Sudden: The Marshal of Lawless

by Oliver Strange

  “Dad? He owed yu some?” Bordene cried.

  Satisfaction flickered for an instant in the visitor’s eyes. He nodded and produced a paper.

  “Yu can see for yourself,” he said.

  The young rancher took the document and stared at it amazedly. It was a note of hand for fifteen thousand dollars, written out and signed by his father. Carelessly done by one who trusted others, the amount was in figures only and there was nothing to show that a deft stroke of the pen had trebled the indebtedness. For a moment he looked at it in stunned silence; it was a heavy blow, but he had enough of his sire in him to take it without wincing. He handed back the note, and said quietly:

  “That’s good enough, Seth. I dunno why Dad didn’t tell me, but there it is. I’m payin’ it, o’ course, but yu’ll have to wait a few weeks till I’ve sold the herd I’m roundin’ up. I was goin’ to make her a thousand strong, but it’ll have to be fifteen hundred. There’ll be a buyer waitin’, an’ I reckon they’ll turn me in thirty thousand; that’ll put things straight.”

  “Suits me,” Raven returned. “I ain’t aimin’ to rush yu. When yu reckon to drive?”

  “Soon as I can get the extra cows—say two-three days,” the young man told him.

  “Comin’ along to-night to win some o’ that dinero back?” the saloonkeeper smiled.

  Bordene shook his head. “I gotta hustle,” he said. “Wait till I’m outa debt an’ I’ll have yore hide.”

  The visitor nodded agreement. “Well, s’long, Andy, an’ good luck with the drive,” he said.

  Jogging leisurely back to Lawless he gave vent to a sneering chuckle. On the assumption that old Bordene would not tell his son all his business, he had put up a bluff, and it had come off. It had been easy. “Pie like mother made,” he muttered, his covetous eyes sweeping the fine grazing over which he was passing.

  CHAPTER X

  The marshal and his deputy, after a day of ferreting in the Tepee Mountain region, turned their horses’ heads towards home. They had discovered nothing; the black was still peacefully grazing in the little valley and there were no new hoofprints. The wind was rising and getting colder.

  “Well, we ain’t done much, but I reckon we’ll call it a day,” Green remarked. “I wanted for yu to know where that cache is in case someone takes a chance at me an’ gets away with it.”

  They were now nearing the broad cattle-trail which led north. In the fading light they saw a cloud of dust slowly approaching from the direction of Lawless.

  “Herd a-comin’,” Barsay announced. “I guess it’ll be young Bordene.”

  “Yeah,” the marshal agreed, and scanned the sky with distrust. “There’s a storm a-comin’ too. I’m for beddin’ down with Andy to-night. We got all o’ twenty miles to cover, an’ the bosses is tired.”

  “Yo’re whistlin’,” Pete agreed. “Gee, they’re gettin’ a wiggle on that herd. I’m thinkin’

  Andy has seen that storm too.”

  “An’ he wants them cows good an’ tired before they beds down—they won’t be so easy scared then,” the marshal opined.

  In fact, the herd was now coming on at a good gait, and very soon the shrill cries of the cowboys and the loud bellowing of the beasts could be heard. Beneath the smother of choking dust the cattle, a compact dark mass, came on at a clumsy trot. Ahead of them a single horseman whose right hand went to his gun when he discerned the two shadowy men waiting in the trail.

  The marshal held up his hand palm outwards, the Indian peace sign.

  “‘Lo, Bordene, we ain’t holdin’ yu up for nothin’ ‘cept a meal,” he called out. “Lawless shore seems a long ways off. so we’re aimin’ to throw in with yu for the night.”

  “Glad to have yu, gents,” the young man replied, riding aside to let the herd pass. “Fact is, I got a sorta feelin’ we might have trouble an’ two more men’d be plumb useful.”

  They sat and watched the cattle go lumbering by, the thud of thousands of hoofs shaking the ground beneath them. The horse-wrangler with the remuda followed, and the chuck-wagon, drawn by a team of mules, and driven by a dust-choked and vituperative cook, brought up the rear.

  “A good gather,” the marshal commented.

  “The pick o’ the ranch,” Bordene told him. “Couldn’t afford to run any risk; I gotta have the money.”

  “Where yu proposin’ to camp?”

