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

by Oliver Strange

  “Yu think I’d better be goin’?” he asked in mild surprise.

  “Don’t be funny with me, fella,” he warned. “I let yu git away with it las’ night, but that don’t happen twice. Savvy?”

  Hands hanging over his gun-butts, teeth bared like a snarling dog’s, he thrust his face within a few inches of his intended victim’s, his narrowed eyes flaming with the lust to kill. The marshal straightened up and stepped back a pace, throwing his weight on his right foot.

  “Mister Adam,” he said quietly. “I don’t like rubbin’ noses with a rattlesnake. That face o’ yores may look mighty near human two miles off, but at two inches it’s an outrage. I’m movin’ it.”

  With the words his right fist came up, and as the arm shot out, landed with terrific force on the outthrust jaw of the killer. Driven home with all the power of perfect muscles, backed up by the forward fling of the body, the blow lifted the fellow from his feet and hurled him full length on the floor. He was still conscious, for Green’s fist had just missed the point of the jaw, but he could not rise. Lying there, glaring his hatred, he poured out a stream of abuse, and clawed feebly for his gun. “I guess I wouldn’t,” the marshal warned, his hand on his own weapon. “Fade.”

  The ruffian scrambled to his feet, a fury of passion shaking him.

  Staggering blindly like a drunken man, Adam went out, and the victor turned to face the advice and expostulations of his friends.

  “Yu did oughta drilled him, marshal,” Durley put in. “He shore asked for it.”

  “Oh, I reckon he’ll drift,” Green said.

  “Drift nothin’—he’ll hang around an’ shoot yu from cover,” Loder contributed. “Better leave here by the back door.”

  The marshal shook his head. He had noticed Raven’s departure immediately after the killer’s downfall, and was wondering whether his expression denoted contempt or disappointed anger. When the excitement had died down a little several of the spectators left the saloon, and one of them thrust the door open again to say there was no sign of Adam.

  “Two-three of us’ll come out with yu,” Pete suggested. “No, I’ll play her a lone hand,” the marshal said firmly. Bunched together, the men went out into the sunshine, but halted a little way along the street. Evidently the news had spread, for there were other groups and heads protruded from windows and doors. Three tense minutes loitered past, and then the swing-door of the saloon was thrown back and the marshal stepped out. At the same instant a gun roared from the corner of a log building opposite and the onlookers saw Green pitch sideways, to lie prone on the footpath, his right arm outflung and his left bent across his hip. With a cackle of malignant triumph, Adam emerged from his shelter, both guns poised.

  “Well, gents, I reckon I’ve sent yore marshal to hell. Any o’ yu got notions?”

  Muttered curses were the only response to his bravado. Pete, filled with a bitter rage, looked at the prostrate form of his friend and wondered if his eyes were playing tricks. Surely that left hand was moving, nearer and nearer to the holster. A moment later he knew, for the gun was out and spouting flame. The amazed spectators saw the killer crumple up and collapse in the dust, and by the time they reached the marshal, he was on his feet again. They found him untouched.

  “Shore thought he’d got yu,” Durley said. “How’d he come to miss?”

  “I fell before he fired,” Green explained. “I guessed he’d hide an’ lay for me. Had to make him show hisself. Well, he had his chance.”

  “Why yu give him any has got me guessin’,” the deputy grumbled.

  Later on, in the privacy of their own shack, Green enlightened him. “Yu see, Pete,” he argued. “Yu don’t blame a gun for killin’, yu blame the fella who pulls the trigger. This Adam jasper was just a gun, an’ though I’m holdin’ he warn’t fit to go on livin’, it’s the man who used him who oughta be lyin’ out there.”

  “Mebbe yo’re right,” the deputy conceded. “I’m just .is pleased things worked out as they did. Chewin’ over these here fine distinctions’ll end one day in yore bein’ described as ‘the late lamented.’”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  During the next few days Green, in accordance with his resolution, made discreet enquiries regarding Potter. The result was meagre. Residing in a room at the back of his premises, he had remained an Easterner in speech and habits, taking no part in the activities of the town other than his business demanded. So that it was a surprise to the marshal, sitting alone in his office one evening, when the banker opened the door and slipped quietly in.

