by Matt Rand
CHAPTER III
“I certainly was lucky to catch you in town today, Tonia,” Andy Bordene remarked, as they jogged slowly along the trail. “It seems ages since I saw you.”
The girl’s eyes twinkled. “Yes, the Double S must be a good two hours’ ride from the Box B,” she said demurely.
The young man sensed the mild sarcasm and flushed. “I have to work for my livin’ nowadays, Tonia,” he defended. “You’ve no notion what a driver the old man is, an’ we’re short-handed at that.”
“You ought not to be, when there are likely punchers in town with nothing better to do than swallow the poison sold at the Red Ace,” she retorted, and went on to tell of her recent encounter with the stranger cowboy.
“I do hate to see good material going to waste. I offered him a job, but if you are really needing help, you can have him. He didn’t look like a drunkard.”
“Thanks,” Bordene smiled. “Any puncher is apt to slip over the edge now an’ then; I’ll look him up when I get back to town.”
The Double S ranch lay some fifteen miles southeast of Lawless and about halfway between that town and Sweetwater, though not on the direct route. For the most part, the trail to it passed over the open range. At one point, however, it cut through a strip of broken country which jutted out like a great finger into the grassland, dipping down between the tree and brush-clad walls of a ravine. After the scorching sunshine of the open, the shade of the overhanging foliage was a welcome relief, and therefore, Bordene was astonished when his companion spurred her mount and rocketed through the gorge at full speed. Wondering what was the matter, he did likewise, catching her up just as she merged on the open plain again. She slowed down and turned to him, a somewhat shamed expression on her flushed face.
“I’m sorry, Andy,” she said. “I dread that place, and I just can’t dawdle through it. If you hadn’t been here I’d have gone round, though it’s miles out of the way. Cowardly, I know, but you understand, don’t you?”
He nodded, and his eyes were suddenly tender. Of course, he understood, and it was not difficult, remembering that less than twelve months before, Anthony Sarel, her father, had been foully done to death somewhere in the ravine. Both he and Tonia had been away at college, but he knew that the rancher had been bushwhacked—shot in the back from ambush—and his slayer had never been discovered. The girl had returned home to find Reuben Sarel, her father’s only brother, in charge of the ranch. For some time they rode in silence and then, as though she had been screwing up her courage, Tonia turned impulsively to her companion.
“Andy, would you be hurt if I asked you not to spend so much time at the Red Ace?” she asked.
“Who’s been talkin’?” he countered.
“Oh, little birds chirp, you know,” she replied lightly.
“Some little birds oughta have their little necks twisted,” he replied. “Just because a fella drops into a place now an’ again for a drink an’ a game they figure he’s headin’ for hell right away.”
“Is it only now and again, Andy?” she queried. “And isn’t it true you have lost a lot at poker lately?”
“I’ve dropped a bit,” he admitted. “Dad keeps me pretty close-hauled, but I’ll get it back, an’ Seth ain’t in no hurry.”
“I don’t like that man—he makes me shudder,” she said. “Whenever I meet him I think of something I saw years ago when I was a kid.”
“Not so awful many years ago,” smiled the boy.
She refused to be put off. “I was out riding with Dad and we came upon a poor little dead calf,” she went on. “Perched on the carcass was a great, black bird, its claws embedded in the body and its cruel beak tearing away the flesh. Ugh! It was horrible!”
Bordene laughed at her. “Well, they call him The Vulture, but he ain’t a bad scout,” he replied. “Fella can’t help his looks, you know, an’ he’s too big a man in these parts to tangle with. Yore uncle thinks a lot of him.”
“I know, but—”
She left the sentence unfinished, loath to admit distrust of her only relative, even to Andy. For the truth was that though she was fond of Reuben Sarel, and believed that he sincerely cared for her, she recognized his limitations, knew that he was weak, and this his great bulk inclined him to laziness. In the hands of a man like Raven…
Presently they reached the long, easy slope which wound up to the top of the little mesa where stood the Double S.
