effect on the visitor.

"You?" he gasped. "What of hell ... ?"

"Put that gun away an' punch the breeze--pronto. An' listen, if yu open yore mouth about me within a hundred mile o' here, I'll--take--yore--trail."

"But " Behind the replaced glasses the marshal's eyes grew hard; he pointed to the west. "yu have sixty seconds to get outa range, an' I'm meanin' it," he said.

Evidently Squint was not of the doubting type; the cruel, big-toothed spurs raked the ribs of his pony and sent it racing in the direction indicated.

The citizens who witnessed the incident rubbed their eyes in amazement.

"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."

"Yu knew him?"

"No, but that was his reputation." Sudden was considering another angle. "So they're cousins, an' he won't help her?"

"You've seen him," Sloppy returned. "There's on'y one person in this world Jesse'd help, that's hisself, an' he's good at it."

Chapter IV

THE marshal was contemplating a modest announcement above the Widow's front window informing the inhabitants of Welcome that meals could be obtained there. Having decided to give the new enterprise a trial, he was about to step in when an angry-looking, red-faced fellow whom he knew to be a friend of Mullins swung out, viciously slamming the door behind him.

"Say, don't eat there 'less you wanta be pizened," he warned. "Can't cook no more'n a dead Injun, that "

"Lady," Sudden suggested. "Mebbe yu ain't a judge o' cookin', Toler. I am; I'll take a chance an' let yu have my opinion. Till then, don't chatter." The blue eyes were frosty and there was a threat in the even voice. The disgruntled citizen had an answer all ready, but decided that silence might be safer. So he scowled and departed.

The marshal went in to find the proprietress near to tears. An overturned chair and a half-eaten plate of meat betokened the abruptness of a customer's exit. He replaced the furniture and surveyed the spotless tablecloth and shining cutlery approvingly.

"Pearls afore swine," was his comment. " 'Pears to have stampeded one o' yore patrons, ma'am."

"The only one, and he--went without paying," she confessed. The marshal made a mental note. "He said I couldn't cook, and it's the one thing I can do." Sudden shook his head. "No, there's another," he corrected. "You can--smile." She made a brave attempt, and retreated to the kitchen, returning presently with a sizzling steak and fried potatoes. It looked perfect, and the marshal attacked it with the vigour of a hungry man. The Widow, fearful of witnessing another disappointment, vanished, and thereby earned the diner's gratitude. For the first touch of the knife had told him that the meat was incredibly tough, even to one accustomed to camp-fare on the range.

"This would shorely tear the teeth out'n a circular saw," he murmured, as he hacked and slashed.

But he was determined to eat it, and by the application of sheer muscular power, and at the risk of breaking both knife and plate, he contrived to sever fragments which heswallowed almost unchewed, to the future discomfort of his internal economy; the unshed tears in those brown eyes should not fall if he could help it. He had almost completed the sacrifice when the Widow--unable to bear the suspense any longer--came in.

"Is it--all right?" she asked tremulously.

The martyr bolted the last lump whole and told the truth. "I never ate a steak like it, ma'am." The smile which lit up her face reminded him of the sun suddenly emerging from rain-laden clouds. "I'm so glad," she said. "I hope my pastry will be as good." It had been in the customer's mind to decline anything more than the plea that he had already eaten enough but, with inward misgiving, he tackled the wedge of dried-apple pie she placed before him. It proved to be delicious, and she watched delightedly while he devoured every morsel.

"Pie like mother made," he complimented, and this time no subtlety was needed. "Ma'am, yu certainly can handle flour." He paid the modest score and left her happy. Strolling casually along the street, he paused at the emporium of Welcome's only butcher, one Cleaver, universally referred to as "Clever," a sarcastic contortion which reflected upon his intelligence.

"I've been feedin' at the Widow Gray's," the marshal opened. "Whyfor do yu sell yore beef with the hide on?" The man stared at him. "I don't," he replied. "Sell the skins separate." Then, as the implication dawned upon him, "If you get hard meat it's 'cause she can't cook."

"Now I wonder who told yu that?" the marshal mused. "Did I see Toler here a while back?" The butcher's face contradicted the too hasty denial. "Well, I must get some better glasses. I'd 'a' sworn "

"Now I think again, he did stop as he was passin'," Cleaver corrected, but the other appeared to have lost interest in Mister Toler's movements.

"Mrs. Gray is a good cook, but the finest in the world couldn't make boot-leather appetizin'," he remarked. "Yu supply Mullins, don't you?"

"Yeah, but I don't play favourites."

"Shore, but it would help him if got the prime cuts an' she on'y had the leavin's," the marshal reflected aloud. He saw that he had hit the mark, and added meaningly, "I'm aimin' to feed reg'lar at the Widow's, an' my teeth ain't made o' steel. Understan'?"

"I can fix that by sendin' her a special for you," the tradesman said eagerly.

"Fix nothin'--yu don't play favourites--an' I ain't askin' yu to. Yu'll make 'em all specials."

"But Jake's my biggest buyer."

