"Ain't I seen yu afore some place?" he asked.
"Yeah, lying outside the Red Ace," Green smiled. "Mebbe I wasn't as bad as yu figured. Yu savvy, sheriff, a drunken man'll get more information in two days than a sober one in that number o' weeks; folks take it he's too 'blind' to see or hear anythin'."
"Yu was layin' for the marshal's job then?" Strade queried.
Green grinned at him. "Yeah, I went to Lawless to get it; I'm after the fella who calls hisself Sudden."
There was emphasis on the concluding words and Strade straightened up with a jerk, "Yu tellin' me that it ain't the real Sudden pirootin' round in these parts?" he asked.
"Just that," the visitor replied, and anticipating the inevitable question, he added, "Take a squint at this."
From his vest pocket he produced a folded paper. The sheriff saw that it was a printed bill, offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the capture of one "Sudden." A somewhat vague description followed: "Young, dark hair and moustache, grey-blue eyes, dressed as a cowboy, wears two guns, and rides a black horse with a white blaze on face and white stocking on off fore-leg." The bill had been issued by the sheriff of Fourways, Texas.
Strade looked up and nodded. "That agrees with what we got," he said. "Neither Sands nor Eames could say much about the man--him bein' masked--but they got the hoss to a dot."
"They couldn't both be wrong, an' Eames--a hoss-user--certainly wouldn't be."
The sheriff looked puzzled. "What's yore point?"
"Accordin' to this"--Green tapped the printed notice--"the real Sudden's hoss has a white stockin' on the off fore, but both yore men say the near. Ain't that so?"
Strade reached some papers from a drawer and referred to them. "Yo're right," he admitted. "Funny I didn't spot that. Somebody's made a mistake."
"Yeah, an' it's Mister Bushwhacker," Green said. "He's painted the wrong leg of his bronc."
The Sweetwater sheriff scratched his head. "It does shorely look like yu've hit the mark," he said. "We've bin searchin' for a stranger, but it might be anybody--"
He broke off suddenly and his eyes narrowed as they rested on the black horse hitched outside. Green saw the look and laughed.
"No use, ol'-timer," he said. "I was in the Red Ace when the stage was held up."
The sheriff laughed too. "Sorry, Green," he apologized. "This damn job makes a fella suspect hisself a'most. Yu stayin' over?"
"I was aimin' to."
"Good, then yu'll dig in with me. Bachelor quarters, but I reckon yu'll prefer 'em. The hotel here stuffs its mattresses with rocks."
"Bein' rocked to sleep don't appeal to me," the visitor grinned, and then his face sobered. "'Fore we go any further, there's somethin' yu have to know." The sheriff looked at him, surprised at the change of tone. "That black out there is Sudden's hoss with the blaze an' stockin' on the off fore dyed out."
The geniality faded from the sheriff's face, to be replaced by a hard, bleak look; his right hand, which had been resting on the table, dropped to his side. The marshal, rolling a smoke, took no notice of the movement.
"Don't froth up, sheriff," he warned. "I could beat yu to it. I'm Sudden, an' I'm here to find the skunk who's fillin' his pockets an' puttin' the blame on me. It's bin done before, Strade, an' while I don't claim to be no sort of a saint, I ain't a thief, an' I never shot a man who wasn't gunnin' for me."
Strade listened with growing amazement; he had pictured the famous gunman as very different to the cool, nonchalant young man who so calmly announced his identity.
"Take a squint at this," the level voice proceeded. "I ain't aimin' to use it unless I have to; this job concerns me personal'."
Strade took the proffered paper and saw that it was an official document, formally appointing James Green a deputy-sheriff in the service of the Governor of the Territory, by whom it was signed. For a long moment the sheriff pondered, two points uppermost in his mind: that this could not be the man he was looking for, and that Sudden was playing a straight game. Handing back the paper he pushed out a paw.
"Shake," he said. "I'm takin' yore word."
Green gripped the hand, his eyes lighting up. "Even my friends allow I'm a poor liar," he smiled. "Ever hear of fellas named Peterson and Webb?"
Strade shook his head. "What yu want 'em for?" he asked.
