Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 08 - Sudden Takes The Trail(1940) Read Free Page B

fellas like Bill Hickok, Doc Holliday, an’ the Earps, to name on’y a few?”
                 “Right
here in thisyer town—mebbe,” Jake retorted. “I’m holdin’ that the doin’s o’ the ol’-timers ain’t lost nothin’ in the tellin’ —tales
don’t as a rule.” Nippert, who had been angling for this, smiled genially. “Boys,
we’ll try it out,” he said. “Welcome ain’t had much excitement recent an’ a
gun-slingin’ match, free to all comers, oughta be interestin’. I’ll put up
fifty dollars as a prize. It’ll take place the third day from now; I guess some
o’ the Bar O an’ Dumbbell outfits’ll want to take a hand.” The proposal was
received with acclamation and wagering on the result began immediately, Mullins
being easily the most fancied competitor. This swift popularity was fully in
accordance with his own views.
                 The
news of the contest spread rapidly, and despite the fact that the result was
regarded as foregone, there was a goodly gathering to look on or take part.
John Owen, of the Bar O, with Reddy, his foreman, and some of the punchers had
ridden in. Sark brought a half-dozen of his riders, craggy-featured,
rough-looking, and rather older than those from the other ranch. The two groups
kept apart, for there was no friendship between owners or outfits.
                 The
crowd was congregated in front of the calaboose, on one of the stout timbers of
which a card—the five of diamonds—had been nailed breast-high. From this,
Nippert stepped twelve paces and laid down a short board.
                 “Reckon
that’s about right,” he said. “What d’you say , John?”
                 “Seems fair to me.” The owner of the Bar O was a tall, thin
man in the middle fifties, with a long face on which a smile was seldom seen.
His black coat, dark trousers thrust into the tops of his spurred boots, and
soft felt hat added to the gravity of his appearance.
                 “Who
are you aimin’ to gamble on, Red?” Owen asked.
                 “Well,
they all ‘pear to think there’s on’y one man in it, but I got my own notions,”
the young man replied. “Hey, Jake, what odds yu offerin’ on
yoreself?”
                 “I
ain’t heard the conditions yet.” At that moment Nippert held up a hand for
silence.
                 “Entrants
will stand on the board, draw an’ fire on the word from me. One shot only, an’
any hesitation will disqualify,” he announced.
                 Mullins
laughed. “Snap-shootin’—that suits me fine. You can have four to one, cowboy.”
                 “Take
yu to five dollars.”
                 “Chicken-feed,
but every little helps,” Jake said insolently. “Any more
donations?”
                 “I’ll
take the same bet—twice,” Owen said quietly. “An’ I’ll go you—once.” The layer
of odds spun round and saw that the last speaker was Sloppy. “You?” he jeered. “I
don’t trust wasters.” Sloppy searched his clothing, produced a crumpled bill,
and gave it to Owen. “Now you cover that,” he challenged. “Me, I don’t trust—anybody.”
Jake’s face was furious. “Why, you drunken little rat” he began, but the
rancher intervened.
                 “He’s
put up his stake, an’ it’s on’y fair for you to do the
same,” he pointed out.
                 Having
no wish to quarrel with the Bar O man, the bully handed over the twenty. “You
won’t have it long,” he boasted, and turned to his latest client. “As for you,
next time yo’re starvin’ don’t come to my place beggin’ for a square meal.”
                 “Nobody never does git a square meal there, even if they pay
for one,” Sloppy retorted, with unusual hardihood.
                 The
bystanders sniggered, for Jake’s “place” was the local