"Mrs. Gray'll be that soon, an' if she don't get good meat in future, I'll have to go into the butcherin' husiness my own self." On the following morning, soon after noon, Sudden contrived to meet Toler on his way to the eating-house. With a surly look, the man would have brushed past, but the officer stopped him.

"Jake'll have to do without yore custom to-day," he said. "Yo're feedin' at the Widow's."

"Like hell I am," was the retort. "I've had some."

"An' left without payin', which is dishonest."

"I didn't eat nothin'."

"yu bent that steak considerable--just naturally ruined it, in fact," the marshal said gravely.

"Bent it, yeah, an' that was hard to do," Toler replied. "A dawg couldn't 'a' got teeth into it."

"Which accounts for yore failure. Anyways, yu ordered a meal an' she supplied one; what yu do with it is yore affair. Yu likewise caused a ruckus an' come near bustin' a chair, thus committin' a breach o' the peace. Now, either yu apologize, pay for that meal an' eat another, or, well, the calaboose is empty an' I'm afraid yu'll find it lonesome."

"I'll see you "

"Resistin' the law--that entitles me to blow yore light out," the marshal said. "March." The badgered man's eyes bulged; in some mysterious manner one of the speaker's guns had leapt from its holster and was pointed at the pit of his stomach. If the thumb holding back the hammer was relaxed--the marshal had no use for triggers. . Toler did not pursue the thought. The lady's eyes widened when they entered, but her welcoming smile was for both.

"Mister Toler figures he was a mite hasty in his judgment; I've persuaded him to give yu another trial," Sudden explained.

Nothing more was said until the business of feeding was finished, and then the unwilling customer sat back with a sigh of satisfaction.

"That's the best feed I've had in years, an' I'm right sorry I was rude to you, ma'am," he said. "I expect I did oughta blamed yore butcher." The little woman's face flushed with pleasure. "Please don't say another word," she begged. "Perhaps it was conceit, but I did think I could prepare a meal."

"I'll wallop the linin' out'n any fella who sez different," he told her.

In the street, the convert pushed out a paw and said gruffly, "Marshal, I'm thankin' you. Fur as I'm concerned, Jake must do his own dirty work."

"That's good hearin'," Sudden replied. "Persecutin' a woman is somethin' Welcome won't stand for." Later in the afternoon Sloppy came into the office wearing a broad grin. "What you done to Toler?" he asked. "Yestiddy he was tellin' the world Mrs. Gray couldn't cook an' now he sez she's the best ever."

"Why put it on to me? Can't a fella change his mind without my help?" Sudden fenced. "Some folks is fussy 'bout food, 'specially if their livers ain't actin' right."

"Meanin' no offence, yo're a pore liar," Sloppy replied. "You oughta see Jake's face."

"Sooner see his back, any time," the marshal said.

He was very satisfied with the way things were going. If Toler, one of her rival's intimates, spoke in her praise, the Widow would get support. It was working out better than he had hoped.

As the days went by, the fame of the new eating-place grew, and Mullins had the mortification of seeing his customers drop away until only a handful of friends remained. Well aware to whom he owed this state of affairs, he vainly sought a means of striking back. He had sent to verify what he had been told of the marshal, but his messenger had not yet returned. His attempt to bully the butcher failed dismally.

The climax came when Reddy and his bunkie, Shorty, rode in and were promptly convoyed by the marshal to the new establishment. While the meal was in preparation, they were permitted to tiptoe into the bedroom to see the baby. The pudgy, red-faced, blue-eyed morsel of humanity regarded them stolidly.

"What is it?" Shorty wanted to know.

" `It' indeed," the mother repeated, with pretty indignation. "It's a boy." And then laughed at her own slip.

Reddy thrust out a thumb and the infant's tiny fingers closed on it. "He'll shore be a go-getter, ma'am," the cowboy said. "What's his name?"

"David, after my father." The marshal's face clouded. "I knowed a Dave--once," he said. "Them steaks must be mighty close to done." An hour later, three fully-fed men stepped again into the street. The cowboys were loud in their approval.

Jake's savage eyes watched them enter the Red Light. This was the final blow. Hitherto, the Bar O boys had always given their patronage, but now ... A tempest of passion possessed and made him reckless. When the cowboys came out and were crossing the street, he met them; the marshal had stayed behind a moment, talking to Nippert.

"Ain't you fellas fed yet?" Mullins began."Shore, over at the Widow's," Reddy replied.

"Her cookin' is bad."

"If that's so, an' it ain't, yu never oughta touch a pan," Shorty said hluntly.

Jake gave him an ugly look, but the man he burned to quarrel with was now joining them. "So the marshal raked you in, huh?" he sneered. "He shore knows how to fill his pockets at the expense of his friends."

"Meanin'?" Reddy asked.

"That he's back o' the Widow, o' course. She does the work an' he corrals the coin, sorta sleepin'-pardner, in more ways than one." He chuckled at the vile aspersion. "An' there's others, even that bum, Sloppy " He got no further. One long stride, a lightning blow, and the traducer was hurled headlong. The marshal's eyes were blazing.