  “In The Pocket, a little basin ‘bout half a mile long; it’s sheltered a bit an’ there’s wood, good grass, an’ a pool o’ water, though where that comes from the Lord on’y knows, for there ain’t no stream.”

  “Sounds like it might ‘a’ bin made for yu,” Pete put in.

  “Shore does, but there’s a string tied to it,” Andy admitted. “A piece this side o’ The Pocket the trail skirts Shiverin’ Sand, an’ if the herd stampedes an’ takes the back track it’ll be plain hell.”

  “Quicksand?” Green queried.

  “Yeah, an’ the oddest I ever saw,” Bordene explained. “At a first glance she seems like any other bit o’ desert—but when yu look close yu can see a sort o’ movement, the grains o’ sand slowly slippin’ like there was somethin’ stirrin’ underneath; an’ if yu shove yore arm in it seems to grip an’ it’s all yu can do to pull it out again. A fond farewell to any cow that gets bogged down in there, I’m tellin’ yu.”

  “Mebbe the storm won’t break,” the marshal said, as they followed the herd.

  Arrangements for the night were well forward when they reached the camping-place, which they did at leisure. The herd had been watered and now, under the ministrations of half a dozen circling riders, was quietly settling down at the far end of the valley. At the near end the cook had a big fire going and the busy rattle of pots and pans sent a cheerful message to tired and hungry men. Having given their mounts a drink, and picketed them, without removing the saddles, the visitors joined the loungers by the fireside.

  The customary baiting of the cook was proceeding in a promising manner when a distant rumble of thunder put a sudden end to it. Anxious eyes turned skywards, where an inky, rolling mass of cloud was wiping out the stars in a steady advance. Then came a spot or two of rain.

  “She’s a-comin’, boys, shore as shootin’,” Andy said. “Better be ready for anythin’ that breaks loose.”

  Scrambling hurriedly to, their feet, the men donned slickers, and got themselves mounted.

  The storm was travelling rapidly, straight towards them, each roll of thunder louder than the previous one.

  “If the herd comes this way it’s gotta be stopped, even if we build a wall o’ cows to do it,”

  Andy ordered. “Hell! they’re getting panicky a’ready.”

  Between the peals of thunder they could hear the bawling of the frightened beasts and the voices of the riders striving desperately to keep them together. Andy decided that it was no use sending more men; if the six already there failed, three times the number could not succeed, and the others would be needed to stop the stampede.

  “If they run north it won’t be so bad,” he said. “We can pick ‘em up on our way.”

  Even as he spoke, a jagged finger of white flame split the sky, shattering the darkness for a second with a light that pained the eyes and made sight impossible. It was followed by a deafening crash overhead and a sudden deluge of frozen rain, so fast and furious that it was like a bombardment of steel rods. Huddled in their slickers, the hat-brims pulled down to shield their faces from the stinging pellets, the cowmen sat in their saddles, struggling to quiet their maddened mounts and waiting for the dreaded thunder of pounding hoofs. It did not come.

  “Gosh!” Andy cried, “I believe we’re a-goin’ to make it.”

  For a moment it seemed he might be right; the storm was passing and a smaller flash of lightning showed them the herd, scared evidently and on the move, but milling. Then came something which dashed their newborn hopes. Above the howl of the wind and the bellowing of the cattle rang out a wild, eerie yell, shrill, penetrat
ing, unmistakable, to anyone who had heard it before. And most of the men there had.

  “That’s a ‘Pache war-cry; what the hell’s doin’?” Barsay shouted.

  Before anyone could answer, the blood-curdling screech was repeated, to be followed by pistol shots and the drumming beat of thousands of frenzied feet.

  “By God! they’re off, boys, an’ comin’ this way,” Bordene yelled. “Line out an’ drop the leaders; if that don’t stop ‘em, get outa the way or keep ahead.”

  The sky was clearing, the rain had ceased, and by the murky light of a few stars they could see the herd, like a great black wave, sweeping down upon them. The sharp crack of rifles and revolvers mingled with the bawling of the terrified brutes and the clash of their great horns as they strove with one another in the mad rush. Many of the front line went down, but this did not stop the others, and the cowmen were forced to spur desperately for the side of the valley to avoid being trampled to death. Green and Andy, who were in the centre of the line, adopted the only alternative and swinging their horses round, raced ahead of the herd.

