Sudden--Troubleshooter (A Sudden Western) #5 by Frederick H. Christian Page A

expensively dressed in fine broadcloth, a soft-collared shirt,
and dark four-in-hand, his boots gleaming richly in the muted
sunlight. The handsome face was marred only by a weak, spoiled
mouth; the hands were long, as slim as a woman’s, and he gave every
appearance, as Philadelphia was to later remark, of ‘never havin’
done a hard day’s work in his life’. Gunnison turned, saw who it
was, then faced Green once more.
    ‘My son Randolph,’ he said
by way of introduction, ‘an’ he’s hit the nail on the head. What’s
it got to do with us?’
    ‘Mister, the hombre who tried to kill
the kid here shore didn’t head for Yavapai,’ Green said. ‘Which
wouldn’t leave him many other places to head for in these
parts.’
    ‘Are you,’ asked young
Gunnison coldly, ‘suggesting that he came here?’
    At Green’s failure to react
to this question Randy Gunnison’s face set, and his lips became a
thin, bloodless line. He turned to his father.
    ‘Are you,’ asked young
Gunnison coldly, ‘suggesting tramps ride in here and all but tell
you that the Saber hires women-killers?’
    These words struck a chord
in the older man’s mind, and anger played across his narrowed
eyes.
    ‘My son’s convinced that
yore nester friends are behind all the troubles in these parts,
mister, an’ I ain’t shore he’s wrong. They are, they got plenty of
enemies. An’ not all of ’em live on the Saber. But yu can bite on
this: Saber don’t war on women.’
    ‘You heard what my father
said,’ Randy Gunnison spat. ‘He is hampered
by some old-fashioned notions about hospitality and fair play, but
I’m not! You’re lucky you got this far without being shot down. For
two cents …’
    Green’s hand had moved as
the younger man spoke, and there was a stunned silence as two coins
chinked at Randolph Gunnison’s feet, tossed there by the tall
puncher.
    ‘There’s yore two cents,’
snapped Green. ‘What now?’ His eyes were like chips of steel, and
menace was instinct in his very posture.
    Gunnison paled and moved a
step backwards. ‘Are you going to stand for this?’ he squeaked to
his father.
    The old man looked from
Green to his son nonplussed, then a look of distaste crossed his
face. ‘Randy, if yu don’t like the heat – stay outa the kitchen.
Don’t skedaddle ahind o’ me when someone calls yore
bluff.’
    ‘I’m no gunfighter,’ Randy
Gunnison said, a surly look on his sulky face.
    ‘Then don’t talk like one,’
said his father shortly. ‘I’m tellin’ yu now, mister …?’
    ‘Green,’ supplied the
cowboy. ‘The kid’s called Philadelphia.’
    For the first time Gunnison
looked fully at the youngster; Philadelphia had been watching the
proceedings from the side, unobtrusively covering his partner’s
flank in case any of Gunnison’s men made a threatening move. As
Philadelphia turned, the old rancher’s face changed. He went pale,
and put out a hand to steady himself against the upright of the
porch. He pointed a shaky finger at Philadelphia.
    ‘Yu, boy,’ he croaked.
‘What’s yore name?’ When the youngster told him he shook his head.
‘No, yore real name.’
    ‘Henry Sloane, sir,’
Philadelphia told him. ‘Why d’yu ask?’
    ‘Just … just for a moment,
yu put me powerfully in mind o’ someone I used to know.’ The old
man shook himself, as though shedding some haunting thought, and
drew himself up. ‘Trick o’ the light, I’m guessin’. Now, yu: Green!
My son mighta given yu the impression that Saber’s long on wind an’
short on action. It ain’t so.
    What he said still goes,
just like what I said when yu started jawin’. Yu ain’t told me no
news I want to hear. Turn around an’ get off my land. Tell yore
nester friend to keep his gal indoors if he ain’t got anyone can
take care o’ her. An’ don’t make the mistake o’ thinkin’ I’m allus
this lenient. Next time my men’ll have orders to shoot yu or this
wet-eared kid on sight. ¿sabe? ’
    Green