The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

  “Fork that cayuse an’ we’ll punch the breeze,” he said. “This hombre will have friends not so far off, an’ it’ll be healthier for us if we ain’t around when they arrive.”

  The redskin climbed into the saddle, his set teeth showing what the effort cost him, and Green led the way to where he had left his own mount. From where he lay motionless on the ground the venomous eyes of the Mexican followed them. Only when they had vanished in the thick foliage did he venture to rise and shake a vengeful fist in their direction.

  “We shall meet again, you cursed American hound,” he grated. “And then it will be the turn of El Diablo!”

  The marshal and his companion were wasting no time in covering the ground to the Border. Not until they were on the far side of the river did Green attempt to learn anything of the man he had rescued. The redskin’s eyes flashed as he answered the blunt question.

  “Me Black Feather—Mohave chief—one time,” he said slowly in a deep guttural tone.

  The marshal realized much of what lay behind the simple statement; he had lived with the red men. He knew that Black Feather was an outcast—willing or unwilling—from his tribe. Whatever the reason, for the time being, he had no lodge, no people; he was a wanderer. Further inquiry elicited that he had fallen into the clutches of the bandit and his follower by evil chance; they had shot his pony and, in the common belief that the Indian always knows “the home of the gold,” had tortured him.

  Realizing that the trail of Bordene’s murderer was now hopelessly lost, the marshal headed for home. They reached Lawless after dark, so that the citizens missed the rather amazing sight of their newly appointed law-officer holding a drooping Indian in a silver-mounted saddle, on the back of a fine, Spanish-bred horse. When the pair arrived at the marshal’s quarters, the sick man slumped to the ground in a dead faint. Pete, who was standing at the door, hurried forward.

  “You ain’t goin’ to tell me this fella bumped off Bordene?” he said incredulously.

  “I am not,” the marshal said. “Push them broncs in the corral an’ come help fix him up. He’s all in.”

  He hoisted the slack form to his shoulder and went inside. When Pete returned he found the patient stretched on his bed and the marshal bandaging his hurts. The deputy’s protest was immediate.

  “Hey, what you pick my bunk for?” he cried.

  “’Cause it was more comfortable—I noticed how quick you was to glom on to it. This fella’s pretty sick. See here, he’s bin shot in the leg as well, an’ never let out a chirp about that.”

  “Reckon he’ll make it?”

  “Shore thing. Injuns is hard to kill—as Uncle Sam knows,” the marshal replied. “I’ve a hunch he’ll pay for savin’, anyways, I couldn’t do nothin’ else.”

  He went on to tell the story of his trailing, and Pete whistled when he heard of the guerrilla leader.

  “El Diablo, huh?” he said, “You’ve stirred up a lively nest o’ hornets there; he’s rank pizen an’ as vain as a peacock, they say. It’s a safe bet he’s got friends in Lawless too.”

  “You’ll have me scared to death in a minit,” his chief smiled.

  Pete looked at him. “Fella can crowd his luck too close,” he replied. “Wonder where that bushwhackin’ coyote hid up?”

  “Doubled back, like as not,” the marshal opined. “Wouldn’t astonish me none if he’s right in Lawless now. Rustle some chuck; I’ve an idea our guest has missed meals lately.”

  CHAPTER VI

  On the following morning the inquiry into the taking-off of Andrew Bordene was held in the dance hall attached to the Red Ace, where all public meetings of importance were convened. Nothing new transpired. Potter, the banker, deposed the dead man having drawn out five thousand dollars, stating that he had a debt to pay. Andy related his story and the marshal told of his investigation, but he did not produce the empty shells he had picked up, nor make any reference to what had happened over the Border. The jury returned a verdict of willful murder against the outlaw known as “Sudden,” and the whole assembly adjourned to discuss the affair at the bar. Here the marshal found Raven, with two men he did not know. The saloon-keeper beckoned.

  “Marshal,” he said, “meet Reuben Sarel of the Double S, and Saul Jevons, foreman o’ my ranch, the 88.”