  “Evening, marshal,” he said. “Am I disturbing you?” Green assured him that he was not and invited him to take a seat. He noticed that the visitor selected a position where he could not be seen from the window, and that his hands were trembling.

  “Marshal,” he began, “I hope you will not be offended, but I’ve been studying you rather closely since you came here and I’ve decided that you are to be trusted. Believing that, I am going to depend on you in a matter of the greatest importance to me.” He drew out a long, sealed envelope. “I want you to take charge of this, hide it, and give me your word that it shall not be opened until the breath is out of my body. It is of no interest to any save one man, and he would sell his soul to destroy it. Should he learn it is in your possession he would slay you without hesitation, and—the contents of that envelope are my death-warrant also. I felt it only fair to tell you this, marshal, although it may mean refusal.”

  His voice shook on the last few words, and there was eagerness in his eyes as he awaited the other’s decision.

  “I ain’t refusin’, Mr. Potter,” Green said. “I’ll take yore envelope, an’ no one shall see or hear of it again till yu are beyond human hurt. That’s what yu want, ain’t it?” The banker nodded, a look of relief on his face. The marshal hesitated for a moment and then added, “Yu got any reason to think yu are in danger?”

  “I can’t tell you another word, marshal,” the banker replied, as he rose and held out his hand. “I am deeply obliged to you.”

  After the visitor had gone Green looked at the envelope, but it was a plain one and told him nothing. That the maker of this strange request was in deadly fear was very evident, but why? With a shrug of his shoulders he set about the task of concealing the envelope. Wrapped in a piece of an old slicker, he buried it beneath his bed, stamping the earth flat again to remove any signs of disturbance.

  “If what Potter says is right it’ll be like sleepin’ over a keg o’ giant powder,” he reflected grimly. “Well, I reckon that won’t ruin my rest anyways.”

  Andy Bordene rode into Lawless with a light heart and let out a whoop of delight when he saw the marshal and his deputy talking to Raven just outside the bank. Leaping down, he greeted the officers joyously, but his manner towards the saloonkeeper was more distant.

  “‘Lo, Andy, so yu fetched ‘em through this time?” Green said.

  “Yu betcha—no trouble a-tall,” the young man replied. “An’ I sold well too; I got over thirty thousand in my clothes an’ I’m a-goin’ to talk turkey to Potter an’ get my ranch back right now.”

  “Good for yu,” the marshal said. “No time like—hell! here comes a gent in a hurry.”

  At the eastern end of the street, a buckboard, drawn by two wild-eyed, maddened ponies rocketed into view. The driver, a short and very fat man, was urging his team both with tongue and whip to greater efforts, despite the fact that nearly every jolt of the swaying, lurching vehicle threated to fling him into the rutty road. Andy needed only one look.

  “I’m an Injun if it ain’t Reub Sarel,” he explained. “What’s broke loose now?”

  With a string of expletives which would have aroused the envy of even a talented mule-skinner the driver of the buckboard flung his weight on the lines and dragged the ponies to a standstill by main force. His appearance bore testimony to the urgency of his errand. Coatless, hatless, shirt torn open at the throat, his fleshy face grimed with dust and sweat, he was h
ardly to be recognized as the indolent manager of the Double S. Flinging down reins and whip, he fell rather than stepped out of the conveyance, gulped once, and then said huskily:

  “Marshal, they got Tonia. She went for a ride yestiddy an’ didn’t come home. I sent the boys out to comb the country, an’ this mornin’ early they found her hoss—shot. There warn’t no sign of her. I left the boys searchin’ an’ come for help. I’m guessin’ that damned Greaser has nabbed her.”

  “By God! if Moraga has dared to lay a finger on her I’ll tear him in strips,” Andy swore.

  “Guns an’ hosses, marshal; we’ll get that coyote if we have to foller him clear across Mexico.”

  Green was watching Raven. At the first mention of the Mexican the man’s sallow face had gone paler and his little black eyes had gleamed with sudden anger. Now he turned to the officer and spoke, his voice charged with venom:

  “If it’s Moraga, get him, marshal,” he rasped. “Spare no effort or expense. I’d come with yu, but I’m no good with a gun, I’d only be a hindrance. Kill the dirty cur. Bring the girl back an’ yu can name yore own reward. Sabe?”