"Yo're a foul-minded, dirty liar," their owner said through his clenched teeth. Wallowing in the dust, Jake was groping for his gun. "Don't do it, or I'll kill yu an' cheat the rope that's waitin' for yore rotten neck. Take his shootin'-iron, boys." Despite his struggles and curses, he was soon deprived of his weapon, and allowed to stand up. By this time an eager crowd had collected, questioning and wondering. For days past it had been seen that a clash between the two was inevitable; Jake had made no secret of his enmity, but after the shooting match . .

Mullins, his hot eyes glaring at his opponent, his features twisted in a savage grimace, had something to say:

"Well, you got my gun, so you needn't be afeard to pull yore own on me." For a single pulsating second it seemed that the taunted man was about to do that very thing, and Jake's heart missed a beat--he was not tired of life. Then he breathed again as first one and then the other weapon was handed to Reddy.

"Which is what yu'd have done," Sudden said coldly, answering the jeer. "We're even matched now. Yu have in suited a lady this town admires an' respects. For that yo're gettin' a hidin'--one yu'll remember as long as the world has to put up with yu." Into the ruffian's eyes came a gleam of satisfaction; this was something different. Though they were about the same height, he was fully a stone heavier, and had experience in the rough-and-tumble form of fighting, in which anything save the use of a weapon was permissible. The marshal's friends were not pleased; they knew the other man's reputation.

"See here, Jim, you don't have to do this," Nippen expostulated. "Clap him in the calaboose, an' we'll deal with him."

"An' tell all the town I'm scared?" Sudden smiled. "Shucks, you're jokin', Ned."

"He's one hell of a scrapper," the saloon-keeper said dubiously. "If he licks you . . ."

"He was one hell of a shot too," the marshal reminded. "This ain't a duty, but a pleasure." Removing his hat, spectacles, and vest, he stepped into the ring which had been formed. Jake, his rolled-up shirtsleeves displaying hairy, muscular arms, was awaiting him, fists bunched in malignant eagerness. Silence fell on the crowd as the men faced one another.

For a moment they stood motionless, and then Mullins, unable to restrain his passion, rushed forward and flung a furious blow which might have done real damage had it landed. But Sudden swayed away and before the striker could recover his balance, moved in with a straight left which jolted the other's head back and should have taught him a lesson. Dominated, however, by his anger, Jake continued his blind charges, only to encounter that stinging left which stopped him like a brick wall.

The officer, calm, inscrutable, was almost untouched, while Jake was already badly marked, and only exhausting himself with the violence of his efforts to deliver a smashing blow.

"Stan' up an' fight, you white-livered cur," Jake grated. "Where are you?" His fist hurtled through the air as he spoke, but Sudden saw it coming, moved his head so that the vengeful knuckles merely grazed his cheek, and drove his left, not to the jaw this time, but just above the belt.

"I'm right here," he replied grimly.

Jake was incapable of making any retort; the terrible, paralysing punch had driven all the breath from his body, leaving him doubled up, gasping and grunting with pain. Sudden sprang in, his right drawn back for the blow which should end the battle; he had the fellow at his mercy and there was nothing of that in his hard face. Even as he swung to strike, his foot slipped in the churned-up, loose sand of the roadway, and he lost his balance. Instantly Jake saw his opportunity, leapt for the floundering man, and they went down into the dust together. This swift reversal of the situation was all to the liking of the bully's supporters; he might be no match for the marshal with his fists, but when it came to wrestling, biting, and gouging, it was another matter. They yelled encouragement.

"You got him, boy," cried one. "Throttle the " Sloppy, dancing about in a fever of anxiety, appealed to the saloon-keeper. "That ain't fair scrappin', he's got Jim by the throat," he protested. "For a busted nickel "

"Keep outa this," Nippen said sternly. "Nobody can't do nothin'--it's their affair. Jim was unlucky, damn it." Sloppy had reason to be fearful, for his benefactor was truly in a parlous position. The impact of Jake's body had floored him, and before he could prevent it, the claw-like hands had fastened on his neck. Madly he strove to tear them away, to throw off the weight which held him pinned to the ground and wellnigh powerless, but the pitiless thumbs pressing on his windpipe sank deeper and he felt his strength failing. Above him, out of that evil mask, triumphant eyes gloated, and the thin lips were animal-like in their savagery.

"I've got you where I wanted to, Mister Methodis'," the man panted. "This is yore farewell, you interferin' houn'." Sudden's clouding brain was still functioning; where strength could not avail, craft might. He ceased to resist, his form becoming slack, his hands slipping limply to the earth beside him. With a hideous grin of satisfaction, the man on top bent to peer at his victim, only to receive a hand- ful of fine sand full in the eyes. Blinded and smarting, he instinctively recoiled, lessening the pressure, and immediately Sudden's right fist shot up from below and landed just over the heart. It was a fell stroke, one which might well have killed a weaker man, and for the moment, Jake was helpless. Sudden thrust him aside and stood up--waiting.

"Finish him off," someone urged.