"They've lived too long," was the grim reply, and the sheriff said no more.
Years later, when the news of their finding1 filtered through from a distant part of the country, he was to remember the question.
At Strade's suggestion, they went out to take a look at the town. It proved to be another Lawless, but larger, and of a slightly less unsavoury reputation, due to the efforts of a sheriff who took his duties seriously. In the course of the evening, Green was presented to several of the leading citizens, played a pleasant game of poker, and presently retired with his host. Back in the little parlour, the sheriff talked business again.
"Bad about Bordene," he said, when he had heard the whole story. "He was a straight man. Nothin' distinctive 'bout them two shells yu found, I s'pose?"
"They were .45's, an' one of 'em had a scratch along the side," the marshal told him. "I'd say one chamber of his gun was nicked someway."
"Huh! Might be helpful," the sheriff said. "Sands an' the messenger was drilled by .45's too, but the shells was clean, an' that's the common calibre round here."
As they gripped hands, the sheriff had a parting word:
"Glad yu came over," he said, and meant it. "Any time yu want help, I'll come a-runnin'."
"I'm obliged," the marshal said. "Yu know the country."
"I know Lawless," Strade warned him.
CHAPTER VIII
Several uneventful days followed the marshal's return. In truth, Lawless was wondering about its new custodian of the peace. Though his treatment of Rusty and Leeson savoured of leniency, the speed with which he "got action" made even the toughest citizen dubious about challenging his authority.
Rest and regular food soon restored the Indian to health, but he showed no disposition to depart. He had relinquished Pete's bed and slept on the floor of the little kitchen, Green presenting him with a couple of blankets. With a shirt, an old pair of pants, and his moccasins carefully mended, Black Feather's wardrobe was complete. As soon as he was able he chopped wood for the stove and cleaned the place up generally. In spite of this evident desire to be useful, Pete continued to regard him with suspicion.
With the little man in this mood it was waste of time to argue, so the marshal did not explain that he had a use for their guest. But as soon as the Indian was able to sit a saddle, he took him to the Old Mine and showed him the hoofprints of the killer's horse, which, as there had been no rain, were still clear.
"I was followin' them when I run across vu," he explained.
Black Feather studied the marks closely for a few moments and then swung into his saddle again. "Me find," he said gravely, and rode away.
The marshal returned to Lawless, and in reply to Pete's enquiry as to the whereabouts of their guest, told him of the incident. The deputy was plainly pessimistic.
"Betcha five dollars he fades," he offered, and chortled when the other took the wager. "Easy money, ol'-timer, easy money."
"Yeah, for me," the marshal retorted.
And so it proved, for, to Pete's chagrin, the Indian returned late in the evening. Standing for a moment before the marshal, he said, "No find--yet," and stalked solemnly into the kitchen.
"Chatty devil, ain't he?" Barsay said. "Double or quits he don't locate the hoss."
"I'll go yu," Green smiled. "Easy money, ol'-timer."
When they rose the next morning, the Indian had already vanished, and they saw no sign of him until the evening. Though he was obviously tired out, there was a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
"Me find um," he said, and that was all.
Peeping into the kitchen a little later, they saw him, rolled in his blankets, fast asleep, his preciou
s carbine beside him.
"Bet he's had one punishin' day trailin' that hoss," Green said. "Wonder where he found him?"
"S'pose he'll show yu to-morrow," the deputy said. "Yu want me along?"
"No use both goin'," Green replied. "Yu better stay here to see that no festive cow-person ropes the office an' drags it into the desert."
The sun was not yet up and there was a keen bite in the air when the marshal and the Mohave set out. Once clear of the town, the redskin turned his horse's head to the north-west, in the direction of Tepee Mountain, and for an hour they loped over miles of level range, sandy soil thickly dotted with bunch-grass, creosote, and mesquite. Green guessed that his guide was taking him direct to the finish of his trailing; evidently the murderer had, as he suspected, doubled back after crossing the Border. Deep gorges, masked by black pine forests, slashed the lower slopes of the range, and above them towered the great grey granite peak.
