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

by Oliver Strange

  “‘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 worthwhile 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.”

  “I know, but I’ve had stacks to do,” he replied. “Dad, dear old boy, hadn’t what they call a business head—he was straight himself an’ trusted folks. His affairs were in a bit of a mess, an’ I’ll have to buckle in to put them right.”

  Tonia nodded. She knew he was telling her that the Box B was not as prosperous as he had expected to find it. Old Bordene, a bluff, out-of-doors specimen of the early pioneer, who regarded a given word binding as a written one, was the kind whose ranch might easily be in difficulties without his realizing it, if people whose promises he had carelessly accepted failed to redeem them.

  “If we can do anything, Andy—” she began, and broke off at an exclamation from her companion.

  “Sufferin’ serpents! Here’s a circus a-comin’.”

  The girl turned and saw a group of riders pacing slowly up the street. Their leader, who was mounted on a fine Spanish horse, was the most magnificently-attired person Lawless had ever beheld. His sombrero, bright scarlet tunic, and blue trousers were lavishly decorated with gold braid, the spurs on his polished boots were of silver, and a wealth of the same metal adorned saddle and bridle. The half-dozen men who followed him were Mexicans, dressed in nondescript ragged garments, but all well armed.

  “Who the blazes is that spangled jay?” asked a bystander.

  “El Diablo, the guerrilla, though what the hell he’s doin’ this side o’ the line, I dunno,” replied another. “Wonder where he stole that hoss?”

  It was Andy’s laugh which drew the Mexican’s attention to the girl, and at the sight of her his eyes gleamed. With a wrench at the reins he forced his mount to pivot on its hindlegs, and pulling up at the sidewalk, swept off his hat and spoke to Bordene, using the American tongue.

  “I am Moraga; present me to the senorita.”

  His voice was harsh, commanding, and the bold gaze rested on the girl possessively as it absorbed the slim, graceful beauty of her. The young rancher saw the lust in the look, and this, added to the insolence of the demand, made him careless of offence. Disdainfully he replied:

  “Never heard o’ yu, an’ we ain’t carin’.”

  The guerrilla’s yellow face became suffused and his smile changed to a snarl. “Perhaps the senor has heard of El Diablo?” he said softly, and seeing the question in the young man’s face, he added, “Si, senor, I am El Diablo.”

  Andy’s cool gaze travelled slowly over the Mexican. “Well—yu—shore—look it,” he drawled, and taking Tonia by the arm, turned away.

  For an instant the man who had called himself Moraga glared murder, his cla
w-like fingers hovering over the butt of the pistol thrust through his brightly-coloured sash. But he knew it would be madness—a dozen men would shoot him down if he drew the weapon, and with a savage oath he wheeled his horse, scoring its sides until the cruel spurs showed red, and rejoined his waiting followers. The humiliation made the still unhealed stripes under the gay coat burn like fire.

  “Andy has shore rubbed that Greaser the wrongest way,” grinned one of the spectators of the scene. “S’pose he’s goin’ to visit Seth?”

  His surmise was correct, for at the Red Ace the Mexican wrenched his horse to a stop, flung the reins over the hitch-rail, and with a wave of dismissal to his men, vanished inside. The escort rode back to the dive presided over by their countryman, Miguel.

  Closeted with Raven in the letter’s office, the visitor showed no sign of his recent rage.

  Smoking a long, black cigar and occasionally helping himself to wine from a bottle on the desk, he was suavity itself. The saloonkeeper had been explaining something at length.

  “So now yu got it,” he concluded. “There’ll be five hundred steers—mebbe more. They won’t be wearin’ my brand—I’m takin’ ‘em for a debt, yu understand, but once they’re over the line their monograms won’t matter, I reckon.”

  Moraga’s thin lips curled in a meaning smile; he understood perfectly. This was not the first transaction between them, though on previous occasions the saloonkeeper had apparently sold his own cattle. He drew reflectively at his cigar and asked a question, casually:

  “It musta bin Tonia Sarel,” Raven said, with a keen glance. “Owns the Double S; father was dry-gulched in The Cut a while ago.”