The marshal smiled lopsidedly--that was not his way. Besides, he had some breathing to make up, and his neck felt as though he had been half-hanged. He watched his antagonist stagger to his feet and rub the grit from his bloodshot eyes. The spectators waited too, silent for the most part; they were witnessing something they had never seen before--a man holding back when he had his enemy almost hopelessly beaten. Few of them could comprehend it.

"Well, Mister Mullins, shall we continue our li'l argument or have yu had enough?" Sudden inquired.

"Enough? Not by a damn sight--I ain't started on you yet?" the other growled.

The onlookers closed in as the combatants moved forward. This time Jake made no swift advance; he had learned his lesson, and the pain of his swollen features--the work of that straight left--was a constant reminder. He knew well that but for a nearly fatal slip, he would have been knocked cold, but the brute in his nature buoyed him up with the hope of a similar mischance, and then ... So he held back, letting his foe come to him, tactics which his admirers misunderstood.

"Git yore paws on him," one advised. "He can't stand the rough stuff."

"Who's scrappin'--you or me?" Jake spat over his shoulder.

"Neither of us," was the disgusted retort, and the crowd laughed.

The pair circled the ring, the marshal following his man and driving a fist home whenever he was within reach, which, owing to his opponent's caution, was seldom.

"It's a runnin' match, an' Jake's got the legs of him," came another sarcastic comment.

For one second, the taunted man's gaze went in search of the speaker, and Sudden saw his chance. He flashed in, raining blows with both hands to the body and face in such rapid succession that Jake was forced to stand and fight back, and at once the nature of the contest had again changed. Drenched with perspiration, battered, bruised, and blood-smeared, the two men hammered away with beast-like ferocity, taking what punishment came, and with but one conscious thought--to inflict hurt. Slipping, staggering in the treacherous sand, hemmed in by the swaying ring of enthralled spectators who cheered as fists thudded on flesh or bone, they battled on. But the terrific strain was taking toll.

"Jake's weakenin'--his punches ain't got no power," Shorty muttered. "He's outa condition--too much liquor." It was true, and the marshal sensed it. He himself was in little better case; his frame felt as if it had been stretched on a rack for endless hours, and every movement brought a protest from tired muscles. But the spate of fury which had swept him away was past, and again he fought methodically, dourly determined to end the business at the first opportunity.

It came soon. Jake, with the same intention, finding his foe seeming to give way, tried one of his former bull-like charges. Sudden broke ground, avoiding the flailing arm, and darting in, sent an uppercut to the jaw. It was a devastating blow, perfectly timed, coming up from the hip with all the power of the moving body behind it. But once more Jake was lucky, it just missed the vital spot, and though flung to the floor as by a giant hand, he retained his senses. For a moment he lay there, murder in his mad eyes, and then slowly raised himself.

"By God, I'll git you if I hang for it," he mumbled thickly.

Half-crouching, he lurched to where the marshal, again disdaining to follow up his advantage, was standing, and suddenly straightening, leapt, right arm aloft. Swift as the action was, Sudden had glimpsed the gleam of steel, and catching the descending wrist, wrenched the weapon from his grasp, and struck--with the haft of the knife only; the assassin dropped like a pole-axed steer. The fight was over.

"If you'd put that sticker in his dirty neck it would 'a' saved a lot o' trouble," was Nippert's comment.

"I know it, but killin' skunks is a stinkin' job," the marshal replied. "I reckon he'll drift."

Chapter V

THE marshal was wrong; the beaten man remained--having other cards to play. For a few days, however, he deemed it wise to stay in his shack, nursing his hurts and what--to those who came to see him--he descrihed as grievances.

"The game ain't finished yet," he told them darkly. "I'm goin' to make some o' the smarties in thisyer burg look an' feel middlin' sick. you wait--it won't be long. You can leave that to me; all I want is for you to back my play." Late one evening, two riders arrived, and having put their horses in the pole corral behind the eating-house, went in by the back door. One was the awaited messenger, known as "Dutch," who assisted Mullins in the conduct of the business; his eyes widened when they rested on the damaged features of his employer."Hoss throw you?" he asked.

"None o' yore damn' business," Jake snapped. "You've taken long enough; s'pose you got soused on the money I gave you." Dutch grinned. "Yo're gittin' value," he replied, and waved a hand to his companion. "This is Mister Javert, o' Pinetown." Mullins studied the visitor : a medium-sized man, with a blank expressionless face, a mean mouth, and the well-tended hands of a professional gambler.

A bottle and glasses were produced, and when the contents had been generously sampled, the host looked up expectantly.

"I met Dutch on the way to Pinetown, learned his errand, an' saved him the trouble o' goin' on by comin' back with him," Javert began. "Is yore marshal a tall, well-built gent with blue eyes an' dark hair, who totes two guns an' rides a black branded J. G. ?"

"Describes him to a dot."

"Then he's the fella l'm lookin' for." This with deep satisfaction. "Listen : I left Pinetown a piece ago as one of a posse hot on this houn's heels. He'd shot a man in cold blood, givin' him no chance; if we'd catched him, he'd 'a' swung shore, but he diddled us. The rest went back, but I ain't so easy, an' I started searchin' the settlements around; that's how I run into Dutch."

