“Good thing the Injun held out for shod hosses,” the marshal remarked, as they commenced the journey. “A few miles o’ this would peel the horn clean off their hoofs.”
“Well, I dunno what the other trail’s like, but I’m votin’ for it,” Pete said, as his horse slipped on a shining slope and fought furiously to recover its footing.
Helpless targets of a relentless sun, parched by a thirst they dared not satisfy, the riders slipped and slithered on across the burnt-out, forbidding wilderness. For the most part they rode in silence, for inattention to one’s mount might mean an awkward accident, but occasionally a rider relieved his feelings with a fervent but humorous curse.
“Hell won’t interest me none at all now,” Rusty was heard to complain. “Guess I’ll have to try for the other place.”
Night found them still on the desert, camped at the base of a pinnacle of rock. They had found no more water, but by pulping the interiors of some barrel cactus they managed to supply the needs of themselves and their mounts. Dead mesquite branches provided a fire, but it was a miserable one, for fuel was hard to find. So that it was good news to hear that the next day would see them clear of the desert.
And so it proved. Early in the afternoon they halted in a long, deep arroyo which contained more vegetation than they had seen for two days. All of this meant water, and they soon found a tiny, sparkling creek.
“Moraga’s settlement ain’t far away from here,” the marshal said. “Me an’ Pete is goin’ to prospect it some. If we ain’t back in a coupla hours yu better come an’ look for us. This is a good place to leave the hosses.”
Discarding their own mounts and rifles, the two men traversed the arroyo and emerged, with due caution, into the open. Hidden behind lumps of storm-riven lava, they got their first view of the bandit settlement. It proved to be a mere collection of hovels, mostly with rock walls and sodded roofs, clustered beneath the shadow of a jagged cliff, the curving shape of which showed that it had once been part of the wall of a crater. Zigzagging steeply up the weathered face was a narrow path leading to a ledge about two-thirds of the way up. Only one building justifying the name was to be seen—a stout cabin of untrimmed logs standing in the centre of the other habitations.
“That’ll be Mister Moraga’s mansion, yu betcha,” Pete observed. “Lie close—there’s a fella who might come our way.”
“I’m hopin’ he does,” the marshal said.
His wish was granted; the man, stepping jauntily and humming a song, passed close to their hiding-place. A quick clutch, which effectively closed his windpipe, and he was behind the boulder, a gun-barrel boring into his ribs.
“Silence, they say, is golden,” a voice whispered. “Noise, for yu, amigo, will be leaden. Savvy?”
Apparently the prisoner did, for he submitted silently while his pistol and knife were removed from his belt. Seated on the ground with his back to the rock, he glared in amaze at the grinning cowboys.
“Now yu can talk, amigo, an’ I’m advisin’ yu to,” the marshal said, “Where is El Diablo?”
“Senor Moraga ees in ze beeg cabeen,” he said sullenly, adding with vicious emphasis, “he keel you for dees.”
“Mebbe,” the marshal agreed. “How many men has he got?”
The Mexican’s eyes gleamed cunningly. “Ten,” he said. Green shrugged his shoulders and glanced meaningly at the cactus patch. The effect was immediate. “Twenty,” came the correction. The Mexican stood up. “Madre de Dios! I spik true, senor; I swear it,” the captive cried, crossing himself fervently. “Twenty onlee—no count me.”
“Yo’re dead right to leave yoreself out,” the marshal said. “Where’s the girl?” The man looked at him stupidly. “The American senorita fetched in this mornin’ by four o’ yore men,” Green added.
It was a guess, but a good one. The Mexican hesitated, but an impatient movement on the part of Pete decided him; these thrice-damned Gringos were not to be trifled with.
“In ze beeg cabeen,” he muttered.
Marching the fellow back into the brush, they tied his hands and feet securely, using his own sash for the purpose, and left him there.
“If we don’t make it back yu’ll be in pore luck,” the marshal told him. “Yu better pray—hard—for our success.”