  “So,” the Mexican said. “Ver’ preety, that senorita,” One finger of his right hand was idly drawing a figure on the desk—the letter S. He completed it and began again, but this time he continued the up-stroke and the S became an 8, He laughed quietly, shot a sly look at his host, and said again, “Ver’ preety.” The saloonkeeper was not to be drawn; he was wearing his poker face. Moraga harked back.

  “Who was the man?” he asked.

  “From yore description I’d say it was young Bordene o’ the Box B,” Raven told him.

  “Whose father was also—removed,” Moraga said reflectively; and then, “So the Box B weel provide the steers thees time, senor?”

  Seth Raven looked at the malicious, sneering face and had hard work to keep his temper.

  “See here, Moraga, better not horn in on what don’t concern yu,” he advised. “It was a fool play to come ridin’ in at the head of a young army as if yu owned the town.”

  “Would you have me sleenk in and out like a cur, senor?” the Mexican returned haughtily. “I am El Diablo.”

  “Which is why I’m warnin’ yu,” Raven replied, a touch of acid in his tone, “On yore side o’ the line yu may be ace-high, but this side”—he smiled sourly at his own humour—“yo’re the deuce. If yu take my tip, yu’ll git back to yore own bank o’ the ditch, pronto.”

  “Moraga does not run away,” the other said boastfully. “I stay till evening.”

  The saloonkeeper shrugged his shoulders and offered no further protest. Probably there would be no trouble, but knowing Lawless, he wished his guest on his way.

  Raven was not present when, later on, the guerrilla chief made his appearance in the Red Ace. A few of Seth’s friends nodded a greeting, but most of the men present either sniggered or scowled as the garishly-clad figure strutted arrogantly to the bar. He had almost reached it when he saw the marshal, who, chatting with Pete, had not noticed his arrival. For an instant Moraga stood motionless, his eyes distended, his lips working, and then he snatched out his pistol.

  The marshal caught one glimpse of the scarlet-coated form and acted. A powerful thrust with his left hand sent Pete reeling away and at the same time a spurt of flame darted from his right hip. The bullet, striking Moraga’s gun, tore it from his numbed fingers. His left hand was reaching for his second pistol when a warning came.

  “Don’t yu,” the marshal said, and the cold threat in the words penetrated even the brain of the infuriated Mexican. He hesitated, and before he could make up his mind, two men had grabbed his arms, holding him, cursing and struggling, while others got out of the line of fire. In the midst of the uproar Raven came surging in.

  “What in hell’s broke loose?” he thundered.

  A dozen excited voices told him the story, and as he listened his face settled into a heavy scowl. He turned to Green.

  “I’ll attend to this,” he said, and signed the men to release the captive. Then, with a fierce whispered word, he led the Mexican into his private room.

  Immediately they had disappeared the excitement broke out again. Threats against the “Greaser” were freely uttered, and the saloonkeeper was openly blamed for what was regarded as an insult to the whole town.

  “What made him pick on vu, marshal?” the store-keeper, Loder, enquired.

  “Spotted my badge, I reckon,” Green evaded with a laugh.

  Meanwhile, Seth Raven was listening to a story which brought disquietude even to his usually impassive features, for Moraga, mad with rage at his second discomfiture, blurted out the tale of his former meeting with the marshal, despite the fact that he thereby published his own shame. Striding up and down the room, gesticulating, his voice rose to a shrill shriek as he cursed and threatened.

  “I’ll keel him—keel him by inches!” he cried, and his claw-like fingers opened and shut as though he held his enemy’s throat.

  “I ain’t sayin’ yu mustn’t,” Raven said quietly, “but yu can’t do it now or here. He’s the marshal, an’ the way the fellas out there look at it yu’ve tried to run a blazer on the town. Hark to ‘em.” Through the partition they could hear loud and angry voices. “If yu wasn’t my guest, senor, yu’d be dancin’ a fandango on nothin’ right now, an’ yu can stick a pin in that,” the saloonkeeper went on. “Yu better slide outa the back door, climb yore cayuse, an’ hike for the Border.”