"I guess we got him," Jake said. "An' some folks about here hey a jolt comin'." On the following morning, the proprietor of the Red Light, surveying the town from the vantage-point of his doorway, observed a considerable body of the inhabitants apparently making for his establishment. This, in itself, was not alarming, but when he noted that the gathering was headed by Mullins, and included the scum of the community, it was a relief to see that reputable citizens like Gowdy, Rapper, and the banker, Morley, were among them. Nevertheless, as a matter of precaution, he stepped inside and made sure that his gun was in working order. When they entered he was behind the bar, and his affectation of surprise appeared genuine.

"This place is lookin' up," was his genial greeting. "Wakin' up, you mean," Mullins corrected. "Where's that marshal?"

"In his office, I expect," Nippers replied, adding slyly, "You know the way--better go get him."

"We'll do that awright," was the retort. "When you app'inted him you didn't know he was wanted for murder, huh?"

"I don't know it now."

"I'm tellin' you."

"An' I still don't know it."

"Bluffin' won't buy you nothin', Nippen," Jake said. "Here's the fella can put you wise, Mister Javert, o' Pine-town." Without waiting for any further invitation, the stranger stepped forward and told his story, concluding modestly, "O' course, I ain't sayin' it is the same man, but the description goes mighty close." As he finished, Sloppy slid unnoticed from the saloon and hurried to the marshal's quarters. "Climb yore bronc an' beat it, Jim," he cried. "At the Red Light they're shapin' up to hang you." Sudden regarded him amusedly. "Thought yu'd quit redeye," he replied.

"I ain't drunk nor loco," the little man protested, and blurted his news. The marshal's face did not change, but he rose and put on his hat. "Will I get Nigger?" Sloppy asked eagerly.

"I'm thankin' yu, but I figure I can walk to the saloon," was the answer. "Runnin' away from trouble is poor policy, ol'-timer; I did it afore, an' I was wrong." His arrival at the Red Light stilled every tongue, and the crowd fell apart to allow him to pass. He nodded to Nippert. "yu 'pear to be right busy, Ned," he said coolly.

"Thanks to you," was the reply. "Jim, d'you know this fella?" Sudden surveyed the newcomer indifferently. "Yeah, some months back he obliged me by makin' it clear I was not one of his friends."

"He claims you are James Green, late marshal o' Pine-town, that you shot down a man you had no quarrel with, an' left with a posse chasin' you."

"Put thataway I gotta allow it sounds pretty bad," Sudden admitted. "This is what happened." He told of the message, his errand, and the shots from the dark, his grim gaze on his accuser. "I fired back at the flashes, an' yu 'pear to have been lucky, Javert; when I last saw yu, both yore ears were in good shape." The man scowled; the lobe of his left ear had been torn away and the wound was newly-healed. "Lyin' won't save yore neck," he said.

"An' all these folk can't save yore life if I decide to take it," the marshal reminded sternly, and went on to explain how, expecting a third assailant, he had slain his friend. "I figure he had a message too, an' was comin' to help me. It was a frame-up; this fella an' the two rats who run with him meant to hive the pair of us. That's a debt I'm not forgettin', Javert." The threatened man laughed. "You'll have to pay in the next world, I guess; yo're mighty near through with this one," he said, and looked round. "Well, gents, what we waitin' for? All we need is a rope an' a tree." A low growl of assent from a portion of the audience greeted this sinister suggestion. The saloon-keeper rapped on the bar.

"Hold yore hosses, Mister. This town ain't in the habit o' allowin' strangers to tell it what to do. I'd like to know how you come to be in this?"

"I'm plumb fortunate," Javert explained. "When the posse gives up, I don't. Then I runs into Dutch, who tells me 'bout yore new marshal, an' I figure I've found my man." Nippert pondered for a moment, and then, "We've heard yore account, makin' it plain murder, an' his, claimin' it was an accident." He looked at the accused. "I reckon we'll have to throw you into the calaboose, Jim, till we git more evidence from Pinetown." The proposal aroused a storm of protest, in which Jake's voice was prominent. "What more do you want?" he shouted. "He's owned up to the killin'."

"He's owned up to shootin' in self-defence."

"Which means you ain't believin' me," Javert put in.

"We think yo're mebbe a mite biased," the saloon-keeper said satirically. "Speakin' personal, I wouldn't trust you for the price of a drink." The other shrugged off the insult. "Does it mean anythin' to you that this man is an outlaw knowed as `Sudden,' wanted in Texas for robbery an' murder?" he demanded.

This time he produced a real effect on his listeners. Many of them had heard the name, and the evil reputation which went with it. Remembering the shooting contest, they regarded with new interest this grave man who, for a short while, had dwelt amongst them, and who, on every occasion, had forborne to make use of his uncanny skill with a gun. He stood now, leaning lazily against the bar, unperturbed, while the issue of life and death hung in the balance. Nip-pert, though he could see that his further charge had brought a look of doubt into the faces of men he was depending upon, stood his ground.