Into one of these ravines the Indian led the way, his mount splashing along a small stream which swept smoothly over its stony bed. For about a quarter of a mile they rode in the water, and then the leader turned sharply to the left and vanished in the bordering bushes. The marshal followed, to find an unexpected break in the wall of the gorge, an opening only a few yards wide, guarded by a rough pole gate. On the other side was a tiny pocket of not more than a dozen acres, covered with rich grass and walled in by cliff. At the far end a black horse was grazing. On a bare patch of ground near the entrance, which his guide carefully avoided, were several hoofmarks, some of which Green recognized; the others had been made by a smaller horse.
"Good work," he said approvingly, and the Indian's expressive eyes gleamed at the praise. "I reckon there ain't much doubt, but we'll make shore."
They rode slowly into the valley, keeping away from the strange horse until they were level with it, and then Green suddenly whirled his mount and jumped it at the grazing animal, round the neck of which the noose dropped before the victim could dodge. Slipping from his saddle, the marshal walked up the rope, coiling it as he approached, but ready for a breakaway. The black, however, proved ropewise and docile; it allowed him to pull its head down and discover, at the roots of the hair, little flakes of white. Lifting the near foreleg, he found the same singularity.
"She's the hoss, shore enough," he muttered. "All we gotta do now is find the owner."
"Nothin' here--me look," Black Feather said.
"Huh! Just uses it as a private corral. Rides here, changes mounts to do his dirty work, an' has the other hoss waitin' to get away on," mused the marshal. "That means he ain't too far from here."
Leaving the gate exactly as they found it, they made their way back to the open range, and then, having warned him not to talk--Pete would have deemed this unnecessary--the marshal sent his companion back to town. He himself headed east, following the line of the mountain. Presently he began to come on scattered groups of cattle. He had drawn near to one of these and was endeavouring to decipher the brand when a bullet droned through the air, followed by the flat report, and a hoarse shout of "Put 'em up; the next one drills yu."
The marshal did not comply--his hands were too busy subduing the evolutions of Nigger, who, having decided objections to bullets whistling past his ears, never failed to register a protest. When the rider had succeeded in calming the black, he looked up into the gun of the man who had given the order. It was Leeson. Despite the threatening weapon, the marshal laughed.
"Why, if it ain't Mister Wild Bill 'Hiccup,'" he said. "Playin' with fire-arms, too. What yu mean, scaring my hoss thataway?"
The man glared at him, his finger itching to pull the trigger. But the marshal had been appointed by Raven, and besides, although his own gun was already out, he had an uneasy feeling that this jeering, confident devil would somehow get the better of him. So he holstered his pistol and said sullenly:
"Didn't know yu. Wondered what yore interest was in our cows, that's all."
"Yore cows?" the marshal repeated.
"Yeah, I'm ridin' for the 88," the man explained.
"Raven's ranch, huh? How far away is it?"
Leeson pointed east and said it was some three miles to the ranch-house.
"Who put yu up to that fool play the other night?" Green asked.
The man flushed. "Some o' the boys," he growled. "It was on'y a joke."
"Well, I hope yu laughed hearty," the marshal said. "So long."
He turned his horse and rode in the direction indicated.
The 88 ranch-house was an unpretentious log building of no great size and somewhat slovenly appearance. The bunk-house and corrals were rough, and conveyed the impression of being temporary structures. The rear of the ranch was protected by the lower slopes of the mountain, a jumbled, precipitous piece of country which made the open range in front the only means of approach. The place appeared to be deserted, but Green's shout of "Hello, the house," brought Jevons to the door. His eyes narrowed when he saw who the visitor was, but he forced an unwilling grin to his lips.
" 'Lo, marshal," he said. "What's brung yu out so far?"
"Just havin' a look round," Green said easily. "New territory to me, you see."
Jevons suddenly remembered his duties as host, "Light an' rest yore saddle," he invited, adding, "That's a good hoss yu got; had him long?"
"Coupla years," Green told him carelessly. "Some folks don't like blacks--claim they're unlucky; me, I ain't fussy."
"Don't care for 'em myself," the foreman said, "Wouldn't own one as a gift."
