Read Online Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 06 - Sudden Gold-Seeker(1937) by Oliver Strange - Free Book Online Page B

cowboys arrived at the bar and at once a dapper little man with twinkling
eyes, dark crinkly hair, and a pointed beard, stepped up.
                 “Gentlemen,
I am pleas’ to welcome you,” he greeted. “I have live wit’ de cow, yes, bien
sur, I, Jean Bizet, when I cook for de Cross T on de Canadian Border. Ah, dose
sacre mule, dey nearly pull de arm out. You dreenk wit’ me?” He chattered on, recalling incidents of the range.
                 “Ah,
it was de good days,” he said. “Sometimes I regret, but a man must move, not
so? If he stay one place all de while he get—how you say—ver’
rusty.” They returned his hospitality and Sudden told him they must get
on—they were looking for someone. The little man’s face sobered.
                 “Dat
soun’ bad,” he said. “What he done?” Sudden laughed. “He’s just a friend; we
ain’t on the warpath,” he explained.
                 Bizet
laughed too. “I mak’ mistake. I am glad. W’en a man
look for another it sometime mean trouble. You come again?”
                 “Shore
we will,” Sudden said heartily.
                 They
had almost reached the door when it swung back to admit a man who would have
attracted attention in any gathering. Over six feet in height, with a perfectly
proportioned frame, he moved with the ease and grace of an athlete. The
yellowish hair which reached to his shoulders, pale blue eyes, long drooping
moustache, and clean-cut features were offset by a calm confidence and dignity
of bearing which stamped their possessor as no ordinary individual.
                 His
attire added to the impression. A tailed cutaway coat of dark
cloth, wide trousers narrowing towards the feet, a fancy vest, high-heeled
boots, and a “boiled” shirt with a narrow black tie. Buckled round his
middle was a leather belt with two white-handled Colt’s revolvers.
                 The
hum of conversation ceased at his appearance and every eye followed him as he
stepped quietly, with a nod here and there, to where Bizet was standing. The
little Frenchman hurried to meet him.
                 “Who
is that?” Sudden asked a bystander.
                 The
man’s eyebrows lifted. “Say, friend, where you been hidin’?” he asked. “It’s
Wild Bill, o’ course—thought everybody knowed him.”
                 “I’m
a stranger here,” Sudden explained, and led the way to the street.
                 For
a while he was silent, his mind full of the man they had just seen. Wild Bill, the most famous gunman in the West. Sudden found
himself dwelling on the big man’s draw, wondering if he himself could beat it.
Then he laughed; Sudden, the gunfighter, had been left behind; here, he was
just Jim Green, a cowpuncher and miner. Mason’s voice broke in:
                 “Yu’d
never take him for a killer, would yu? Looked just an
ordinary fella.”
                 “An’ why not? D’yu expect every man who shoots another in
self-defence to have the brand o’ Cain burned on his forehead?” Sudden
retorted, with unusual bitterness.
                 “I’ve
seen some what didn’t need no brand,” Mason answered,
and changed the subject.
                 “Wonder
why that s’loonkeeper hombre was so dern glad to see us?”
                 “One
cattleman is allus pleased to meet up with another,” his friend said. “I’ve a
hunch he’s white. Here’s another big joint; let’s go in an’ see if we can scare
up a Waysider.” The Monte—like the opposition establishment—was full and with
the same class of customer. It was a replica of the other on a rather larger
and more showy scale. Despite the crowded state of the
room, they experienced no difficulty in reaching the bar—people seemed almost
eager to make way for them—and Sudden again had the uneasy feeling that he