"Not a thing," he replied. "Texas warrants don't run in Arizona"--he smiled a little--"if they did, some o' you wouldn't be here." The sly dig produced a laugh. "Texas sheriffs can do their own work, an' the same goes for Pine-town; if she wants to hang this fella, let her come an' fetch him." This eminently fair proposition met with a mixed reception; Javert condemned it, briefly but luridly. The maker of it listened with twinkling eyes.

"O' course, there's another way out," he said, "You"--pointing to Javert--"have been searchin' for the marshal. Well, you can take him; we ain't helpin' nor stoppin' you." The generous offer did not seem to appeal to the Pine-town representative--his expression was a mixture of consternation and disgust; bringing Sudden to justice single-handed was a task for which he had no stomach. Despite the gravity of the occasion, the saloon-keeper's friends were smiling at the adroit manner in which he had "passed the buck" to this objectionable interloper. Jake came to the aid of his witness.

"Talk sense, Nippert," he said. "You know damn' well yo're askin' the impossible."

"Jim 'pears to have learned you somethin'," was the biting reply. "If man to man ain't good enough for this fella, we'll let you help him; that makes the odds two to one. How about it, marshal?"

"Suits me," was the nonchalant answer.

But it did not suit the other two concerned. "What's the matter with this burg?" Mullins cried contemptuously. "Here's a confessed killer an' yo're tryin' to turn him loose."

"That ain't so," Rapper retorted. "He'll be held till we hear from Pinetown."

"Mebbe," the other sneered. "We'll deal with him now." Nippert looked at the accused. "Jim, yo're still marshal," he said. "I'm tellin' you to down any man who goes for a gun " The harsh order stilled the clamour. Though the turbulent faction had a majority, the saloon-keeper was not alone, and that lounging figure at the bar had not given an exhibition of his prowess without effect.

So they stood sullenly back and allowed the captive to be conducted to the calaboose. Nippert stepped inside.

"I'll have to take yore hardware now, Jim," he said. "I'm hopin' things ain't as bad as they look." Sudden handed over his belt. "I've given yu the straight of it," he replied. "I took Dave's life, an' I'd 'a' cut a hand off sooner than hurt him. It's made me shy o' gun-play, as yu may have noticed. I could 'a' got away--Sloppy warned me --but I'm tired o' runnin' an' yu'll find me here when I'm wanted."

"I'm takin' yore word," Nippert said.

As he emerged on the street again, a rider dashed past, taking the westerly trail; it was Dutch. He pondered over this as he secured the door.

"So that's the game, huh?" he murmured. "Well, there's an answer to that." He turned into the marshal's quarters, where he found Sloppy slumped disconsolately in a chair.

"You wanta help?" he inquired.

"Betcha life," the little man said eagerly. "What can I do?"

"Fork a hoss an' ride hell-bent for the Bar O. Tell Owen what's happened an' say for him to fetch along as many of his boys as possible, on the run. Sabe?"

"Shore," Sloppy replied. "Sent to Pinetown yet?"

"That can wait; I've a notion Jake's plannin' to save us the trouble. Git agoin', an' leave kind o' casual-like, in the opposite direction." This precaution taken, Nippert returned to the saloon, where a few of his intimates awaited him.

"If he's that notorious outlaw " Morley began.

"He wouldn't be the first to have a wrong label pinned on him," Nippert cut in. "Anyways, I'm holdin' him till we know more. We must have a couple o' men on that door."

"you think he'll try to get out?" the banker queried.

"No, but others may try to git in; Jake ain't finished yet --he's sent for Sark." Their faces lengthened. "That's bad," Rapper admitted. "The Dumb-bell would more than tip the balance."

"Yeah, but Sloppy's on his way to bring the Bar O," Nip-pert informed. "Trouble is, they've further to come. Now, I want you to get hold o' the decent fellas an' convince 'em that our proper play is to hand over the marshal--if he's guilty--to Pinetown; we don't hanker for any messy business here." Meanwhile, Mullins and his visitor were sitting in the kitchen at the back of his eating-house, discussing a bottle and the situation.

"We oughta rushed 'em," Javert grumbled.

"Yeah, you an' me would've bin the first to stop rushin'; that marshal swine'd take care o' that," Jake countered acridly. "I've seen him shoot."

"The liquor-peddler don't exactly undervalue hisself."

"No, it's 'bout time his comb was cut, an' I've sent for the man who can do it. When Jesse Sark an' his riders git here we'll be able to talk down to Mister Nippert." Javert's evil eyes gleamed. "I hope we'll be able to do more than just talk," he said viciously. "Why not git busy afore he comes?"

"D'you figure I'm dumb?" Mullins asked. "Come an' see for yoreself." At the eastern end of the street they entered the Red Light's rival, if a low drinking and gambling den could be so termed.

Known as "Dirty Dick's" after its shaggy-haired and bearded owner, it was frequented only by the tag-rag of the town. The place was full, and Jake chuckled as he elbowed a path through the throng.

