The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

Her lips curled. “Do you think I would go anyplace with you?” She tossed her head. “I prefer to stay here. I’ll be all right.”

  He stared at her, then nodded. He had tried to keep his promise.

  He looked again at her after he had remounted. She still stood apart from the group of prostitutes, but he had the odd feeling that a little bond existed between them. Yes, she would be all right. This town would be filled with men, new men before night.

  He said to Leah, “Chauncey wanted me to see that she got to Natchez. She doesn’t want to go.”

  He lifted the reins and started the horses out of town. At the outskirts he looked back for the last time. The vision was faint, but he could still see it. A prosperous town with clean streets and busy stores. Happy people. Then the vision faded, and all that was left was a dirty, lonely town.

  He said, “Americans will stay in Texas, Leah. They’ll stay and have to go through this all over again. I believe Austin and the others will learn they have to fight for their rights. In ten years or less, I think Americans will be fighting Mexico for the independence of Texas. I could have done it for them now without the cost. And instead, I lost everything.”

  She leaned over, and her hand closed on his. “Everything?” she asked softly.

  He looked at that beautiful, dear face with its clear, unafraid eyes. His smile started weakly at first, then strengthened. How could a man feel he had lost everything, when a woman like this believed in him?

  He caught her other hand and pulled her to him. He kissed her until the horses shied and pulled them apart. His laugh rang out with most of its old vigor.

  “There’s lots of land for us, Leah. Land owned by the United States. Land they’re willing to give to a man who wants to work it. And this time, no foreign government will interfere.”

  They rode on together. He felt no inclination to look back.

  IT HAPPENED IN A TOWN CALLED LAWLESS, By Matt Rand

  Copyright © 1941 by Columbia Publications, Inc.

  CHAPTER I

  Out of a pale blue sky unflecked by the tiniest cloud, the sun, a disc of polished brass, blazed down, and haps for the fiftieth time the red-faced, grizzled driver of the stage-coach cursed it.

  “If hell’s any hotter’n this, damn me if I don’t go an’ get religion,” he said to the express messenger who sat on the box beside him.

  They were descending a narrow, winding defile, the weather-scarred, rock walls of which were bare save for scattered clumps of brush and cactus clinging precariously where an earth-filled crevice afforded root-hold, and the four wicked-eyed mules comprising the team required careful handling if the lumbering vehicle were to reach the end of the decline as a whole. None knew this better than Bill Eames, the driver; and though he talked, hands and eyes were concentrated on his job. Lurching, swaying, jolting over a rough road the coach went on, and presently, sweeping round a bend, the finish of the gully came in view. Eames eased his drag on the reins a little and gave a grunt of relief.

  “Always glad when I’m through Devil’s Dip,” he remarked. “Dunno why, but I got a feelin’ that if anythin’ does happen, it’ll be here.”

  “Dandy place for a hold-up,” said the messenger, who was making the trip for the first time.

  “You said it,” agreed the driver. “But we ain’t never—”

  “Stick ’em up, pronto,” came the curt command.

  With a curse, Eames flung all his weight on the lines, pulled his scared team to a standstill by main force, and jammed his foot on the heavy brake. With a screech and a bump the coach stopped, and its driver, still holding the reins, promptly elevated his hands. He was not paid to fight. The express messenger was, and when his hands went up they gripped the gun which had lain across his thighs; it was loaded with buckshot, which would scatter, and was a deadly weapon at short range.

  “Drop that, you fool!”

  The harsh voice appeared to come from a cluster of shrubs some ten yards away. It seemed to be the only cover near, and the guard, realizing that this was his sole chance against an unseen foe, fired into it. The roar of the report was instantly followed by a pistol-shot and the messenger slumped forward in his seat to sprawl across the footboard, weapon hitting a wheel of the coach and bouncing into the roadway.

  The driver, no stranger to scenes of violence, looked at the stricken man, saw the puncture in the forehead with its tiny trickle of blood, and swore through his clenched teeth. At the same time a horseman emerged from the bushes. There was nothing distinctive in his appearance. His face was masked by a common bandana handkerchief slitted for the eyes, further concealment being afforded by the pulled-down brim of a “two-gallon” Stetson. In his right hand hung a revolver from the muzzle of which a wisp of blue smoke curled. He was mounted on a big black, with a white blaze between the eyes and a white stocking on the near foreleg.