Lounging on a chair in a protected corner of the veranda, puffing a long black cigar, Reuben Sarel watched the approaching riders. Of middle age, his big, round, fleshy face, in which the tiny eyes twinkled, was so fashioned as to present a perpetual expression of good humor, but there was a slackness and want of decision about the mouth which told a story; here was one who would take the easy way. His enormous breadth of body, coupled with his corpulence, made him appear almost as wide as he was long. With astonishing agility for so massive a man, he jumped up and waved to the girl and her companion as they loped up.
“’Lo, Andy, what’s brung you over?” he asked, with a grin which uncovered his strong, tobacco-stained teeth. “Light an’ tell us the news.”
“Just had to see Tonia safe home, but I can’t stay,” the young man smiled, as he dismounted and trailed the reins. “Heard about the Sweetwater stage bein’ held up?”
“You don’t say!” ejaculated the other. “When was it?”
“Yestiddy mornin’ in Devil’s Dip. Strade an’ his posse was in lookin’ for the fella.”
“The fella? One-man job, huh? Did he get anythin’?”
“He got the messenger—plumb through the head, the express box with ten thousand, an’ one o’ the passengers claims he lost two thousand more.”
“Pretty good haul,” Sarel said. “Strade got anythin’ to go on?”
“I guess not,” Bordene assured him. “Eames, the driver, said the hold-up claimed to be Sudden, an’ the hoss tallied.” Sarel’s small eyes widened. “Hell!” he exploded. “That jasper’s gettin’ too prevalent in these parts; it’s time somebody put a crimp in his game.”
The talk drifted to range topics, and presently Andy climbed his horse again, and, with a wave of his hat, set out for Lawless. He rode slowly, his mind full of the girl from whom he had just parted. Ever since they could toddle they had been playmates, like brother and sister. School and college days for both of them had intervened, and when these were over the relationship had become one of good comrades. But something had happened today. Was it a sudden realization of her budding, youthful beauty as she rode so jauntily beside him?
* * * *
The dusk was creeping in from mountain and desert and Lawless was waking up for the evening’s festivities. From the southwest came the muffled thunder of pounding hoofs as a party of four cowboys dashed into the street, riding and yelling like madmen. The light in the marshal’s office arrested their attention at once and they pulled their ponies to a stop scattering dust in every direction.
“Merciful Moses, they got a new marshal!” cried one. “Smoke him up, boys.”
With the words he snatched out his six-shooter and sent a hail of bullets into the signboard over the officer’s door. His companions followed his example, and having thus evidenced their contempt for the law, and “run a blazer” on its representative, they emitted a derisive shout and rode on to the Red Ace. Inside the office the marshal and his deputy were straightening up. They heard the tattoo of the bullets, and from the side of the window Green watched the riders. Pete’s face plainly disapproved of his superior’s inactivity.
“Ain’t you goin’ to expostulate none with them playful people?” he asked.
Green grinned at him quizzically. “Shucks, they’re only boys from the Box B,” he said. There had been just light enough for him to read the brand on the flank of the nearest pony. “Wasn’t you ever young an’ wishful to let off steam on a night out?”
“Awright, gran’-pop, but they’re countin’ it a score agin you,” retort
ed the little man.
“Betcha five dollars they apologize ’fore the night’s out,” the marshal offered. “An’ anyway, that sign needs repaintin’.”
Pete took the bet, not that he felt sure of winning it—for he was beginning to realize that this new friend of his was an uncommon person—but because he was a born gambler, and curious.
Their entry, a little later, into the bar of the Red Ace aroused small interest in the crowded room. Here and there a cardplayer looked up, muttered something in an undertone, and went on playing.
The Box B boys, seated at a table near the bar with a bottle between them, took no notice until a whisper reached their ears that it was the new marshal who had come in. Then heads went together, and presently one of them, a merry-looking youth whose red hair and profusely freckled face had earned him the name of “Rusty,” rose amid the laughter of the other three.
Green was alone, leaning against the bar, his deputy being a few yards away, watching the play at a poker table. The Box B rider lurched up, planted himself so that he faced his quarry, and, with a wink at his companions, opened the conversation.
“Is it true yo’re the new marshal?” he asked.
“It’s a solemn fact, seh,” Green replied gravely.
