“It ain’t good enough for her, an’ I ain’t good enough neither, but, by God, we’re agoin’ to be, both of us.”
Meanwhile, the subject of this pious resolution was loping steadily in the direction of her own ranch. She had crossed the miles of open plain and reached a strip of rougher country which formed one of the boundaries of the Box B when, at the end of a long, narrow ravine, she saw a rider approaching. One glance was enough—there was no mistaking the flaming scarlet tunic, with its wealth of gold braid glittering in the bright sun. Though she had seen him but once, Tonia knew that it was El Diablo, the man whom Andy had treated so cavalierly in Lawless.
With a shiver of apprehension she sought a means of avoiding the meeting, but it was too late; he must already have seen her. So she rode on, endeavouring to appear unconcerned, hoping that by a display of indifference she might get past. But when she was a few yards distant the man pulled his mount across, barring her path, and swept the sombrero from his head.
“Buenos dias, senorita,” he said, and in her own tongue he added, “Miss Sarel ride all alone, huh?”
“As you see, senor,” the girl replied. “I must ask you to excuse me; I am in haste.”
“The senorita was not hurrying when I see her,” he replied meaningly. “A lady so beautiful must also be kind-hearted and grant a few meenits to her so great admirer.”
“I have no time to spare, and—I do not know you, senor,” Tonia returned.
The guerrilla captain bowed low over the neck of his magnificent mount. “No?” he smiled. “Then we must—how you say?—become acquaint. In the absence of Meester Bordene I present myself, Don Luis Moraga, a caballero of Old Spain, and at your feet.”
“‘In my way’ would be more correct, senor,” the girl retorted. “As for Mr. Bordene, I am expecting him to overtake me, and he may have friends with him.”
The man laughed mockingly. “I too have friends here, senorita,” he said, and tapped the butts of the silver-mounted pistols thrust through his sash.
“I must repeat, senor, that I am in haste,” she said coldly. “A caballero would not detain me.”
Moraga grinned hatefully as he forced his horse to her side. “The senorita is at liberty to go—when she have paid, oh, so small a ransom,” he said. “One leetle kees—”
Tonia’s eyes and cheeks flamed at the insult. Heedless of her helplessness, she gripped the quirt dangling by a thong from her wrist, and cried:
“Lay a finger on me, you yellow dog, and I’ll thrash you.”
The contemptuous epithet stung the Mexican to fury; his face became that of a devil indeed. “Dios!” he hissed, “you shall pay for that.” He snatched at her wrist, but she jumped her horse aside and swung the whip. Moraga cursed as the lash seared his cheek, but before she could strike again his claw-like hands were sinking into her flesh and he was dragging her from the saddle, his snarling lips, like a ravening wolf’s, close to her own. Panting for breath, she fought on, but could not loosen that iron grip, and her strength was well-nigh spent when a cold, rasping voice said:
“Put ‘em up, Greaser, an’ pronto!”
Moraga flashed round, his hands going to his guns, but when he saw who had spoken they went above his head instead; he knew better than to try and beat the marshal of Lawless to the draw. Green, lounging in his saddle, surveyed the ruffian sardonically.
“Gettin’ whipped seems to be a habit o’ yours,” he commented, his gaze on the angry crimson stripe across the man’s face. Green turned to the girl. “Has he hurt yu?” he asked.
“No, I’m only frightened,” she replied.
“Ride on a piece, Miss Sarel,” he said. “I’ll be along.”
She divined the menace beneath the casual request. “What are you going to do?” she questioned.
“Kill a snake,” he said coolly.
“No, no,” she protested. “He’s a Mexican and didn’t understand. Please let him go.”
The marshal shrugged his broad shoulders. “I oughta wiped him out the first time,” he said. “Very well, ma’am, but he’s gotta have a lesson. Get off yore hoss an’ stand over there,” he directed the Mexican, pointing to a spot about ten paces distant, and when the command had been sullenly obeyed, he added, “An’ stand mighty still if yu want to see another sunrise.”
He got down himself and drawing the two pistols from the bandit’s sash, stepped back.