  “Don’t try no tricks, driver,” the unknown said, and though his voice had a hard, metallic ring, the mask muffled and disguised it. “I’m sudden by nature as well as name.” He paused for a moment as if to let the remark sink in, and then, “Tie yore lines. Why did that fool fire? I gave him his chance.”

  So this was Sudden, the man whose wizard-like gunplay and daredevil exploits had made his name a terror in the Southwest. He did not doubt it; the ruthless slaying of the guard and the holding-up of the stage single-handed were in keeping with the outlaw’s reputation. The rider paced leisurely up to the coach.

  “Heave the box over,” he ordered.

  Eames reached down and from under the seat drew out a small, iron-clamped chest which thudded deeply into the dust of the trail. The stranger nodded approvingly.

  “Sounds good,” he said, and then, “go on prayin’.”

  He dismounted, and keeping a wary eye on the driver, raised the box and methodically tied it to the cantle of his saddle. Then he turned to the body of the coach.

  “You can come out, keepin’ yore paws up,” he called. Three passengers crept out from the dark interior and stood blinking in the glare of the sun. They were a sorry-looking trio. Their trembling hands, thrust stiffly upwards, betrayed their fear. The outlaw surveyed them sardonically. Two were obviously drummers from the East, while a third man of middle age, dressed in shabby black with a soiled white collar, might have passed for a minister, though his coarse, bloated face was hardly in keeping. It was to him the outlaw addressed himself.

  “Parson, huh?” he asked.

  “I am a poor servant of the Lord, brother.”

  “An’ a mighty poor one at that, I’m bettin’,” was the sneering comment. “Well, you oughta know how to take up a collection anyway—first thing you fellas learn—so go through ’em, an’ don’t you miss anythin’ or yore flock’ll be shy a shepherd.”

  He gestured with his pistol, and aware that protest would be futile, the man proceeded to despoil his fellow passengers. The result was meager enough; a small amount of currency and a little flashy jewelry. Their grips, which the collector had to fetch from the coach and open, contained only clothing and samples. The road agent shrugged his shoulders.

  “Chicken feed,” he said.

  His fierce eyes studied the self-styled minister keenly for a moment. Then, with a swift motion he holstered his pistol, seized the lapels of the black frock coat, jerked them up, out, and down over the wearer’s shoulders, thus pinioning his arms. The victim smothered an unclerical expression and the road agent laughed.

  “I’m a good guesser,” he rasped.

  From under the left armpit of the “minister” peeped the butt of a double-barreled derringer, hung in a shoulder holster. The stranger drew it out.

  “What’s a man o’ peace doin’ with this?” he asked.

  “I go into wild places an’ carry it for my protection,” replied the owner evenly.

  The outlaw stuck the weapon in his own belt and began to pass his hands lightly over the other’s clothing. A bulge in a pocket attracted him; it proved to be a pack of cards. The posses
sor’s face did not alter but his voice was sullen when he explained; “I took them from a gambler.”

  The road agent had squared the pack up on the palm of his hand, delicately, using the tips of his fingers only.

  “Mebbe—it’s a ‘cold deck’ anyways,” he said. “We’ll give it the ‘loser’s shuffle.’”

  With a vigorous sweep of his arm he flung the pack skyward, scattering the cards far and wide, and then resumed his investigation. Another bulge produced a fat roll of bills, at the sight of which the searcher gave vent to a throaty laugh.

  “Also took from a gambler, with the help o’ the pack an’ the pistol, I’m bettin’,” he commented.

  “It ain’t mine; that’s money collected for those in need,” the passenger protested.

  The road agent laughed again. “It has shorely reached its destination, for I’m one of ’em, brother, an’ I’m thankin’ you,” he jeered. Then, as he read the expression on the other’s face, his own voice took on an ugly edge. “You lyin’ rat,” he grated. “Did you think you could put it over me? Don’t you reckon I know a tin-horn cardsharp when I see one?”

