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

Then—”
                 “Awright,
I know the rest,” Foxwell cut in hastily.
                 “A
murdered man, and another on the spot, that should
have been enough evidence for you, Foxy. Why didn’t you hang him?”
                 The
sarcastic question came from the bar, and the sheriff unthinkingly told a
half-truth. “I changed my mind.”
                 “I
don’t blame you,” was the instant rejoinder. “If I had a mind like yours I’d do
the same.” A ripple of laughter followed, and the voice went on, “Don’t you
think the jury might like to know the reason for this astounding departure from
your usual methods?”
                 “The
jury knows all it needs to,” the badgered man retorted.
                 “Including
the decision it is to come to, I expect. Then why hold the enquiry? God! what a fool you are, Foxy.”
                 Purple
in the face, the sheriff turned on his tormentor. “When I want yore help I’ll
ask for it. Yo’re—”
                 “Fee
for a consultation is ten dollars, in advance—from you,” the doctor finished.
                 “Obstructin’ the course o’ justice.”
                 “Justice! Why, you couldn’t spell the damn word, much less
administer it,” Malachi laughed, and presenting his back, poured another drink.
                 The
sheriff breathed a sigh of relief; he stood no chance in a verbal contest with
that man.
                 In
an effort to regain his self-respect, he glared round the room.
                 ‘You
got anythin’ to say, Dover?”
                 “Plenty,”
the young fellow replied, and told of the message his father had received. “It
did not come from me—it was a trap, an’ it’s an easy guess who set it.”
                 “Guessin’
won’t git us nowhere; the Law demands proof,” Foxwell said unctuously.
                 “The
Law here squats on its rump an’ does nothin’,” Dan sneered. “This ain’t the
first time a man has been done to death by a yellow-livered sneak afraid to
show hisself. Well, I ain’t askin’ yore help, Sheriff; the Circle Dot can
handle it.”
                 The
officer scowled, and then, “ What is it, Bundy’?” as a
lumpy cowboy in his early thirties, whose craggy face seemed to be endowed with
a permanent sneer, stepped forward.
                 “All
I wanta say is that yestiddy afternoon the en-tire Wagon-wheel outfit was
workin’ ten mile from where the shootin’ took place.”
                 “Methinks
the witness doth protest too much,” came a comment
from the bar.
                 The
sheriff swore. But evidently the statement was what he had been waiting for.
“We ain’t gittin’ no forader,” he said testily, and turned to the men standing
behind him. Then, “The jury finds that deceased died from a gun-shot wound, but
there ain’t no evidence to show who done it.”
                 “Had
any existed, there would have been no enquiry,” Malachi added. “Foxy, when my
commodious abode needs white-washing, the job is yours.”
                 “Who
was it spoke for the Wagon-wheel?” Sudden asked.
                 “The
foreman, as nasty a piece o’ work as the Lord ever put breath into,” Dan
replied.
                 “Sent
a-purpose, an’ the sheriff knew it.”
                 “That
sawbones ain’t much respect for the Law.”
                 “Devilin’
Foxy is just pie to him, but it’s a dangerous game. He’s a queer cuss, but I
like him.”

  Chapter
IV
                 That
afternoon another oblong heap of heavy stones was added to the little cemetery,
a scant half-mile from the town. It was a pretty place, a tiny plateau of short
grass, sprinkled with gay-coloured flowers, and