  There was no mistaking his sincerity. For some reason which the marshal could not fathom the disappearance of Tonia had stirred unsuspected depths in the saloonkeeper.

  “We’ll find her,” Green said, and turned to Bordene. “Better hurry up yore business with Potter.”

  “That must wait,” the rancher replied. “I’ll leave the coin with him an’ settle when I come back. Tonia—”

  He broke off and darted into the bank. The marshal saw the half-breed’s narrowed eyes regarding him curiously as he went. Stark hatred, cunning, and desperate design might all have been read in that look had Green possessed the key. But he was too concerned with the business in hand to give it more than a passing thought.

  No time was wasted. Andy, having deposited his money, set out at once for the Box B to collect some of his riders. They were to meet at the Double S, for which ranch the marshal, Pete, and the Indian started soon after. Green had declined to take men from the town.

  “It’s the job o’ them two ranchers, an’ I reckon they can handle it,” he pointed out. “We don’t want no army.”

  Seth Raven had a last word. “What I said goes, Green,” he reminded. “An’ don’t make no mistake this time. If yu don’t wanta kill the damn yellow thief yoreself, let yore Injun do it.”

  “We’ll get him,” the officer promised, inwardly marvelling at the vindictive emphasis on the last words.

  They were met at the Double S by a tall, thin, middle-aged cowboy who had just ridden in from the other direction. This was Renton, the foreman, and his frowning, worried features lighted up when he saw them.

  “Durn glad yu’ve come, marshal,” he said, and his tone showed relief. “This yer business has shore got me bothered. Grub’s ‘bout ready; we can talk as we eat.”

  He had little more to tell them, save that his riders were still searching the range in all directions. “But that ain’t no good,” he admitted. “My hunch is she’s been carried off, an’ our on’y play is to foller, if we can strike an’ keep the trail.”

  A hail from outside proclaimed the arrival of the Box B contingent, which consisted of Bordene, Rusty, and two other riders.

  In less than an hour Renton had picked his men, necessaries were packed, and the party set out for the spot where the dead horse had been found. This proved to be the mouth of a shallow arroyo about six miles from the ranch and somewhat south of the direct line to the Box B. Here the marshal called a halt.

  “Better let the Injun have a clear field,” he said, and nodded to Black Feather.

  The redskin slid from his saddle and approached the carcass, or what the buzzards had left of it, walking slowly in a half-crouch, his keen eyes scanning every inch of the ground. They saw him circle round it and then head for a mass of brush some thirty yards distant. Behind this he vanished for several moments and then came striding back. His low, throaty words were addressed to the marshal:

  “Four Mexican fellas wait there long time,” he said, pointing to the brush. “Girl ride by, see them, an’ start run. One fella him shoot hoss an’ they grab girl.” He waved to the south. “Go that way. One hoss, two riders.”

  The marshal nodded comprehendingly.

  “Guess he’s got the straight of it,” he commented. “The sooner we get on their trail the better. Go ahead, Black Feather; it’s El Diablo we’re after.”

  The redskin’s black eyes flamed for an instant at the name, but that was his sole sign of emotion. Leaping into his saddle, he led the way to the Border. The abductors had apparently made no attempt to hide their trail, and whenever they crossed a patch of sand the riders could see, from the deeper indentation?, that one of the horses—as the Indian had said—was carrying a double burden.

  “They got too big a start for us to catch ‘em up,” Andy remarked. “We’ll have to smoke ‘em outa their hole.”

  “Yeah,” the marshal agreed, and then, with a covert glance at his companion, “Funny Raven should get so hot under the collar; I figured the Greaser a friend o’ his.”

  “I’m gettin’ new ideas ‘bout Raven,” Andy said darkly, and the impatience of youth flamed up, “Hell! why didn’t yu blow that damned Greaser four ways, Jim?”

  “Nobody sorrier than I am, Andy,” Green assured him. “Black Feather will search him out, yu betcha; he’s got a debt to pay too.”

  Mile after mile they pressed steadily on, strung out in a double line behind the guide.