The room they entered was rudely furnished with the barest necessities and littered with a medley of saddles, bridles, guns, and the various paraphernalia of ranch equipment. Jevons produced a bottle and glasses.
"Yu 'pear to be pretty well fixed here," the guest offered, meaning exactly the opposite. "Raven come out much?"
"The place serves its purpose," the foreman said: and, boastfully, "Seth leaves things to me--must be a'most a month since he drifted over; reckon he finds the Red Ace more comfortable."
"Can't blame him," the marshal agreed. "Yu got some fierce scenery back o' yu; I ain't surprised yo're losin' cows."
"We ain't shy many, an' if folks warn't so soft over warpaints we wouldn't be losin' them," Jevons said pointedly. "My men has orders to shoot any brave pirootin' round this range."
The marshal made a mental note to warn Black Feather, declined a second drink, and asked the nearest way back to Lawless.
"Bear off east an' three-four miles'll bring yu to the drive trail north," Jevons told him.
Until the visitor had become a mere speak on the plain the foreman watched him, his lips twisted into an ugly sneer. "Wonder what yu were after, Mister Man?" he muttered. "I've a hunch yu ain't exactly mother's little helper so far as Seth is concerned, an' that it's goin' to be worth while to keep cases on yu."
Meanwhile the subject of this speculation was proceeding leisurely homewards, his mind busy with the problem he had to solve. That the man masquerading as "Sudden" was one of the refugees in Tepee Mountain he did not believe. The fact that the crimes had been perpetrated at propitious times could not be mere coincidence, the miscreant must have bad inside knowledge. The location of the hidden horse so far from Sweetwater made Lawless the most likely place to look for the owner. He thought of Leeson, who had already adopted one famous alias.
"It don't need much nerve to shoot a fella from cover," he reflected. "If he thought I'd found an' collared the black it might explain his cuttin' loose on me so prompt, an' that shot was meant to hit--he warn't funnin'."
It was late in the afternoon when he reached the town, and putting his horse in the corral, joined his deputy in the little front room of their quarters.
Pete answered the marshal's question as to whether the Indian had returned.
"Sifted in two-three hours back," he said. "Couldn't git a word outa him. Gripes! a clam is one big chatterbox alongside that redskin."
"He's obeyin' orders," Green said
, and told of the finding of the black horse and what followed.
"Leeson ain't got the brains," the deputy decided.
"Somebody else may be doin' the plannin'," Green argued.
"Who?" Pete asked unthinkingly, and instantly wanted to kick himself.
The marshal looked at him commiseratingly, "That's the worst o' them hair-trigger tongues," he said. "Fella's gotta say somethin' even when he's got nothin' to say."
This reasoning was too much for the deputy; with a snort of disgust he stamped out of the room. The marshal's smiling glance followed him.
"Tubby, yo're one good little man, white clean through," he apostrophized. "I'm shore glad I met up with yu."
But not for worlds would he have had his friend hear this eulogy.
CHAPTER IX
Unwonted tranquillity reigned in Lawless, and the popularity of the new marshal with the better type of citizen increased daily. Such realized that this steady-eyed, good-humoured young man knew his job and was a very different proposition to the hard-drinking, swaggering ruffians who had previously held the position. The rougher element, though it did not like the officer, feared him, sensing the possibilities of violence beneath the quiet exterior. Naturally there was a good deal of curiosity respecting him. Durley, chatting at his door with Timms, the blacksmith, stated his own opinion.
"He's a man. Give him a square deal an' yu'll get the same. Hello, there's Tonia Sarel; ain't she the prettiest thing that ever happened?"
The girl, who had just emerged from the store on the other side of the street, had stopped to speak with Andy Bordene. Lawless had seen little of the young owner of the Box B since his father had been laid to rest in the little cemetery by the creek, for there had been much to do at the ranch. Tonia's quick eye saw at once the change in him; grief and responsibility had brought manhood. There were lines about the mouth and eyes that she had never seen and a gravity she had not yet known. But it was Andy's old smile that greeted her.
"'Lo, Tonia, what good wind fetched yu in to-day?" he asked.
"A woman's usual excuse--shopping," she smiled. "We've been expecting you at the Double S."
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