Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933)

by Oliver Strange

  “What nation?” asked Raven.

  “Claims to be Mohave, but I figure he’s a stray,” the marshal told him. “He ain’t talked much yet.”

  “Bah! Better ‘a’ left him; I’d as soon fetch home a hurt rattler,” Jevons said savagely.

  “Redskins is all liars an’ thieves.”

  “Saul is a bit sore on warpaints just now,” Raven explained. “He’s bin losin’ a few steers an’ he’s blamin’ them for it.”

  “Well, I got no use for Injuns, but I reckon it’s more likely them toughs in Tepee Mountain is liftin’ yore beef, Raven,” the Double S man offered.

  After a while the other two sat down to play cards, and Raven led the marshal into his office.

  “Yu got any private opinion ‘bout this killin’?” he asked.

  “I said all I had to say at the enquiry,” was the reply.

  “Young Andy could ‘a’ done it,” the saloonkeeper suggested. Green shook his head.

  “Pete an’ me checked up the times; we know when the old man left Lawless an’ when Andy started from the Box B; he’d have had to ride mighty good to reach the Old Mine before his dad,” he pointed out. ” ‘Nother thing, Andy carries a .44, which takes the same fodder as his Winchester.”

  Seth could not gainsay this. “O’ course, I was on’y givin’ yu a possible line. Andy is in pretty deep with me, an’ the old man didn’t know it.”

  “Anyways, he couldn’t ‘a’ held up the stage, being at the Box B all that day.”

  “Huh! Bound to be the same fella, yu think?”

  “Shore as shootin’.”

  Raven picked up a large sheet of coarse paper. “What yu think o’ this?” he queried.

  It was a notice, printed in large capitals, offering a reward of one thousand dollars for the capture of the man known as “Sudden,” or information leading thereto. No particulars of the outlaw were given, but the horse was described. The document was signed by the saloonkeeper.

  “Might produce somethin’,” the marshal agreed. “We gotta do somethin’. This is the fourth play he has put across in a short while. It’s up to yu an’ Barsay, marshal,” Raven said.

  “We’ll get him,” Green said confidently, and picking up the notice, went to nail it outside the saloon door.

  Seth Raven puzzled him. Apparently a public-spirited citizen, anxious for the welfare of the community, there was an elusive something which evaded the marshal. With an innate feeling that the man was crooked, he had to admit that so far he was not justified in that belief. A little later, when he entered his quarters, and went in to see the sufferer he found him still occupying Barsay’s bed, and awake. The black eyes, no longer fierce, looked up at him gratefully, reminding him of a devoted dog: and as any sort of sentiment rendered him uncomfortable, his tone was almost abrupt as he asked, “Feelin’ better?”

  “Me well now,” the patient replied, and made to rise. The Indian is both proud and punctilious; he would crawl outside to die rather than remain an unwelcome guest. The marshal motioned him to lie down again.

  “Make a job of it, amigo,” he said, and his smile meant more than the words.

  The sick man sank back with a grunt of relief; even that slight exertion had been too much for his exhausted frame. “Black Feather no forget,” he whispered.

  Pete looked up as the marshal re-entered the office. “When do we start?” he asked hopefully.

  “We don’t,” Green said. “I’m agoin’ to see Sheriff Strade over to Sweetwater, an’ I’m leavin’ yu in charge—o’ the patient.”

  “Well, of all the hawgs,” ejaculated Barsay. “Why can’t yu nurse the nigger an’ let me see Strade?”

  “He might recognize yu,” Green replied, his eyes twinkling. The appalling impudence of this remark struck the deputy dumb, and before he could recover, the marshal was on his way to the corral. Pete watched him saddle the big black, swing lightly to the saddle, and lope away. He grinned ruefully.

  “Ain’t he the aggravatin’ cuss?” he asked himself. “An’ I can’t get mad at him neither—not real mad. I hope to Gawd the sheriff don’t recognize him—for the sheriff’s sake.”

  Pete’s fear was due to be realized, though the consequences were not serious. To Strade, the tall man who walked into his office and, giving his name, announced himself as the new marshal of Lawless, seemed faintly familiar.

  “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 foreleg.” 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 gun
nin’ 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 precious 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 tomorrow,” 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 thro
ugh 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 firearms, 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.