Read Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942) for Free Online

           “So
I see—all men who didn’t think much o’ Dad.”
                 “It
wouldn’t ‘a’ bin easy to find six who did,” the sheriff sneered.
                 “An’
that’s a damned lie,” Dan flared. “So now what?”
                 Before
any reply could be made, a man, who had been kneeling beside the body, stood
up. Dressed in a skirted coat which had once been black, a dirty boiled shirt,
coarse trousers tucked untidily into the tops of his boots, he presented a
picture of gentility in the last stages of decay. And his gaunt, clever, but
dissipated features, and long, untended hair, added to the illusion, though he
was little more than thirty years of age. His red-rimmed eyes regarded the
peace officer belligerently.
                 “Have
you brought me from my bottle to listen to your wrangling?” he demanded, in a
hoarse but cultured voice. “Of course, Foxwell, if—by a miracle—you are about
to fight and provide me with a patient, I am not objecting.”
                 The
sheriff had no intention of fighting, despite the gibe; he found the
interruption very timely.
                 “I’ll
take yore report first, Malachi,” he said.
                 “Doctor
Malachi, to you,” came the correction. “What do you
imagine I can tell you? The man is dead—been so for fifteen hours, or more;
shot from behind, doubtless from hiding, as seems to be the chivalrous custom
in these parts. Here’s the bullet, from which you will learn little; contact with
the spinal column has distorted it.” He tossed the bloodstained pellet on the
table, wiped his long, thin fingers on a rag of a handkerchief, and added, “My
fee is five dollars—cash.”
                 Foxwell
stared at him. “Hell, Doc, you ain’t told us nothin’ we didn’t know,” he
protested.
                 “Five
bucks for diggin’ out a slug?”
                 “That
is my charge for extractions—teeth or bullets,” Malachi returned serenely. “And
remember, Sheriff, if you should chance to become ill, it would be most
unfortunate if I were too occupied to attend you.”
                 The
officer glowered but gave in, not unmindful of the fact that most of those
present were enjoying the incident. The doctor, despite his loose habits and
acid tongue was, by reason of his profession and education, a privileged person;
he was, in truth, the only qualified medical man within a radius of fifty miles
or more. Malachi picked up the bill Foxwell produced, walked to the bar, and
appeared to take no further interest in the proceedings. The sheriff examined
the fatal fragment of lead.
                 “Like
Doc said, it don’t tell us a thing,” he said, and
Sudden could have sworn to the relief in his tone.
                 “My
statement was that you wouldn’t learn much,” a voice from the bar interjected.
                 “Weigh
it, you idiot.”
                 Foxwell
had to comply. Scales and an assortment of cart ridges were fetched; only in
one instance did the weights tally.
                 “She’s
a thirty-eight,” Hicks, who was making the tests announced. “That don’t git us
much further, unless—” His gaze went to Sudden. “What gun do you carry, Mister?”
                 “A
forty-four,” the cowboy replied.
                 “No
good foolin’ about over the slug, thirty-eights ain’t so scarce,” the sheriff
said irritably. “We wanta hear how that fella found the body.”
                 “I
met young Dover in Sandy Bend an’ mentioned I was needin’ a job. He asked me to head for the Circle Dot, an’ promised to follow later. On
the way I heard a shot an’, soon after, came upon the dead man. I was lookin’
him over when the sheriff an’ his posse turned up.