"Nippert ain't so popular as he fancies--half o' the guys here are customers o' his," he whispered.

A bleary-eyed member of the company, balanced precariously on a table, was endeavouring to make himself heard above the hubbub.

"I shay it's a blot on Welcome," he bellowed thickly. "Here we got a col'-blooded murd'rer--admits it, don' he?--an' we do nothin'. He's our meat, we catched him, an' oughta string him up." A chorus of savage oaths, and cries of "That's the ticket," and "You said it, boy," greeted the suggestion. The speaker swung his hat and shouted, "Let's go." Jake grabbed the nearest stool and stood on it. "Hold on," he said harshly. The surge towards the door ceased. "You all know I wouldn't willin'ly give that rat another minit to live, but I'm tellin' you to wait. I've sent for Sark an' his boys--they should be here soon. Nippert ain't a fool all the time, an' he'll give in when he's out-numbered three to one." The man who had asked the question turned to the others. "Jake's right; there's no sense in gittin' shot up unnecessary."

Chapter VI

SLOPPY was cudgelling his brains for new words--expletives which would adequately describe the state of one reduced to desperation and despair. He had got away from Welcome unobserved, travelling west before swinging round to make for his real destination. For a time all went well and then Fortune played a scurvy trick. Descending the slippery side of a gorge his horse stumbled and went to its knees; when it rose he saw that the poor beast was too badly lamed to carry him. The Bar O was more than six long up and down miles distant, and as he realized what the accident might mean, the little man lifted up his voice and told the Fates just exactly what he thought of them, and it was plenty.

There being nothing else for it, he walked--and talked--leading his mount, and pausing on the top of every rise in the hope of seeing or being seen by a Bar O rider. As he did this for about the twentieth time, his anger broke out afresh.

"O' course, they's all workin' elsewhere--they would be," he raged. "If I was here to rustle cattle, I'd 'a' bin spotted right off." He toiled on over the rough ground and the unwonted exertion soon began to tell. The vertical rays of the sun blazed down, sore and swollen feet made every step painful, and since--for such a short journey--he had neglected to bring a canteen, thirst was soon added to the other discomforts.

Doggedly lie stumbled on. His legs became lead, requiring an effort to drag one after the other, but he dared not stop, knowing that he would never start again. Staggering blindly forward he tripped over a rock his weary eyes failed to note, and went sprawling. He was struggling to stand up when a voice said :

"What th' devil ?" Sloppy looked round, his lips moved, but no sound came from them. John Owen--for he it was--slipped from his saddle, unslung his water-bottle, and held it to the sufferer's mouth. An eager swallow or two and Sloppy found his voice, hoarse but intelligible.

"Was a-comin' for you--my bronc went lame. We gotta hurry, it's life or death. Git yore outfit." The Bar O owner was a man of action. Though he did not know what it was all about, he realized that the messenger had not endured the agonies of that long tramp without good reason. Stepping into his saddle, he said:

"Get up behind me--we can talk as we ride. Leave yore hoss, the boys will gather him in later." The little man obeyed, and sighed with relief when his aching extremities were no longer on the ground. They had something less than two miles to travel and they did it at speed, but by the time they reached the ranch, Owen was in possession of the main facts.

"Ned's afeard that when them Dumb-bell outcasts show up there'll be a neck-tie party. It'll be my fault if we're too late," Sloppy finished miserably.

"Skittles! you couldn't help yore hoss playin' out on you," Owen consoled. "Might happen to anybody." As soon as they sighted the ranch, he drew out his rifle and fired three shots at equally-spaced intervals.

"That'll bring in most of 'em," he said. "They ain't far afield to-day."

"Don't I know it," was the feeling reply.

They found the place deserted, save for the Chinese cook --Owen was a bachelor. Sloppy hobbled to the bench by the door, sat down, and emptied the glass his host hastened to bring.

"Gosh ! I needed that one," he said, but refused a second. "I've bin fightin' shy o' liquor lately, but I reckon a fella who can't take one an' leave it at that ain't o' much account."

"Shorely," the rancher agreed, and then, "You think a lot o' the marshal, don't you?"

"He's done a deal for me."

"An' you say he admitted the killin'?"

"yeah, but he claims it was an accident."

"He didn't deny bein' this outlaw--Sudden?"

"No, but I'll bet there's an explanation for that too," the little man said stoutly. "I'd stake my life on Jim bein' straight." The scamper of galloping ponies cut short the conversation, and Reddy, with four others, raced in and pulled up, sending the dust and gravel flying.

"What's doin', Boss?" the carroty one inquired, and noticing the visitor, " 'Lo, Sloppy, how's the marshal?"

"Still alive--I'm hopin'." Reddy's eyebrows lifted. "How come?" he asked.

"No time for chatter," his employer cut in. "You'll need fresh hosses, an' bring yore rifles. We're for town--you can feed there."

"Shore, at the Widow's--that's worth ridin' twenty-five mile for any day," Reddy cried, and swinging his mount round, darted for the corral.