For a moment he paused, weighing the weapons, and then the gun in his right hand roared and the brooch in Moraga’s sombrero was torn from its place; a second shot ripped away the bullion band, while the third left the wearer bareheaded. Livid, but a statue of stone for stillness, the victim stood while, with incredible swiftness, shot followed shot in a continual stream. The golden epaulettes dropped from his shoulders; his belt, the buckle shattered by a bullet, fell away; the great silver spurs were wrenched from his heels. Having emptied the borrowed pistols the marshal flung them down and drew his own.
“Keep still,” he warned, and stepped round so that he sighted his target sideways.
This time he used both guns, firing them alternately with such speed that the reports sounded like a roll of thunder. One by one the gilt buttons of the scarlet tunic leapt off, and only when the last dropped to the ground did the devilish tattoo cease. From the Mexican’s chalky-white face, eyes in which fear and hate commingled glared at this smoke-wreathed, grim-lipped man who shot like a wizard. In those few moments Moraga had died twenty times, expecting each bullet to be the last, and his nerve-racked body was shivering despite the sun blazing overhead. The marshal reloaded his guns and slid them into the holsters.
“Yu can thank the senorita for yore life, Moraga,” he said sternly. “Stay yore own side o’ the line; she may not be there to beg yu off next time. Vamos!”
He swung into his saddle and joined Tonia.
“How can I thank you?” she asked. “I’m not easily scared, but that fellow was—horrible!”
“Just forget it,” Green smiled. “This is part o’ my job as marshal; but yu didn’t oughta ride alone around here—it’s too near the Border.”
“Andy wanted to come, but I wouldn’t let him,” she explained. “He’s busy—he has to be, after so much misfortune. Do you believe in luck, Mr. Green?”
“Shore, I’ve met her,” was the reply. The girl’s look of surprise brought a grin to his lips.
“Luck must be a lady to play the pranks she does, yu know,” he explained.
Tonia laughed with him. “I don’t think Andy is one of her favourites,” she speculated.
“Mebbe not, just now, but I’ve a hunch he’s goin’ to be one o’ the luckiest fellas in Arizona,” the marshal said, and smiled when he saw the colour in his companion’s cheeks.
When they reached the Double S, Reuben Sarel emerged from his favoured corner on the veranda to greet them. “Glad to see yu, marshal,” he cried. “Why, Tonia, what’s the matter?”
In a few words she told of her adventure, and the fat man’s expression became serious.
“I’m thankin’ yu, marshal,” he said. “We’ll have to keep an eye liftin’ at the Double S. By all accounts, El Diablo is a poisonous piece o’ work, an’ he’ll move heaven an’ hell to square hisself. Gosh! I’d ‘a’ give somethin’ to see yu strippin’ off his finery.”
“I never saw such shooting—it was wonderful,” Tonia said.
“Well, mebbe yu put a scare into him, but I doubt it,” Sarel went on. “These damn Greasers have their own sneaky ways o’ gettin’ back at yu. Wonder if he bumped off Bordene?”
“Possible, o’ course, but I got no reason to think so,” the marshal replied. “Yu losin’ any cows?”
The fat man opened his eyes. “Yeah, but I ain’t been advertisin’ it,” he said. “There seems to be a steady leak—few at a time, an’ I can’t trace it. Any reason for askin’?”
“Just a notion,” Green assured him. “Tell yu later if I get to know anythin’.”
On his w
ay back to town he pondered over the bit of information. It had been purely a shot in the dark, but it opened up a new line of investigation for the morrow. Looking at the Double S brand on the rump of Miss Sarel’s mount, it had suddenly struck him how very simply it could be changed, with the aid of a wet blanket and a running iron, into a passable 88. He slapped the neck of the black horse.
“Yu ol’ son of a sweep,” he told it. “Things is gettin’ right interestin’ in this neck o’ the woods.”
CHAPTER XIII
Riding along the street, the marshal noticed that his appearance was creating unusual interest; men he knew greeted him boisterously, and others, though silent, looked at him curiously. It was not until he reached his quarters that he learned the reason. Barsay’s chubby countenance was one broad grin.
“So yu’ve had another fandango with Mister Moraga?” he burst out, and the marshal swore.
“Hell’s bells! Has that got around?”