“Me an’ my friends don’t like marshals nohow—can’t see any need for ’em,” he pursued. “But if we gotta have one ’s’important to make shore he’s good, you unnerstan’? I’ve made a li’l wager I can beat you to the draw.” He suddenly crouched, his right hand hovering over his weapon. “Flash it!” he cried.
Hardly had the words left his lips when a gun barrel jolted him rudely in the stomach, while his hand, clawing at his holster, found it empty. Looking down, he saw that the marshal’s weapons were still in his belt and that the gun now threatening his internal economy was his own. Instantly the drink died out as he realized that the man he had dared possessed every right to blow him into eternity. His companions started up in alarm.
“Don’t shoot, marshal, he was only joshin’,” one of them called out.
“Do you still think you could beat me to it?” the marshal asked, and without waiting for a reply slipped the borrowed pistol back into its place. “If you do, well, have another try.”
“Not any more for me, thank you all the same,” he said. “I ain’t a hawg, an’ I wanta say I’m sorry we shot up yore shingle this evenin’.”
Green’s eyes twinkled. “Shucks! A coat o’ paint’ll put that right,” he said meaningly.
Rusty looked at his friends. “We shore owe him that,” he suggested. “I’m astayin’ in town tonight, boys, an’ it’s up to me.”
After a round of drinks the Box B party returned to its game, and Green found his deputy beside him. Pete’s wide grin moved the marshal to mirth.
“If it warn’t for yore ears that smile would go clean round yore haid,” he commented.
Barsay ignored the insult and produced a five-dollar bill. “Which you shore earned it, you ol’ he-wizard,” he said. “How d’you work it?”
“All done by kindness,” Green told him. “Hello! Who’s wantin’ me now?”
And, who had just entered the saloon, was heading straight for the marshal.
“I’m Bordene o’ the Box B, an’ I’m supposin’ you’re the man Miss Sarel spoke to this afternoon,” he began, and when Green nodded; “if yo’re still huntin’ that job—”
“I’m obliged to her, an’ you, but—” the marshal flipped aside his vest, disclosing his badge.
The young man’s eyebrows rose. “Yo’re the new marshal?” he asked, and then he smiled. “Congratulations,” he added.
“Thank you, seh,” Green smiled back. “Yo’re the first; the others just asked which was my favorite flower.”
“Well, Lawless certainly takes a whole man to ride her, but I wish you luck, an’ if you want help, you’ll find it at the Box B,” Andy replied.
The marshal thanked him. And meant it. The Box B boys greeted their young boss with a familiarity that showed he was one of them.
The young rancher nodded, and then, hearing his name called, turned to find Seth Raven, with a stranger. The latter had ridden into town during the afternoon and had at once proceeded to the Red Ace. Raven, seated in his office, did not welcome the visitor too effusively.
“’Lo, Parson, what you wantin’?” he asked.
“A stake, Seth,” the man in shabby black replied. “That damned hold-up skunk cleaned me out. But I’ll get him, curse his thievin’ hide, if I spend the rest o’ my life at it.” He snarled the words out savagely and his little eyes gleamed with hatred. The saloon-keeper’s thin lips curled contemptuously as he replied, “Better forget it, Parson; you’d stand one hell of a chance against Sudden, wouldn’t you?”
“I’ll get him,” the other repeated doggedly. “But to do that I gotta live. What about it?”
“Oh, I’ll stake you,” Raven returned carelessly, as he took a wad of bills out of a drawer, counted, and passed them over. “I’m givin’ you a word o’ warnin’; Lawless has got its growth an’ won’t stand for any raw stuff, see? Also, what I say goes around here, ain’ I won’t stand for it, neither.” The gambler sensed the covert threat in both words and tone. He knew that by accepting the money he had made himself the creature of this malignant devil, but he did not care; he was not a squeamish person.
“Anythin’ you want to tell me?” was how he asked for orders.
“Why, no,” Seth replied with affected surprise. “There’s a young fella I’ll introduce you to who fancies his brand o’ poker; it wouldn’t do him no harm to be educated some, but you’ll remember he’s a friend o’ mine.”