  Possessed by passion as he was, the visitor knew that Raven was right. So when, in response to a message, the marshal entered the office, there was no sign of the Mexican. Raven, slumped in his chair, greeted him with a frowning brow.

  “Pretty damn mess yore blasted Injun has got us into,” he began. “What’s the idea, shootin’ strangers up thisaway?”

  The marshal’s eyes grew frosty and his jaw stiffened. “See here, Raven,” he said, and his tone had an edge, “if yu think any yeller-skinned thief can pull a gun on me an’ get away with if yu got another guess comin’. O’ course”—and there was a suspicion of a sneer—“I didn’t know he was a friend o’ yores.”

  “Friend nothin’,” the saloonkeeper replied testily. “He buys cows, pays a good price, an’ saves me the trouble an’ expense o’ drivin’ ‘em to the rail-head. But it ain’t that I’m thinkin’ of.

  That hombre can raise more’n hundred men. S’pose he comes back an’ stands the town up, what yu goin’ to do?”

  “Yo’re scarin’ me cold,” Green said sarcastically. “Me? I should run like hell, o’ course. Anythin’ else yu wanta say to me?”

  Raven shook his head, and for some time after Green had gone sat there deep in thought, inwardly cursing the new marshal and himself for having appointed him. It was becoming all too evident that this saturnine, self-reliant young puncher was not likely to “come to heel,” and that—despite Raven’s assertion to the contrary—he had quite a good notion of his responsibilities.

  Although he had given him the position, Raven knew he could not take it away without a very good excuse, and the fracas with Moraga, far from furnishing that, had only made the marshal more popular. When at length he got up there was an ugly expression on his face.

  From the bunk-house of the Box B, Rusty watched the approach of a horseman along the trail, which, emerging from the thicket of spruce and cottonwood, zigzagged across the open stretch in front of the ranch. Presently the visitor was suffici
ently near to be identified.

  “The Vulture, huh?” murmured the cowboy. “I’m damned if he don’t look like it too.”

  And, in fact, Raven, with his dark slouched hat, and long black coat-tails flapping in the light breeze, presented quite a resemblance to the bird he had been named after. He pulled up opposite the bunk-house.

  “Andy around?” he asked curtly.

  “I reckon,” came the equally short reply.

  Raven nodded and rode up to the ranch-house, a large one-storied log-building with a wide, roofed-in porch. His hail brought Bordene to the door.

  “‘Lo, Seth,” he greeted. “Get down an’ spoil yore thirst. Takin’ exercise to pull yore weight down, huh?”

  The saloonkeeper joined in the laugh—though his contribution was a mere dry cackle—as he hoisted his spare body out of the saddle and climbed stiffly down.

  He declined the drink, but accepted a cigar, and when this was alight to his satisfaction, he shot a sly glance at his host.

  “Yu got a nice place here, Andy,” he began, his eye taking in the solid, spacious bunk-house, barns, and corrals, and beyond them the level miles of grass, burnt brown and dead-looking by the summer heat, but, as he well knew, still the best of feed for cattle. Moreover, among the cottonwoods through which he had ridden was a little stream which later became a deep pool, worth in itself a small fortune in that arid land. “Yore range must mighty near reach the Double S.”

  “Our eastern line is their western,” Andy told him, wondering what was coming. Was Raven about to make him an offer for the ranch? If so, he was doomed to disappointment; Andy would not have sold for twice the value.

  Seth nodded reflectively. “Yore dad musta sunk a lot o’ coin in it,” he said. “This cattle business is a costly one, as I’m afindin’ out; the 88 just eats money, spite of all Jevons can do to keep down expenses; which explains why I’m here.”

  Andy began to comprehend. “Yu want that five thousand I owe yu, is that it, Seth?” he asked.

  “Partly, my boy, partly,” the other assented. “I’m hatin’ to press yu just now, but bein’ up against it myself—” He paused a moment and went on, “Unfortunately, Andy, that ain’t all; there’s what yore old man had too.”