“Shore thing. I just slips into the Red Ace to see if they’d run outa whisky—which they hadn’t—an’ there’s a Box B puncher called Fatty tellin’ the town all about it. Seems he was up on one side o’ the ravine, afraid to shoot in case he hit the gel, an’ no way o’ gettin’ down. He sees Tonia use her quirt—which she ain’t lackin’ sand any—an’ the Mexican grab her. Yu oughta seen them fellas when he told how yu stood that jay-bird up an’ shot the clothes off’n him. Me, I’m hopin’ yu remembered there was a lady present. ‘Shoot?’ sez Fatty. ‘Gents, I never seen the like.
They say Sudden is fast, but I’m bettin’ the marshal would have to wait for him.’ They all laughed at that, but not so hearty as I did. Fatty said yu shot all over him, an’ with his own guns.”
The marshal nodded. “He’ll certainly have to steal another outfit; I plumb ruined that one,” he admitted.
“That’s the worst o’ yu fancy gun-slingers,” Pete said quizzically, “Now if I’d tried to lift his hat for him I’d ‘a’ bin inches too low. Say, Raven an’ one or two others warn’t exactly joinin’ in the jubilation.”
“I’m afraid he won’t like it,” the marshal said. “I’ll be some grieved if that’s so.”
“Like hell yu will,” grinned the deputy, undeceived by the sober tone which the twinkling eyes belied. “Gripes! here he comes. It’s me for the kitchen.”
Raven entered at the moment the deputy disappeared, storm signals flying on his visually impassive features. He did not beat about the bush.
“Hear yu’ve had another clash with Moraga.”
The marshal nodded. “I found him tryin’ to drag Miss Sarel from her saddle an’ had to admonish him some.”
“I reckon I made a mistake over yu, Green,” the other scowled. “Yu ain’t exactly a shinin’ success as a marshal, are yu? Sudden gets away with a stage robbery an’ a murder, an’ all yu do to get the town in bad with a fella strong enough to wipe it out if he takes the notion.”
“Yu tryin’ to tell me that Lawless will lie down to be trampled on by that Greaser an’ his band o’ thieves?” the marshal asked.
“No, the damn idjuts would pant for war immediate,” Raven admitted crossly. “What I’m drivin’ at is that it’s bad business. I ain’t a fightin’ fool. I’m here to make coin, an’ I reckoned yu was too.”
“Shore, but I’m a mite particular where it comes from,” Green told him. “Mexican money don’t appeal to me.”
The saloonkeeper regarded him with puzzled exasperation. Was he simply stupid, or playing a part? Raven could not determine, but one point stood out plainly—the marshal was not a tool to be used.
“Mebbe yu won’t like Mex bullets neither,” he sneered. “Yu better tell the town to get organized’, Moraga’s got a good memory.”
“Then he’ll stay on his own side o’ the line, like I told him,” the marshal said. “If he don’t, you’ll lose a customer for yore cows.”
The other made no reply, but his brows were bent in a heavy frown as he went out. When the coast was clear, the deputy sidled in, his face one broad grin.
“He ain’t a bit pleased with his li’l marshal, is he? No, sir, li’l marshal has got him guessin’, an’ he’s got li’l marshal guessin’, an’ there yu are.”
They went out, and on their way down the street turned into the largest store to get tobacco. Loder, the proprietor, an old but hard-bitten product of the West, welcomed them with an outstretched, hairy hand.
“Shake, marshal,” he said. “I just bin hearin’ how yu took the conceit outa that Greaser, an’ I’m tellin’ yu the town is plenty pleased.”
At Durley’s they got a confirmation of the store-keeper’s opinion, both from the owner of the place and from several citizens. The marshal’s moderation only was criticized. “Yu shore oughta shook some lead into him,” was Durley’s comment. “Allus scotch a snake is my motter.”
Listening to this prudent sentiment, Green could not know that within a week or so he would be heartily wishing he had put it into practice, but so it was.
Following up the notion that had come to him on his way back from the Sarel ranch, the marshal spent the whole of the next morning exploring the country east of the 88, his interest being in the brands of such cattle as he encountered. Though he found nothing suspicious he persevered in his quest.
“It would be easy as takin’ a drink, an’ if Jevons is honest he’s shore got a misleadin’ face,” he muttered.