  Once clear of the open range, they dived into the wilder country which lay between them and the Border. Here the pace slackened, for deep gulches and ravines, thick tangles of thorny scrub, hills along the sides of which they wound on ledges barely wide enough for one rider, all had to be faced and overcome. So that night was at hand by the time they reached the sluggish stream which here marked the northern limit of Mexico. Under an overhanging rock near the bank they found the dead ashes of a fire, and not far away the Indian picked up a small leather gauntlet.

  “That’s one o’ Tonia’s gloves,” Andy pronounced at once. “We’re on the right track, anyways; mebbe we’ll overhaul ‘em yet.”

  “No catch—find urn,” the Indian said.

  “He reckons they’re still more than twelve hours ahead of us,” the marshal explained.

  “Nothin’ to do but keep on their tails.”

  Andy bit on an oath; he knew it was the only way, but the thought of Tonia in the hands of the bandit, of whose way with a woman there were many tales current on the Border, made him furious.

  Camp-fires were lighted, food eaten, sentries posted, and the rest of the men turned in, conscious of a still harder day’s work to come.

  When the cold light of the coming dawn showed above the eastern horizon the rescue party forded the stream and plunged into what was to all of them, save perhaps the Indian, unknown territory. The tracks they were following headed straight into what appeared to be an expanse of open country, but the guide turned sharply to the right, pointing his horse’s head towards a jumble of rocky ridges, the valleys and gorges between which were hidden by close-growing timber.

  “We’re leavin’ the trail; that’s a risk, ain’t it?” Andy asked. “The Injun is wise to his work,” Green replied. “This way may be harder, but I’m bettin’ he’s got a reason, an’ a good one.”

  Midday found them clear of the barrier of broken country and they saw ahead a broad, billowing stretch of semi-desert, walled in on the far horizon by a jagged line of purple hills.

  “Git ready to be grilled, boys,” Renton warned, his slitted eyes squinting at the view.

  “We’re pointin’ Pinacate way, seemin’ly—volcanic country—all lava an’ cactus. I’ve heard of it.

  We’ll need all the water we can carry; wells ain’t any too frequent.”

  A meal was eaten, canteens filled at a neighbouring creek, and the journey resumed.

  Speed wa
s out of the question in the soft sand, and before they had gone very far the Double S foreman’s prophecy was being fulfilled. From the sun flaming in the turquoise sky came a stream of heat which burnt like a hot iron, and absorbed perspiration before it had time to form.

  “I know now just how the steak feels in the pan,” Rusty groaned. “All we want is a nice li’l dust-storm.”

  Hour after hour they plodded on, halting only at long intervals for a brief meal and a gulp of the tepid contents of their canteens. The approach of night, with cooler air, afforded welcome relief after the sweltering heat. The character of the desert too was changing; the sand was thinning out and hummocks of vitreous rock began to appear. Presently, at the base of a pile of these, the. guide pulled up and slid from his saddle.

  “Je-ru-sa-lem!” breathed one of the Double S riders. “Am I seein’ things or is that real water?”

  At the foot of the rocks lay a little pool, shining like a mirror in the last rays of the setting sun.

  “Its water, shore enough,” another assured him, and tugged on his reins. “Steady, yu son of a devil; vu ain’t going to roll in it; we gotta use it too.”

  Black Feather, who had brought them to it, was a popular member of the party, despite his copper skin. Pete voiced the general opinion:

  “Shore was a lucky day for us, Jim, when yu snatched that Injun back from the happy hunting-grounds,” he said.

  The horses were watered, hobbled, and turned loose to search for the scattered clumps of gramma grass, while their masters squatted round the fires—for desert nights are bitterly cold—and swallowed a much-needed meal. The marshal had a chat with their guide and then joined Andy, Pete, and Renton.

  “We’re pointin’ for Moraga’s headquarters, an’ the Injun reckons we’ll make it sometime day after tomorrow,” he told them. “Like I figured, this is a short cut, but if they’ve got the girl there ahead of us, we’ll have to study the layout an’ plan accordin’. Get all the sleep yu can; it’ll be hard goin’ the rest o’ the way.”