CHAPTER XIX
They found the rest of the party eagerly waiting for their return. After a short consultation with Andy and Renton, it was decided that the attack should be made at once. Moraga was known to control a numerous force, and more of his men might arrive at any moment. The marshal outlined a plan for the advance:
“We’ll spread out in a half-circle, Injun up an’ drive ‘em into the big cabin; that’ll give us the shacks for shelter. Leave the broncs here, split up into pairs, an’ keep under cover all yu can.
Rusty, yu an’ Yates make for their corral an’ turn the hosses loose. Shoot any fella that tries to get away—they may have help near.”
Silently the men slipped away to their posts, with a final order not to shoot until they had a target. The marshal and his deputy returned to the point they had already visited, aiming from there to work up to Moraga’s headquarters. From the shelter of the big boulder they could see the whole of the apology for a street. Several times men came out of the main hut and entered one or other of the shacks, but no shot shattered the silence; the marshal had warned his men to allow time for all to get into position.
Suddenly came a wild yell and a Mexican dashed from one of the dugouts towards the cabin. Ere he had got half-way, however, a rifle crashed and he went down, sprawling grotesquely in the dust. Instantly the place came to life. Like rats from their holes, men popped out of the sordid dwellings and raced for the more solid haven of the log house. Their appearance drew a volley from the invaders, several dropped, but the rest gained their objective. The marshal smiled grimly.
They had been gradually advancing, crawling on their bellies and taking advantage of every stone or bush which offered protection. Foot by foot the attacking force advanced, closing in on the cabin, but still the problem of the open space in front of it had to be solved. Once the cowpunchers left the shelter of the shacks they would be at the mercy of Moraga’s marksmen.
Anxiously Green scanned the cliff, but it appeared to be unscalable save for the little path directly behind the cabin. They would have to rush the place, he decided, and in broad daylight, for it was hours yet to darkness and he dared not wait.
The firing now became spasmodic; a defender, fancying he saw a movement, would send a questing leaden messenger, and an attacker would instantly reply, aiming at the other’s smoke.
The stifling air was further polluted by the pungent smell of burnt powder.
Inside the cabin, Moraga and his men waited for the assault which they knew must come.
Two .had been killed at the loopholes and several nicked, but the defence still outnumbered the Americans, and although the guerrilla leader did not know this, he was unperturbed. Though the dispersal of the horses—for Rusty and Yates had done their work—prevented him sending for assistance, he was hourly expecting another of his raiding bands. That the invaders were Gringo punchers comprised his information of them, but he surmised that the abduction of the girl had brought them. With a smirk of satisfaction on his evil, brutish features he opened a door at the back of the main room of the building. On the right of the passage outside was a smaller room, when he entered. Seated on a chair to which her arms were bound was Tonia Sard. The bandit’s eyes rested upon her possessively.
“I come to tell you not to be alarm,” he said. “The shooting is jus’ a leetle argument with some foolish folk who not like me.” He drew up his gaudily-attired form with absurd dignity.
“There are many such,” he went on. “El Diablo is feared, not loved; he desire only, to be loved by one.” He swept off his hat in a low bow, and though his keen little eyes must have seen the contempt in her face, his voice did not betray the fact. “I have sent for a padre.”
“I would rather be dead than married to you,” the girl said stormily.
“There are worse things than death, or marriage to a Spanish caballero,” he retorted.
“A Spanish caballero!” Tonia repeated. “‘A Mexican peon—a leader of ladrones—a yellow dog from whom my riders will strip the hide with their quirts when they catch him.”
The disdainful words, stung more deeply than the lashes they promised him. For a moment he stood, fingers convulsively clenched, inarticulate, and she thought he would kill her.
“We weel speak of it again,” he said, and there was a threat which chilled her blood in the softly spoken words.
Rejoining his men, Moraga found something else to occupy his attention. The marshal, surveying the cabin from behind the nearest shack, had conceived a plan. It was a desperate chance but—
“It’s less’n forty yards an’ that door ain’t loopholed,” he mused aloud. “If a man could get there—”
“He could sit down on that chunk o’ lava an’ wait till they opened up,” Pete said sarcastically.