  “Damn you, I’ll get you for this—I’ll hunt you down,” screamed the “minister,” and, beside himself at the loss of his money, he sprang at the outlaw.

  Like a piston-rod the stranger’s fist shot out and the man in black, driven headlong into the dust, lay there mouthing curses and threats. The masked man shrugged his shoulders contemptuously and turned to the other passengers.

  “A poor loser,” he commented. He swung up into the saddle. “All set, driver,” he called. “Get a-goin’ when you want to, but I’ll be with you for a while though you won’t see me, an’ I’m tellin’ you not to hurry. Sabe?”

  “No need to hurry now,” Eames retorted, and with another laugh the hold-up trotted round a bend and vanished in a thicket which bordered the trail. Despite the parting threat the driver wasted no time. Lifting the body of the messenger, he tied it securely on the top of the coach, and then ordered his passengers aboard.

  The man in black had already picked himself out of the dust and was sitting slumped in one corner of the vehicle, hat pulled over his eyes and lips set in a savage snarl. The other passengers, not doubting the driver’s threat to set them afoot, made haste to follow his example.

  The driver, having finished his arrangements, clambered to his seat and cracked his long-lashed whip over the heads of the team. With a jerk that nearly threw the occupants from their places the coach resumed its interrupted journey. Only a few scattered cards and a broken cigar box marked the spot where a man had died doing his duty.

  CHAPTER II

  How the town came to be called Lawless was not certainly known. A few of the dwellers therein, actuated by astonishing loyalty, claimed that it was christened after the first settler, while others held the name to be the fortunate fluke of one who could see into the future. The reputation of Lawless as one of the toughest towns in the territory undoubtedly supported this view.

  In appearance it was typical of a hundred other early Western settlements—two jagged rows of crude erections facing one another across a wide strip of wheel-rutted, hoof-pounded dust. The buildings, squat, unlovely, were of timber or ’dobe, set in a sea of tin cans and other refuse. Along the front of these ran boarded sidewalks for pedestrians, and outside the saloons and stores hitch-rails were provided.

  Sordid as it seemed, Lawless was yet the hub round which the life of the neighboring ranches revolved, for the only other town within reasonable reach was Sweetwater, thirty miles eastward. Flung haphazard into the middle of a little plain, the site seemed unsuitable for a settlement, and yet it was not. The surrounding open country provided space and feed for occasional trail-herds and there was good water in the shape of Squaw Creek, which came down from the Tepee Mountain some six miles northwards. A place of sinister repute, this range, with its swathing masses of dark forest, deep gullies, and precipitous ledges, above which towered a great cone of grey rock, bare save when the winter wrapped it in a mantle of gleaming snow.

  That men lived there was known, and that was all. From time to time a stranger would drift into Lawless about dusk, load up a pack horse with supplies, sample the relaxations the town had to offer, and vanish before dawn. Dour, hard-looking fellows these, with watchful, furtive eyes and fingers never far from their weapons. Lawless asked no questions, taking their custom thankfully and minding its own business in strict accordance with the Western etiquette of that day.

  Twenty-four hours after the robbery of the stage five men rode silently into Lawless and pulled up outside the Red Ace, the largest and most pretentious of the town’s saloons. The visitors were cowpunchers, and the oldest, who appeared to be the leader, had the white metal star of a sheriff pinned to his vest. The first to dismount stretched himself with a sigh of relief.

  “Seems like we bin ridin’ a week,” he said. “What day is it, Sim?”

  “There’s on’y one in this damn country,” Sim replied, and seeing the look of bewilderment on the questioner’s face, he added, “Thirstday, you chump, an’ you buy ’em.”

  A yelp of delight greeted the witticism, and four of the party vanished through the door of the saloon with all speed. Their leader laughed too, but remained outside, looking curiously at the form of a man sprawled carelessly across the sidewalk a few yards away. He could not see the face for the big hat was tilted forward to keep off the glare of the sun, but from his build he judged the wearer to be young. The unknown was dressed in well-worn range rig, and the holsters on either side of his sagging belt were empty.

  “Canned, an’ sleepin’ it off,” muttered the sheriff. “Hocked his guns too, durn young fool.”

