Sudden--Strikes Back (A Sudden Western #1) by Frederick H. Christian Page A

a
kicked-over anthill. One citizen, late in leaving the welcome
coolness of Dutchy’s, grabbed the arm of a passer-by and asked a
question.
    ‘ Four masked men,’ shouted his informant, without stopping.
‘They just cleaned out the Bank an’ shot Charley Clark.’
    Charley
Clark, of course, was well known to the solvent of Hanging Rock as
the cashier of the City Bank, and the news that this timid,
mousy-looking little man had been shot down inflamed the crowd.
There were shouts of ‘Let’s get after them!’ and ‘Somebody bring a
rope!’ as the crowd milled around the steps outside the Bank. This
clamor was partially stilled by the appearance of the Sheriff of
Hanging Rock, his normal unpopularity forgotten in this moment of
crisis. Sheriff Brady called for posse men to, pursue the robbers,
and within minutes, had fifty mounted men behind him, ready to
ride. With many shouts and oaths, this motley cavalcade swept out
of town in hot pursuit of the raiders.
    The
town’s only practitioner of medicine of any sort, an unkempt
character who rejoiced in the nickname of ‘Patches’, was called to
minister to the dying Clark. The cashier was promptly taken to a
quiet room at the Traveler’s Rest, where the curious found Mrs.
Mulvaney an insuperable obstacle to their attempts to gain more
intimate information than could be obtained from those left behind
in the now half-empty town’s only street.
    Some hours later, Brady and his posse returned to Hanging
Rock, dusty, saddle sore, and completely unsuccessful. They had
trailed the bandits-——who had made no attempt to disguise their
tracks——in a huge circle out of the town, over the foothills to the
north, across the northern part of the Box B—Barclay’s range and to
the edge of the rolling Badlands. There, in hock-deep sand and
flint-like rock formations, they had lost the trail completely and
finally retraced their route to town, arguing hotly among
themselves as to the probable destination of the thieves, cursing
themselves as fools, and Brady who had led them. The arguments were
continued at equal, if not higher pitch, in the welcome coolness of
Dutchy’s; while Brady conferred with the town’s banker, Jasper de
Witt, to obtain what little information could be gleaned about the
four men who had, in one swift, smooth operation, lifted some
twenty thousand dollars in cash from the Bank of Hanging
Rock.
    The news
of the robbery was relayed to the Slash 8 that evening by Tom
Gunther, one of the riders on Mike Mountford’s spread over on the
far side of South Bend. Gunther had been in town on ranch business
when the disgruntled posse had returned to Hanging Rock after its
fruitless chase. He had heard all the details that were available,
and then hopped on his horse to make tracks for the Double M,
Mountford’s place.
    ‘ Hell an’ damnation, that’s bad news,’ swore Tate. ‘I’m
wonderin’ what de Witt’ll do if he’s cleaned out.’
    ‘ That’s what I rode by to tell yu,’ said Gunther. ‘Brady’s
called a meetin’ of all the local people for tomorrow afternoon,
an’ I jest bet myself a dollar de Witt is goin’ to be the star
speaker.’
    ‘ No bet,’ said Tate gloomily. ‘Gunther, I’m shore obliged to yu
for stoppin’ by. Won’t yu light down an’ eat?’
    ‘ Thank yu kindly, but I better get on back to the
ranch,’
    Gunther
said. ‘As for stoppin’ by, hell! Mike woulda kicked me from here to
Hangin’ Rock if I hadn’t!’
    Promising to see them in town the next day, Gunther thundered
off down the valley with his bad news. Tate turned to face
Sudden.
    ‘ Jim, I got a feelin’ this is gonna be bad for us. If de Witt
calls my mortgage now, I’m sunk. I ain’t got the coin, an’ sellin’
beef’ll shore cut my yield at this time o’ year.’
    ‘ Maybe we just oughta wait an’ see what this banker fella has
in mind,’ offered Sudden. ‘If he’s a banker, he oughta see the
sense o’ not pushin’ yu for the coin now