The parson nodded. “Don’t happen to have a spare gun, do you?” he asked. “That swine Sudden took mine.”
Raven pulled out another drawer in the desk. “You can have this; I never carry one,” he said. The gambler took the six-shooter and slipped it into his shoulder holster.
So it came about that Bordene met the newcomer, presented as “Mister Pardoe,” and accepted the saloon-keeper’s proposal for a “little game.” Youth is rarely critical, but he was not favorably impressed by the stranger. Moreover, as they moved towards a vacant table, he saw the marshal was watching them, and fancied he caught a slight shake of the head. Was it a warning? He looked again, but Green was apparently no longer interested. Nevertheless, when a fourth man had been found and the game had started Andy became aware of Green and Barsay just behind him.
“Yessir,” the marshal was saying. “It was in Tombstone, and they catched him dealin’ from the bottom o’ the pack.”
“Oughta shot the coyote,” Pete said.
“Well, mebbe he was lucky thataway,” the other conceded. “They just took his clothes off, poured a barrel o’ molasses over him, rolled him in the sand, an’ rid him outa town on a rail. It oughta been a complete cure.” Pardoe was facing Bordene and the latter was astounded at the sudden flush on the gambler’s bilious face and the vindictive look he cast at the speaker. In a second, however, his eyes were on his cards again.
When Green emerged from his door on the following morning he found a red-haired, freckled puncher, seated on an up-ended cask upon which he had lately been standing, surveying the freshly painted sign with all a workman’s pride. The marshal inspected it critically.
“You made a job of it—she looks as good as new,” he pronounced.
“Shucks! It was due you,” the decorator returned. “Say, I wish you’d tell me how you got my gun so slick?”
The marshal grinned. “I’ll give you a tip,” he said. “When yo’re expectin’ trouble, watch yore man’s eyes, an’ you won’t be so liable to get lead in yore gizzard. Believe me, lead don’t do gizzards no good whatever.”
The Box B puncher watched him stride down the street, swinging along with a smooth, effortless movement which had the grace and ease of a mountain lion.
“Raven has roped the wrong man,” he muttered. “An’ Lawless has got a re
al marshal this time.”
Possibly the proprietor of the Red Ace was of a like opinion, for Green soon learned, first hand, that his efforts were not giving entire satisfaction to the local autocrat. Calling at the saloon in response to a message, he found Raven in his office.
“Why the hell didn’t you bore that cowboy las’ night?” he snapped. “He dared you to draw an’ you oughta blowed him apart. These damn cow-wrastlers act like they owned the town.”
“Huh, it was yore whisky talkin’, not him,” the marshal said quietly.
“You ain’t goin’ to make yoreself popular by runnin’ citizens out thataway an’ lettin’ a puncher put it over ye.” Raven scowled.
“Did he put it over me?” Green inquired. “He painted my sign this mornin’ an’ the hull town saw him doin’ it.” The saloon-keeper had nothing to say to this; he was well aware that the marshal had scored, and at a stroke gained the friendship of the Box B outfit, which was one of the reasons for his ill-temper; he had a strong suspicion that the members of that same outfit did not like him. Moreover, he was beginning to fear that the new man would not easily “come to heel.” He shrugged his bent shoulders and grinned with evil amiability.
“Well, Marshal, I’m on’y warnin’ you for yore own good,” he said. “Yo’re a stranger here, an’ I know this town by the back. Think it over.”
Despite his smooth tone, there was a threat in the words; Raven was serving notice that he expected obedience. He would not get it, but there was no need to let him see that too plainly yet, so the marshal nodded and went away.
CHAPTER IV
Pete Barsay sat on a tilted chair, his back against one jamb of the marshal’s office door and his upraised feet on the other. To a normal person it was a pleasant way of passing the morning, yet the deputy’s face wore a discontented expression as he surveyed the almost deserted street. For a week Lawless had behaved itself; there had been no fights to speak of, no robberies or cheating at cards; in fact, no work at all for the marshal and his assistant. And Barsay was bored. Green had gone riding somewhere.
“Oh, sir!” interrupted a low, sweet voice.