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

an’ lowerin’ the value of
yore herd. That’d be bad economics an’ bad bankin’ both. Yu don’t
wanta look on the black side till yu got to.’
    Tate’s gloom lifted momentarily. ‘Maybe yo’re right,
Jim.Leastways, we can talk to de Witt first, an’ worry after we
hear what he has in mind.’
    ‘ De Witt,’ mused the cowboy. ‘Unusual handle.’
    ‘ Easterner,’ agreed Tate. ‘Finicky sorta gent, although I ain’t
sayin’ he don’t deal square. I never had no reason to complain with
either him or Clark.’
    Sudden
looked his question, and the rancher went on to explain,
‘Clark—that’s the cashier that’s cashed—used to run the bank until
de Witt came out here a couple o’ years ago. He’d been sent special
by the Bank’s trustees to expand the business or somethin’—some
kind o’ financial director. Wizard with figgers. Anyway, he shore
expanded. Persuaded Pat Newman, who runs the mines up on Thunder
Mesa, to let the bank handle the mine’s payroll, which shore brung
some extra business into Hangin’ Rock. Them merchants down there’d
kiss de Witt’s boots if he told ’em to.’
    ‘ I’m takin’ it yu still ain’t one o’ his admirers, though?
hazarded Sudden.
    ‘ Well, like I said, Jim, he’s allus dealt fair an’ square with
me. I can’t put my finger on what it is I don’t like about the man.
I guess I’m just gettin’ old an’ crotchety.’
    To this
observation Green made no reply, determining to make up his own
mind about the banker at the first opportunity.
    Next
morning, leaving the others at the ranch lest word of the meeting
in town encourage the so-called Shadows to chance a strike at the
Slash 8, Sudden and his employer saddled their horses and rode into
Hanging Rock. The streets were packed with horses and wagons, and
every conceivable kind of complexion and style of dress was
represented on the streets. Here a swarthy Mexican in conical
sombrero and multi-colored serape lounged against a verandah, while
next to him a group of tough-looking miners in their billycock hats
and tight-fitting blue suits argued furiously. Heavily armed riders
from outlying ranches had heard the news and ridden into town, and
the saloons were filled to overflowing with men discussing the
robbery with more vehemence than accuracy. Tate and Sudden plunged
into the babel of noise and people that was Dutchy’s saloon, and
the oldster ploughed his way through the crowd to reach the side of
a roly-poly man of middle height, perhaps fifty years of age, whose
hair was white at the temples and whose vest was liberally dusted
with ashes from the evil-smelling cigar in his mouth.
    ‘ Well, here’s Tate now,’ said the man. ‘This is a right
how-de-do, George. What do you make of it?’
    Tate
shrugged his shoulders and Sudden asked the group of men whether
anyone knew how much had been stolen. ‘Twenty thousand, I heard,’
answered a nearby man over his shoulder.
    The
roly-poly man looked at Sudden quizzically, and Tate hastened to
make the introductions.
    ‘ Jim,’ he announced, ‘this yere’s Mike Mountford, the biggest
liar in the Territory.’
    ‘ That’s takin’ in a fair amount o’ ground, seh,’ smiled Sudden.
‘Yu must tell a pretty tall story.’
    ‘ I never tell nothin’ but the truth, boy,’ boomed
Mountford.
    ‘ It’s just these small-minded folk around hyar that don’t
believe it ’less they’ve seen it with their own
peepers.’
    ‘ Tales yu tell, I wouldn’t believe yu if’n yu told me an ass
was an animal with four legs,’ grinned Tate,
good-naturedly.
    ‘ Wal, that’s as may be,’ Mountford allowed. ‘I c’n point to an
ass with two legs right about now, however, an’ I’m bettin’ yu’ll
believe me.’
    He
pointed with his chin at a fat, ungainly man using a stool to climb
up on the bar—a performance which was not allowed to pass unnoticed
by the habitués of Dutchy’s bar, who raised a ribald cheer to greet
it.
    ‘ Our Sheriff,’