Read Online Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 02 - Sudden(1933) by Oliver Strange - Free Book Online

liar,” the young man grated. “Eat yore words, pronto, or yu go to hell
right now.”
                 The
evil black eyes looked up into the flaming blue ones and found only death
there; one twitch of the finger aching to press the trigger and the world would
know Ramon the vaquero no more. He did not like to back down, but life was
sweet. The half-breed had vanity, but no pride; there is a difference. He began
to mutter.
                 “Speak
up, yu bastard,” Burdette warned. “This is yore last chance.”
                 “W’at
I say was a lie—I make it up,” Ramon called out. “I not know anyt’ing against
Mees Purdie.”
                 With
a shrug of contempt, Luce holstered his gun and turned back to the bar. Ramon
got slowly to his feet, and then, as he saw the jeering expression on many of
the spectators’ faces, madness seized him. His hand flashed up, a wicked blade
lying along the palm. Ere he could despatch it on its deadly errand, however,
an iron clasp fell on his wrist, forcing the arm down and round behind his
back.
                 “Drop
it!” came the curt order. “Or I’ll shore bust yore
wing.”
                 Mouthing
Mexican curses, the captive twisted like an eel, but he could not break that hold,
and when his wrist began to nudge his shoulder-blades he squealed in agony and
the weapon tinkled on the boards.
                 “Will
some gent kindly open the door?” Sudden requested, and when this had been done,
he forced the helpless half-breed to it, placed a foot in the small of the
fellow’s back, and straightened his leg. As though propelled from a gun, the
victim shot over the sidewalk and ploughed into the dust of the street on his
face. Sudden looked at the saloon-keeper.
                 “Sorry
to make a ruckus in yore joint, Magee,” he said.
                 “Ye
done the roight thing, son,” the Irishman replied. “I hope
ye’ve bruk his lyin’ neck.”
                 The
puncher picked up the dropped weapon; it was a short-handled, heavy
throwing-knife, a deadly instrument in the hands of an expert. He balanced it
for a moment in his fingers, his eyes on Ramon’s companions, who were watching
him uneasily.
                 “I
guess that’s a bullet-hole by the door there,” he said. “Shure it is,” smiled
the proprietor. “Not the only wan neither.”
                 Sudden’s
arm moved, and like a shaft of light itself the blade flashed through the air
and sank deeply into the wall about half an inch from the target he had
selected. He looked apologetically at his audience.
                 “I’m
outa practice—ain’t throwed a knife for quite a spell,” he said. “Allasame, if
it had been a fella’s throat …” He went on conversationally. “An old Piute
chief taught me the trick—claimed he’d let the life outa ten men thataway.
Dessay he was boastin’ some—Injuns mostly do—but he certainly knew about
knives.” He turned to the Mexicans. “Yore friend is mebbe waitin’ for yu,” he
suggested meaningly.
                 They
slunk out like dogs who feared the whip, casting curious glances at the weapon
in the wall, which they knew was there as a warning to themselves. With their
disappearance the tension relaxed and interrupted games were resumed. Luce
Burdette came over to the puncher.
                 “I’m
obliged, but I dunno why yu interfered,” he said. “If yo’re ridin’ for Purdie,
as I hear, he won’t thank yu.”
                 “I
ain’t sold him my soul, an’ if I had, Purdie would understand—he’s a white
man,” the C P foreman said quietly. “Yu must be tired o’ life to turn yore back
on a snake like that; don’t yu know his sort allus carries a sticker? ‘Sides,
if he’d pulled his gun he’d ‘a’ got yu, shore thing.”