  The fat man extended a moist, flabby hand, but Jevons merely nodded. He was about the same height as the marshal but older by ten years. He possessed a powerful but angular frame, a lean, hatchet face, and his dark, straggling moustache failed to hide a slit of a mouth. From ear to chin on his left cheek was a puckered white scar, relic of an old wound, which gave the impression of a perpetual sneer. The marshal disliked the fellow at sight.

  “Bad business this, Marshal,” Sarel remarked. “Bordene was a valued citizen. We’re lookin’ to you to put a crimp in this fella Sudden.”

  “He’s gotta be found first, Reub,” Jevons said, and there was a suspicion of a jeer in his tone. “You ain’t suspectin’ that Injun you toted in, are you?” This to the marshal.

  “Not any,” that officer replied. “I picked him up on the trail; he’d bin shot, stripped, an’ set afoot.”

  “Bah! Better ’a’ left him; I’d as soon fetch home a hurt rattler,” Jevons said savagely. “Redskins is all liars an’ thieves.”

  “Saul is a bit sore on war-paints just now,” Raven explained. “He’s bin losin’ a few steers an’ he’s blamin’ them for it.”

  “I reckon it’s more likely them toughs in Tepee Mountains is liftin’ yore beef, Raven,” the Double S man offered.

  “Pretty hard bit o’ country, I’ve heard,” the marshal said.

  “Hard?” reiterated Jevons. “You’ve said the word. It’s one o’ the places the Devil musta helped with when the world was created.”

  After a while the other two sat down to play cards, and Raven led the marshal into his office.

  “You got any private opinion ’bout this killin’?” he asked.

  “I said all I had to say at the inquiry,” was the reply.

  “Young Andy could ’a’ done it,” the saloon-keeper suggested.

  Green shook his head. “Andy carries a .44, which takes the same fodder as his Winchester. The killer used a .45.”

  “O’ course, I was on’y givin’ you a possible line. Andy is in pretty deep with me, an’ the old man didn’t know it.”

  “Anyways, he couldn’t ’a’ held up the stage, bein’ at the Box B all that day.”

  “Huh! Bound to be the same fella, you think?”

  “Shore as shootin’.”

  Raven picked up a large sheet of coarse paper. “What you think o’ this?” he queried.

  It was a notice, printed in large capitals, offering a reward of one thousand dollars for the capture of the man known as “Sudden,” or information leading thereto. No particulars of the outlaw were given, but the horse was described. The document was signed by the saloon-keeper.

  “Might produce somethin’,” the marshal agreed. “Reckon there’s fellas around here who’d sell their best friends for half that sum.”

  “We gotta do somethin’. This is the fourth play he’s put across in a short while. It’s up to you an’ Barsay, Marshal.”

  “We’ll get him,” Green said confidently, and picking up the notice, went to nail it outside the saloon door.

  Seth Raven puzzled him. Apparently a public-spirited citizen, anxious for the welfare of the community, there was an elusive something which evaded the marshal. With an innate feeling that the man was crooked, he had to admit that so far he was not justified in that belief. When, a little later, he entered his quarters, his deputy greeted him with an impudent grin.

  “Blamed if you look worth it,” was his comment.

  “Worth what, you chunk o’ fat?” Green asked.

  “A thousand wheels,” retorted Pete. “But, say, Jim, I guess we could use that money. What about goin’ out an’ grabbin’ this Sudden gent?”

  “Somebody’s bin puttin�
� ideas in yore head,” the marshal said severely. “You didn’t think o’ that yoreself. But yo’re late with it; Raven was just sayin’ for us to do that very thing. How’s your patient?”

  “My patient? Of all the damned—” Pete began, and broke off with a laugh. “What’s the use? Yore patient has his senses an’ appetite back, but his voice is missin’. He tucked away about two pounds o’ steak, with trimmin’s an’ coffee, grunted, an’ went to sleep again. As a member o’ fashionable sassiety I’d call him a total loss.”

  “He’s had a tough time,” the marshal said. “An’ everybody’s tongue ain’t hung as loose as yores, Tubby.”

