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

his hoss, but no, he’d never part with Nigger.” Soon they
sighted the tree, and the black knot of people. A decision had been arrived at—Javert’s
inhuman proposal had found few supporters, and Sudden was to die only once.
                 “Someone
a’comin’ an’ ain’t losin’ time neither,” Dutch called out.
                 Jake
glanced down the trail; one man only, but he was taking no chances. “Haul on
that rope,” he ordered.
                 The
burly fellow holding it was bracing himself to obey when a hard round object
was jammed into the small of his back and a harsh voice whispered, “If you do,
you’ll die before he does.” A half turn of the head told him that the owner of
the Red Light was standing behind him, and being well aware that Nippert was no
bluffer, he froze. Before Jake could investigate, the newcomer arrived, leapt
from the saddle, and shouldered his way unceremoniously through the onlookers.
                 “Jim!”
he cried.
                 Sudden
stared at him in utter bewilderment, unable to believe his eyes. The face of
one other betrayed a like incredulity, that of Javert, who gazed open-mouthed
at this man who had apparently risen from the grave to defeat him.
                 “Dave,”
the marshal breathed. “It can’t be—yo’re dead.”
                 “Not
very,” the other returned lightly.
                 “But—I
killed yu.”
                 “Skittles! It was a pore shot—on’y creased me.” He pushed
his hat back, showing a scarcely-healed wound along the side of his head. “I
didn’t bat an eyelid for most twenty-four hours—concussion, the doc said. Soon
as I was able to climb a hoss, I set out in search o’ yu, an’ I seem to ‘a’ got
here at the right moment.” He stepped to the condemned man and lifted the loop
from his neck.
                 “Who
the devil are you to come buttin’ into our business?” Mullins rasped.
                 The
young man grinned at him. “I’m Dave Masters, the corpse in this case, an’ if
anybody wants to argue, he’ll find me the livest corpse he ever tackled.” The
challenge passed unheeded, but Nippert joined the two men beneath the tree. “Here’s
yore belt, marshal,” he said. “Mebbe you’ll feel more comfortable wearin’ it.”
The act aroused Sark’s malignity. “Hold on there,” he growled. “We’ve on’y got
this fella’s word that he’s Masters.” The cowboy’s face grew bleak. “I’ll
remember that, Mister Whatever-yore-name-is,” he retorted, and looked around. “Ask
the skunk who came to yu with a lyin’ tale to hang the man he had failed to
murder; there he stands—Javert; he’s the one yu oughta swing.” A threatening
murmur warned the Pinetown citizen that he might be in danger—mobs were
mercurial, easily swayed. In his anxiety to save his neck, he fell into the
trap.
                 “It
warn’t no lie,” he blurted out. “I left with the posse
an’ we all figured you was cashed.
                 I
ain’t bin in Pinetown since, so how would I know?” Dave’s grin was back again. “Well,
gents, Mister Javert havin’ admitted I’m me—which a’most makes me doubt it
myself—I guess that settles the cat-hop,” he remarked.
                 “Not
any,” Sark snapped. “That fella”—pointing to the marshal—“is a notorious
outlaw, an’ I’m going to turn him over to the sheriff at Drywash.”
                 “You
gotta git him first,” Nippert said. “Loose yore dawgs as soon
as you like, Sark.” The defiance brought a deeper frown to the rancher’s
face.
                 Many
of the Welcome men were stepping aside and would take no part in an affray, but
he would have two for one. Nevertheless, lives would be lost, and there was
that cursed gunman.
                 Sark
had an uneasy