  With a shrug of his broad shoulders he followed his men, failing to note the keen, appraising look which the object of his good-humored contempt shot after him. He found his companions already draped against the bar, each cuddling a glass. They welcomed him effusively.

  “Hey, Strade, ain’t you thirsty? What’s bin keepin’ you?” asked one.

  “Stopped to scrape the mud off’n my boots,” the sheriff grinned, with a glance at his dust-laden feet, and then, to the bartender, “’Lo, Jude, how’s tricks?”

  ‘Town’s ’bout dead,” the dispenser of drinks told him.

  “Calm before the storm, mebbe,” Strade said. “Yore marshal must be havin’ quite a rest.”

  “Shore is—we planted him a week back. That’s three we’ve lost in less’n six months.”

  “My gracious! Yo’re mighty careless with marshals, ain’t you?” was Strade’s comment. “Filled the vacancy yet?”

  “Nope. There’s bin no rush that you’d notice,” Jude grinned. “Bein’ marshal in this town ain’t no pastime.” He turned to one of the others. “There’s a chance for a bright young fella like you, Sim; the pay is good.”

  “Mebbe, but I got nobody to leave it to,” retorted the cowboy. “An’ I ain’t none shore that wings would suit my style o’ beauty.”

  Jude swabbed down the bar, mentally comparing the man before him with the late marshal of Lawless, and not to the latter’s advantage. Strade’s shortish, square, powerful frame and his rugged, good-humored face with the clipped grey moustache indicated force and determination mingled with a sense of justice. He was both feared and liked in Sweetwater, where he had been sheriff for some years.

  “Bin hearin’ from the boys ’bout the stage robbery,” the bartender remarked. “Sudden again, huh?”

  “He named hisself, ’cordin’ to Eames, an’ the description o’ the hoss tallies with that o’ the chap who held up Sands, the Sweetwater store keeper a month back,” the sheriff said. “Who’s that fella layin’ on the sidewalk?”

  “Stray cowpunch, drifted in a coupla days ago,” Jude told him. “Lapped up every cent he had an’ hocked his artillery to get more. I had to throw him out this mornin’ when he showed hostile.”

  “What sorta hoss does he ride?”

 
“Black—ain’t a white hair on him. He can’t be yore man, Strade, he ain’t left town for forty-eight hours, nor drawed a sober breath neither. You won’t find Sudden here.”

  “Huh! I’v looked in onlikelier places,” the sheriff grunted. “Trouble is, I wouldn’t know the fella if I saw him. No strangers in town, eh?”

  “On’y the specimen outside,” Jude replied. “An’, as I told you, he’s bin wedded to this bar pretty constant.”

  Meanwhile the “specimen” was arousing attention in another quarter. Soon after the sheriff had entered the saloon, a girl emerged from a store and tripped along the sundrenched street. She provided a pleasing contrast to her surroundings. Young—still in her teens—she walked with the easy swinging stride indicative of robust health and an outdoor life. Her neat shirtwaist and short divided skirt set off her slim figure to advantage. She pulled up abruptly when she came to the lounger on the sidewalk. For a moment she regarded the obstacle disgustedly and was about to step over it when a sudden decision firmed her pretty lips.

  “I suppose I have to take the road,” she said aloud.

  At the cool, clear voice, the recumbent stranger opened his eyes, and under the brim of his hat saw a neat pair of riding-boots fitted with dainty silver spurs. Grabbing his headgear with one hand, he looked up into the charming but rather scornful face of the wearer.

  “I’m right sorry, ma’am,” he stammered, and drew up his long legs so that she might proceed on her way.

  Instead of doing so she stood still, and a gleam of pity shone in her deep brown eyes as she noted the empty belt. Drunken punchers she had seen before, but this one was so young—not over twenty-five, she reflected. He had the slim waist and broad shoulders of an athlete, and his face showed no traces of dissipation. On the contrary, it was a strong face, she decided, and not unattractive, despite its unshaven condition.

  “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” she asked, after an awkward pause.

  “I shore am, ma’am,” drawled the culprit. “Blockin’ the trail thisaway is certainly scand’lous.”