Green grinned at him. “That bit o’ rock is the key to the situation—an’ the door,” he replied. “Mosey round to the boys an’ tell ‘em to fling lead regardless when I whistle.”
The deputy departed unwillingly, and presently returned with the news that he had passed the word along, and that, beyond a graze or two, there were no casualties among the cowboys.
The marshal stood his rifle against the wall, and made sure that his pistols came freely from their holsters.
Green gave the signal. The moment the firing began, he jumped from his shelter, and crouching low, ran for the cabin. Bullets whined past his ears and spat up the sand on all sides of him, but he reached his goal unhurt. Pausing to get some air into his lungs, he stooped to the lump of lava which lay by the cabin entrance. With an effort he raised and flung it at the door, which cracked and shook under the impact. Immediately a hand holding a pistol pointing sideways projected from the nearest loophole. Green drove a bullet into it, saw the weapon fall, and heard the curse of the owner as he withdrew his shattered fingers. Twice he hurled the stone and the door began to sag. Resting again, he wiped the perspiration from his brow and, with a wary eye on the loopholes, surveyed the damage.
“One more an’ I reckon she’ll cave,” he muttered. “Better call the boys.”
Uttering a shrill whistle, he lifted the missile once again and drove it at the obstacle. A sound of rending wood was drowned by the yell of the cowboys as they broke from cover and raced for the cabin. With both guns spurting lead, Green sprang through the breach he had made.
Flashes lit up the dark interior, a bullet scorched his cheek, another tore off his hat, and then, clubbing his own empty guns, he leapt on the bandits, striking right and left. His men were close on his heels, swarming eagerly through the broken door and plunging into the combat. Driven back by the rush of the invaders, the Mexicans fought desperately, shooting, stabbing, and yelling out wild Spanish oaths and supplications. But they were no match for these hard riders of the plains who fought with a laugh on their lips and struck with an earnestness utterly out of keeping with it. Presently Green, in the medley of the fight, found himself beside Bordene.
“Where’s that damn coyote, Moraga?” panted the rancher.
“Ain’t seen hide nor hair of him,” the marshal replied. “We’ll get on his trail; the boys can clean up here.”
A search of the rest of the cabin revealed no trace of the girl or the bandit chief. Then Andy flung open a door at the rear of the building, and a bitter curse escaped his lips. Instantly the marshal saw the reason. Half-way up the little track which scored the face of the cliff was the man they sought, and hanging limply like a sack over his shoulder was Tonia. Andy lifted his rifle only to lower it again with a groan; he dared not risk a shot. Green sprang forward.
“C’mon, he can’t get far,” he cried, and began to climb.
After the first dozen yards the ascent became almost vertical, and the pathway—if such it could be called—was a mere indication that others had gone that way. Slipping on the precarious foothold, jumping at times from one projection to another, hauling themselves up by the stunted vegetation, they struggled on. Slow as their progress was, they gained on the fugitive, who, hampered by his burden, had a task only made possible by previous knowledge of the pathway.
They had left their rifles at the foot of the cliff, realizing that they would be an encumbrance.
Andy swore explosively as his foot slipped and he had to grab frantically at a mesquite root to save himself. “I hope to Gawd he makes it,” he said, “I’m scared to look up.”
“He knows the ground,” his friend comforted. “We’re coverin’ two feet to his one; we’ll get him.”
From below came the frequent report of a firearm, showing that the cleaning-up process was still in operation. Pygmy figures darted out of the cabin and dived for cover, with others in pursuit. The marshal smiled with grim satisfaction; this portion of Moraga’s robber band would make no more raids. He swung himself round a jutting knob of rock and a bullet hummed past his ear, missing by a bare inch. Hurriedly he flattened out. Sixty feet above him the guerrilla chief was standing on the ledge, pistol poised, and a Satanic sneer of triumph on his evil face. He was still holding the girl, who appeared to be unconscious.
“He’s got us out on a limb, Andy,” the marshal said.