  He went in to see the sufferer and found him still occupying Barsay’s bed, and awake. The black eyes, no longer fierce, looked up at him gratefully.

  “Feelin’ better?”

  “Me well now,” the patient replied, and made to rise.

  The Indian is both proud and punctilious; he would crawl outside to die rather than remain an unwelcome guest. The marshal motioned him to lie down again.

  “Make a job if it, amigo,” he said, and his smile meant more than the words.

  The sick man sank back with a grunt of relief; even that slight exertion had been too much for his exhausted frame.

  “Black Feather no forget,” he whispered.

  Pete looked up as the marshal reentered the office. “When do we start?” he asked hopefully.

  “We don’t,” Green said. “I’m a-goin’ to see Sheriff Strade over to Sweetwater, an’ I’m leavin’ you in charge—o’ the patient.”

  “Well, of all the hawgs,” ejaculated Barsay. “Why can’t you nurse the Injun an’ let me see Strade?”

  “He might recognize you,” Green replied, his eyes twinkling.

  “Ain’t he the aggravatin’ cuss?” Pete asked himself. “An’ I can’t get mad at him neither—not real mad. I hope to Gawd the sheriff don’t recognize him—for the sheriff’s sake.”

  Pete’s fear was due to be realized, though the consequences were not serious. To Strade, the tall man who walked into his office, giving his name, and announcing himself as the new marshal of Lawless, seemed faintly familiar.

  “Ain’t I seen you afore some place?” he asked.

  “Yeah, lyin’ outside the Red Ace,” Green smiled. “Mebbe I wasn’t as bad as you figured. You savvy, sheriff, a drunken man’ll get more information in two days than a sober one in that number o’ weeks; folks take it he’s too ‘blind’ to see or hear anythin’.”

  “You was layin’ for the marshal’s job then?” Strade queried.

  Green grinned at him. “Layin’ is right—on the sidewalk,” he agreed. “Yeah, I went to Lawless to get it; I’m after the fella who calls hisself Sudden.”

  There was emphasis on the concluding words and Strade straightened up with a jerk. “You tellin’ me that it ain’t the real Sudden pirootin’ round in these parts?” he asked.

  “Just that,” the visitor replied, and anticipating the inevitable question, he added, “Take a squint at this.”

  From his vest pocket he produced a folded paper. The sheriff saw that it was a printed bill, offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the capture of one “Sudden.” A somewhat vague description followed: “Young, dark hair and moustache, grey-blue eyes, dressed as a cowboy, wears two guns, and rides a black horse with a white blaze on face and white stockings on off foreleg.” The bill had been issued by the sheriff of Fourways, Texas.

  Strade looked up and nodded. “That agrees with what we got,” he said. “Neither Sands nor Eames could say much about the man—him bein’ masked—but they got the hoss to a dot.”

  “They couldn’t both be wrong, an’ Eames—a hoss-user—certainly wouldn’t be.”

  The sheriff looked puzzled. “What’s yore point?”

  “Accordin’ to this”—Green tapped the printed notice—“the real Sudden’s hoss has a white stockin’ on the off fore, but both yore men say the near. Ain’t that so?”

  Strade reached some papers from a drawer and referred to them. “Yo’re right,” he admitted. “Funny I didn’t spot that. Somebody’s made a mistake.”

  “Yeah, an’ it’s Mister Bushwhacker,” Green said. “He’s painted the wrong leg of his bronc.”

  The Sweetwater sheriff scratched his head. “It does shorely look like you’ve hit the mark,” he said. “We’ve bin searchin’ for a stranger, but it might be anybody—”

  He broke off suddenly and his eyes narrowed as they rested on the black horse hitched outside. Green saw the look and laughed.

  “No use, ol’-timer,” he said. “I was in the Red Ace when the stage was held up.”

  The sheriff laughed too. “Sorry, Green,” he apologized. “This damn job makes a fella suspect hisself a’most. You stayin’ over?”

  “I was aimin’ to.”

  “Good, then you’ll dig in with me. Bachelor quarters, but I reckon you’ll prefer ’em. The hotel here stuffs its mattresses with rocks.”