Though he was many miles from the Double S, he was working in that direction, passing over a level expanse of good grass, gashed here and there with little gullies. From one of these came the bellow of a steer, and forcing his way in, the marshal found that the trees ringed a grassy, saucer-like depression, in the middle of which was a rough corral. Riding down to the enclosure, one glance told him he had found what he sought—stolen stock. There were about a score of cows in the corral and the brand on them had been recently worked over, transforming a Double S into an 88. The dead ashes of a fire afforded further proof. Regaining the level, the marshal loped leisurely in the direction of the town, turning over his discovery. That Raven, as owner of the 88, was in on the steal, he had not the slightest doubt, but the trouble was to prove it.
“Cuss the luck,” he soliloquized. “I’m findin’ nothin’ but loose ends.”
He was crossing a little tree-covered plateau from which a gravelly stretch of ground sloped gently down when a slug sang past his ear, followed by the report of a revolver. Instantly he flung himself headlong to the earth, falling so that he lay behind a convenient boulder. Some sixty yards down the decline wisps of blue smoke showed that the shot came from behind a low bush, apparently the only cover the spot offered. Nigger, smacked on the rump when his master dived for shelter, had retreated into the trees behind. At one side the chunk of rock did not touch the ground, and this provided the marshal with a peep-hole through which he could watch events.
Motionless, with gun drawn, he waited, but nothing happened.
“He’s wonderin’ if he got me,” Green muttered. “Well, I ain’t tellin’ him.”
Another ten minutes passed, and first the crown and then the brim of a black sombrero edged into view above the bush. The marshal chuckled softly; he knew there was no head inside the hat and declined to be drawn. The hat vanished and the bush became slightly agitated, but the silence remained unbroken. Another interval and abruptly from behind the bush, a man stood up, pistol in hand; it was Leeson.
He weapon ready for instant use, he stepped from his cover and began to mount the slope.
The marshal waited until he was too far from the bush to regain it and then rose noiselessly to his feet.
“Reach for the sky, Leeson; I’m coverin’ yu,” he called.
The man flung up his arms as ordered.
When he had sworn himself to a standstill, the marshal spoke:
“Chuck yore weapons ahead o’ yu.”
He watched while a gun and a knife curved through the air towards him.
“Wha
t’s the idea?” Leeson snarled, and then, as though he had just discovered the identity of his opponent, “Why, damn me if it ain’t the marshal.”
Green picked up the surrendered weapons. “Yu didn’t know, o’ course,” he said sarcastically.
“An’ that’s a fact,” Leeson replied. “I took yu for that road-agent fella, Sudden; that black hoss o’ yores—”
“Ain’t got a white face,” the marshal reminded.
“That’s so. I oughta remembered,” the other agreed readily. “Well, mistakes will happen, but there’s no harm done; I’m glad I didn’t get yu, marshal.”
“I’m a mite pleased about that my own self,” the officer admitted. “I got yu instead, an’ I’m takin’ yu in.”
Leeson stared at him in anger and amazement, the latter well simulated. “Ain’t I explained it was a mistake?” he demanded.
“Folks have to pay for ‘em in this hard world, fella,” the marshal told him. “Where’s yore hoss?”
“Bottom o’ the slope—in the brush,” the man replied, and then, “Lookit, marshal—”
“Get a-goin’,” Green cut in. “Yu can sing yore little song on the way.”
A low whistle brought Nigger stepping sedately towards them. The marshal climbed into the saddle and with his drawn pistol motioned the prisoner to proceed. They found the horse, and Leeson mounted.
“Seth’ll have a word to say ‘bout this,” he growled, and for the rest of the journey maintained a sullen silence. On reaching town, the marshal handed the captive over to his assistant and went in search of Raven. He found him in his private room at the saloon.
“Leeson tried to bushwhack me this afternoon,” he said bluntly. “I fetched him in—alive.”
For one fleeting second the man’s face betrayed an emotion, but whether it was surprise, anger, or disappointment, the marshal could not determine; then it was gone, and the cold, passionless mask was back again.
“Leeson shot at yu? Whatever for?” he asked.
“Pure affection, don’t you reckon?” Green returned flippantly, and then, “He claims he took me for Sudden.”
Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) Page 10