  They reached the exit from the valley with but a few scant yards to spare, just in time; another few seconds and they would have been under the avalanche of death-dealing hoofs.

  Dismounting at the top of a little knoll, they watched the stream of terror-besotted brutes, heads down and running blindly, vanish in the gloom. They had done all that was possible; there was no longer any hope of saving the herd.

  “We can’t do a thing till daylight,” Andy said moodily. “Better go an’ see how the boys are makin’ it.”

  Riding double, they made their way back to the chuck-wagon. The rain had abolished the fire, but the cook had got it going again and was boiling coffee for the group of fagged, disgruntled riders who stood around. Rusty’s raised voice came to them as they approached.

  “It warn’t the storm,” he said. “We was holdin’ ‘em, even after that gran’daddy of a crash; the Injun whoop touched ‘em off an’ a stone wall wouldn’t ‘a’ stopped ‘em then.”

  “‘Lo, boys,” Andy said. “All here?”

  “Tod’s missin’; we thought he was with yu,” Rusty replied.

  “He was, but I ain’t seen him since the herd took charge. Get busy an’ look around.”

  Gulping down their coffee, the men swung to their saddles and spread out. They soon found and brought him in, limp, battered almost beyond recognition. All knew how the tragedy had happened. Racing, like Andy and the marshal, to keep ahead of the herd, his pony had made a false step, and that was the end. Reverently they covered the still form of the boy—for he was no more—with a blanket, and turned in to snatch a few hours’ needed rest.

  At sunrise they were in the saddle again, seeking in all directions for survivors of the stampede. They rode in couples, Andy and the marshal again pairing up. The former’s face was grey and drawn; the loss of the young puncher had hit him hard. The place from which the shot had been fired was easily found—a little group of scrub-oaks, with sufficient undergrowth to conceal a horseman. The trampled ground showed shod hoofprints, and the ends of several cigarettes indicated that the watcher had waited there for some time.

  “Don’t tell us much, ‘cept that he wasn’t a redskin,” Green grumbled. “We better go an’ look for yore beef, Andy.”

  The tracks showed that on leaving the valley the herd had spread widely out. Green was heading his horse to the left when Bordene stopped him.

  “Shiverin’ Sands lays over there,” he said. “Any cows what have gone that way would have to be dug out.”

  The country to the right of the trail was open range broken only by thickets and brush-filled arroyos. Emerging from one of the latter, they came upon a rider driving twenty Box B steers. The man turned at their hail, and they saw that it was Leeson. The marshal did not miss the start of alarm as he pulled up his mount and waited for them.

  “Say, Bordene,” he greeted, “what the hell’s yore cows doin’ around here? I just happened on this bunch an’ was takin’ ‘em to the 88 ‘fore they rambled farther.”

  The explanation was plausible enough, but the marshal did not like the haste with which it was made, nor the accompanying half-grin. Andy, however, seemed to have no suspicion.

  “Much obliged to yu, Leeson, for collectin’ ‘em,” he replied. “My herd stampeded outa The Pocket in the storm last night. I reckon mebbe you’ll find some more.”

  “Tough luck,” Leeson commiserated. “Didn’t know yu was drivin’. That storm was shore a cracker-jack.”

  “Seen any Injuns about here lately?” Green asked, and watched the man closely.

  “Why, no,” was the reply, and then, after a pause, “that is, I ain’t actually seen any, but I come upon a fresh sign ‘bout a mile or so north o’ here yestiddy.”

  Green suspected the statement was an afterthought, concocted for the occasion, but he affected to accept it. Bordene pointed to the cattle.

  “We’ll take these off yore hands, Leeson,” he said. “If yu get any more tell Saul to let me know an’ I’ll send for ‘em.”

  The sullen eyes of the 88 man followed them as they drove the little herd away.

  He jabbed his heels into the flanks of his horse, and rocketed away over the plain in the direction of Raven’s ranch.

  Dusk found Bordene and his men back in the valley. The day’s hard riding had resulted in the recovery of about five hundred of the scattered cows.