The Mexican, of course, could not hear the words, but he evidently divined what their thoughts must be, for a jeering laugh floated down. The rancher gritted his teeth as he heard it.
Moraga held all the cards, and knew it. He had recognized the marshal when he made his dash for the door and was amazed that he should have escaped death in the desert. It was then that he decided upon flight. His taunting tones reached them again:
“El Diablo has more than one home, senor the so clever marshal. We weel take the senorita where you weel never find her.”
“Can’t we do nothin’?” Bordene growled.
“We can poke our heads out an’ get shot,” Green told him, and then, “Hell! Look at the cliff above the ledge. Ain’t somethin’ movin’ there?”
At the risk of being bored by a bullet, the rancher wriggled round a bush which obstructed his view. Behind the ledge the crater rim appeared to rise almost perpendicularly and through the sparse growth of cactus, mesquite, and coarse grass he caught a shifting gleam of copper.
“It’s Black Feather,” the marshal said. “I was wonderin’ where he’d drifted. Musta knowed this place plenty well an’ gone there a-purpose to stop any getaway.”
Eagerly they watched the Indian swing noiselessly down behind the unconscious Mexican. They could see him plainly now. Stripped to the breech-clout he carried only a knife between his teeth, and his bronzed body shone in the rays of the westering sun. Lithe as a mountain lion, he crept nearer and nearer to the ledge and the man standing on it, who had no eyes for anything save those below. With a few yards to go, the redskin slipped and must have made some noise, for the white men saw Moraga whirl round. In a single bound, the Indian landed on the ledge, and the bandit, dropping the girl, raised his pistol. Instead of pulling the trigger, however, he flung the weapon at the intruder’s head. Green rapped out an oath.
“Damn the luck. That musta been his last pill he fired at me,” he lamented.
Black Feather dodged the missile and began to creep in on the other, knife in hand, crouching, deliberate, implacable as death itself. Moraga, realizing that he was trapped and that his only hope lay in killing the redskin before the cowpunchers could reach the ledge, drew his own knife, with a muttered malediction. With the knowledge that every moment was vital he stepped towards the Indian. Only a couple of yards separated them when Moraga’s right hand went up as though preparing to stab, and then—he threw the weapon. Against a white the ruse would have succeeded, but the red man is the only equal to the yellow in the use of cold steel, and Black
Feather was not asleep. There was no time to dodge, and with a sudden upward thrust of his own blade he swept the oncoming missile aside, the force of the contact shivering both blades.
Dropping the useless handle, the Indian resumed his slow, relentless advance. But the bandit dared not wait; one desperate chance had failed; he must try again. Gathering himself for the effort, he rushed in, hoping by the suddenness of the onslaught to hurl his foe from the ledge.
But the claw-like brown fingers gripped like steel, and powerful as was his short, stocky form, Moraga found himself swung round with his back to the abyss. Savagely he struck at the fierce bronze mask with its bared teeth, and triumphant flaming eyes which bored into his own. Inch by inch he was forced nearer the edge; desperately he tried to clutch his enemy that both might die, but his fingers could get no purchase on the smooth, pigmented skin. His breath came in gulps, his face grew grey as he realized that the end was near, yet he fought on; he was a strong man and he did not want to die.
“I weel give you gold—much gold,” he gasped.
The Indian’s face twisted into a hateful grin. “Yellow dog’s heart turn to water, huh?” he sneered. “Die all same.”
Inexorably he forced the now exhausted man back and a cold sweat broke out on Moraga’s brow as one of his feet left the ledge. Despairingly he tried to twist, clawing frenziedly, and then the end came. The marshal and his companion, still toiling upwards, saw the bandit topple over the brink of the precipice and drop like a stone. They watched the body hurtling downwards. It caught on a projecting mass of choya and hung there for a moment, the bright red tunic like a great splash of blood against the frosty, grey-green of the cactus. For a few brief seconds the cruel claws held and tortured the shrieking form, and then Green fired. With a convulsive shudder, the body broke away and vanished.
Sudden: The Marshal of Lawless Page 15