But precious time was lost waiting for more of the men to put in an appearance, and when at length a start was made, Sloppy was in a fever of impatience; he knew that the Sark contingent must have reached Welcome before he arrived at the Bar O. If Nippert could hold them off ... He glanced hopefully at these riders he had come to fetch, familiar, all of them, yet he seemed to be seeing them from a new angle. Instead of a band of reckless young devils, who played as they worked--hard, and were ready for any prank when they came to town, he saw men with set faces which told that their task would be done--at any cost.

Sloppy's fears were only too well-founded; little more than two hours after he had left Welcome, Sark and his outfit rode in, and instead of pulling up, as usual, at the Red Light, went on to Dirty Dick's. Here their leader left them, and repaired to Jake's abode.

"Howdy, Sark, this is Mister Javert, from Pinetown; Dutch will have told you 'bout him," Mullins greeted.

The rancher acknowledged the introduction with a curt nod, sat down, and poured himself a drink, his gaze on the swollen, battered features of his host.

"That fella can certainly use his fists," he remarked. "If I'd met you anywhere else I wouldn't 'a' knowed you."

"He had all the breaks, an' at that I damn' near got him," Jake retorted savagely. "This afternoon I'm goin' to--" Dutch burst unceremoniously into the room. "I got news," he cried. "Ned disarmed the marshal when he locked him up, an' took his belt into the Red Light."

"How very thoughtless of him--might just as well have signed his death-warrant," Sark murmured.

"You said it," Jake gritted. "What's yore strength, Sark?"

"Twelve, besides myself."

"Thirteen is an unlucky number," commented Javert, who had all a gambler's superstition.

"It will be--for the marshal," was the sinister answer. "Let's move." Dirty Dick's was a human beehive, and the motley crowd, reinforced by the Dumb-bell riders, fed Sark's vanity with a cheer. From his saddle, the rancher addressed them :

"Well, friends, I'm told you want me to argue with Nippert."

"Argue nawthin'," came a harsh voice. "We aim to take an' string that gunman. Ain't that so, fellas?" Affirmative yells answered the question, and S ark, with a lift of his shoulders as one giving in to the popular desire, led the way down the street. His cowboys closed in behind him, and the mob followed.

Outside the calaboose, the saloon-keeper, with less than a dozen men, stood on guard. He had witnessed the arrival of the Dumb-bell party, heard the riotous clamour at Dirty Dick's, and knew that an attempt would be made to deprive him of the prisoner.

"Pity you took away Jim's guns," Gowdy said. "If it comes to a battle, he'd be useful."

"I've got his belt on under my coat," Nippert replied. "If things git that far, I'll agree to fetch Jim out an' slip it to him. Here they come." Sark and his outfit, rifles across their knees, had pulled up about ten paces away, and the others spread out in a half-circle behind them, glaring with avid eyes at the prison which held their prey. A menacing silence prevailed until Nippert spoke:

"Well, S ark, what's yore errand?"

"We want the criminal yo're plannin' to set free."

"That's not true. I'm handin' the marshal over to Pine-town; it's their job to deal with him."

"We ain't trustin' you. Fetch him out, or take the consequences." The saloon-keeper looked at the row of threatening rifles, one volley from which might well wipe out himself and his friends. It would be hopeless. He glanced up the street, but there was no sign of the Bar O. He must make a last desperate bid for time.

"You win, Sark," he said. "I'll git him."

"No," Jake snapped. "Throw me the key."

"I'll see you in hell first."

"Then you'll be waitin' for me," the other jeered, and drew his gun. "Out with it, or . .." The big man was still hesitating when a voice from inside the calaboose said calmly, "Better let him have it, or-timer; no sense in a ruckus which can on'y end one way." With a curse of disgust, Nippert flung the key on the ground. "An' that's the man you claim is a bloodthirsty murderer," he cried passionately.

"That kind o' talk won't buy you anythin'," Jake retorted.

He unlocked the door and stood back, revolver in hand. A moment of silence and the prisoner stepped out into the sunlight to be welcomed by a storm of execration. He heard it with contemptuous indifference; if he had his guns . . .

"Git agoin'," Jake ordered.

The marshal looked at the men who had tried to save him. "I'm thankin' yu," he said, and head up, staring stolidly before him, moved forward.

Some of these men had praised him when he thrashed Mullins; they would condemn him with the same enthusiasm when he dangled lifeless from a tree. Once he turned his head and saw that his few friends were tramping along with the others. He spoke his thought:

"They can't do a thing."

"you bet they can't, 'cept go with you for comp'ny," a cowboy beside him agreed. "We got ropes to spare." Sudden did not reply. The top of a tall cottonwood was now in sight, and the imminence of death was upon him. He knew that to be hauled off the ground and left hanging until the tightening noose checked the breath, must, to a healthy man, mean many minutes of agony. He dismissed the thought with a shrug.

The tree was reached, and the victim thrust under a stout outflung branch over which the man who had jeered at him on the journey proceeded to throw one end of his lariat. He then adjusted the loop and stood back, surveying his work. "All set," he announced.

At these words the spectators closed in, eager to feed their animal appetite with every detail of the drama.