  “An’ that’s all we’ll get,” the owner said gloomily. “The rustlers an’ that blasted quicksand have got the rest, an’ we’ll never see hide nor hair of ‘em. No use makin’ the drive with this handful, boys; we’ll get back to the ranch an’ gather another herd.”

  The night passed quietly but miserably, for the loss of a comrade and the disaster of the stampede had been too much for the usually buoyant natures of the outfit. In the early morning they started the depleted herd homewards, leaving behind them, beneath a beautiful palo verde, an oblong pile of rocks. The marshal and his deputy rode in the other direction, and, at the far end of the valley, found what they were seeking—the spot where the stampeders had been stationed. Behind a sharp ridge the soft ground was scored and trampled.

  “Shod hosses an’ men wearin’ boots,” Green commented. “I had a notion that Injun yell warn’t just the genuine article.”

  Beyond a few spent shells there was nothing else, and though they tried to follow the tracks, they soon lost them in the welter of the main trail. Giving up the task as hopeless, they followed the herd. The marshal was very silent; he was remembering that Leeson had used the Apache cry that night in the Red Ace.

  CHAPTER XI

  Long before the remnant of the trail herd had got back to the Box B the news of the disaster had come to the Red Ace. On the afternoon following the stampede, a Mexican rider, who had approached the town by devious ways, slipped into the private office. Raven’s small black eyes gleamed maliciously as he listened to the messenger’s tale.

  When the man had gone Raven sat thinking for a while, and then, taking his hat, sauntered down the street. Lawless boasted only one bank. Built of ‘dobe bricks, with walls three feet in thickness, it presented an appearance, at least, of solidity. The manager, Lemuel Potter, who was commonly regarded as also the owner, possessed one of those curious neuter personalities which caused him to be neither liked nor disliked. He was a pompous person, fond of affecting a superiority which imposed on some and amused others, but he was reputed to be straight in his dealings. It was into this building that Raven turned, and, with a nod to the clerk behind the counter, walked through the door marked “Manager.” At the sight of his visitor, Potter stood up, and then as suddenly sat down again.

  “Afternoon, Potter,” the saloonkeeper said, and, not troubling to remove his hat, took a seat and lit a cigar. “How’s Andy Bordene’s account stand?”

  The manager’s fleshy, clean-shaven face flushed, and with some attempt at dignity he replied: “It is again
st all rules, Mr. Raven, for a bank to disclose the affairs of a customer.”

  The saloonkeeper looked at him with an expression of amused contempt.

  “Come down to earth, yu worm,” he said cuttingly. “It suits me that folk should think yu own this place, but yu know better. Don’t put any frills on with me or I’ll trim yu good an’ plenty, Mr. Rutson.” The man’s cheeks became deathly white and his portly form seemed to shrink in his clothes at the name he hated to hear. Raven chuckled at the effect he had produced. “I asked yu a question, Mr.—Potter,” he added, and laughed again when the other winced at the pause. Utterly cowed, Potter went into the outer office and consulted a ledger.

  “Bordene is overdrawn five thousand,” he announced. “I saw him a few days ago and I understood that the sale of his herd would put him right.”

  Raven grinned sardonically. “Mebbe, but he’s lost most of the cows in a stampede,” he said. “Now listen to me. Bordene is in a hole an’ he’ll be comin’ to yu. Let him have thirty thousand on his ranch but tie him up tight. Yu understand?”

  “Yes—sir,” the manager replied.

  The title of respect only brought a sneer to the visitor’s lips. “See to it then, an’ keep yore mouth shut or—I’ll open mine,” he growled, and went out.

  Potter paled again at the threat, but he said nothing; he knew he was hopelessly in the power of this man. With trembling hands he lighted a cigarette, and, as he had done so many times, sat there trying to find some means of escape.

  Two days later Bordene, having brought his salvaged herd safely back to the Box B, was sitting in Raven’s office, telling the story of the ill-fated drive. The elder man listened with a sympathetic expression.

  “So yu saved ‘bout a third of ‘em,” he commented. “Well, that’s somethin’. But yu was shore playin’ in pore luck, an’ it hits us both. I told yu how I’m fixed, an’ I was dependin’ on yu gettin’ that money. What yu aim to do?”

  “Scratch up another bunch—it won’t be such a good one—an’ try again. I’ve sent word to my buyer.”