  “Bein’ rocked to sleep don’t appeal to me,” the visitor grinned, and then his face sobered. “’Fore we go any further, there’s somethin’ you have to know.” The sheriff looked at him, surprised at the change of tone. “That black out there is Sudden’s hoss with the blaze an’ stockin’ on the off fore dyed out.”

  The geniality faded from the sheriff’s face, to be replaced by a hard, bleak look; his right hand, which had been resting on the table, dropped to his side. The marshal, rolling a smoke, took no notice of the movement.

  “Don’t froth up, Sheriff,” he warned. “I could beat you to it. I’m Sudden, an’ I’m here to find the skunk who’s fillin’ his pockets an’ puttin’ the blame on me. It’s bin done before, Strade, an’ while I don’t claim to be no sort of a saint, I ain’t a thief, an’ I never shot a man who wasn’t gunnin’ for me.”

  Strade listened with growing amazement.

  “Take a squint at this,” the level voice proceeded. “I ain’t aimin’ to use it unless I have to; this job concerns me personal.”

  Strade took the proffered paper and saw it was an official document, formally appointing James Green a deputy-sheriff in the service of the Governor of the Territory, by whom it was signed. For a long moment the sheriff pondered, two points uppermost in his mind; that this could not be the man he was looking for, and that Sudden was playing a straight game. Handing back the paper he pushed out a paw.

  “Shake,” he said. “I’m takin’ yore word.”

  Green gripped the hand, his eyes lighting up. “Even my friends allow I’m a poor liar.”

  At Strade’s suggestion, they went to take a look at the town. It proved to be another Lawless, but larger, and of a slightly less unsavory reputation, due to its being a little nearer civilization, and the efforts of a sheriff who took his duties seriously. In the course of the evening, Green was presented to several of the leading citizens, played a pleasant game of poker, and presently retired with his host on the plea of an early start in the morning. Back in the little parlor, the sheriff talked business again.

  “Bad about Bordene,” he said, when he had heard the whole story. “He was a straight man. Nothin’ distinctive ’bout them two shells you found, I s’pose?”

  “They were .45’s, an’ one of ’em had a scratch along the side,” the marshal told him. “I’d say one chamber of his gun was nicked someway.”

  “Huh! Might be helpful,” the sheriff said. “Sands an’ the messenger was drilled by .45’s too.” Then he went off at a tangent. “Heard a yarn about Sudden a while back. In a town I don’t recall the name of, two toughs knifed a fella an’ lifted his wad, leavin’ his widder an’ kids destitute. Sudden went after the killers, put one outa business, crippled the other, an’ took the cash back to the woman. Mebbe you’ll remember?”

  The marshal laughed. All evening he had been conscious that he was being watched by his host, and guessed that the latter was still a trifle doubtful.

  “Where’d you get that fine tale?�
�� he asked.

  “The widder told me herself—she’s living here now,” Strade said.

  Green swore and grinned at the same time. “The town was Sandville, an’ her name was Hogan. She could ’a’ give you a description o’ me.”

  “I thought o’ that, but she wouldn’t open up—don’t know as I blame her neither.”

  In the seclusion of his own room Green tied a knot in his memory—he must watch out when in Sweetwater. “Durn the woman, why couldn’t she stay put?” he muttered, and chuckled sardonically at the thought that his good deed might be the means of putting his neck in a noose, for he had no illusions as to what would happen to him if his identity became general knowledge before Sudden the Second was run to earth. At sunrise he was up and away. As they gripped hands, the sheriff had a parting word:

  “Glad you came over,” he said, and meant it. “Any time you want help, I’ll come a-runnin’.”

  “I’m obliged,” the marshal said. “You know the country.”

  “I know Lawless,” Strade warned him.

  He watched his visitor vanish from view, and went inside, unusually thoughtful. “Sudden, huh?” he mused. “I reckon he could be, too, but I’m bettin’ he ain’t as bad as his reputation.”

  CHAPTER VII

  Several uneventful days followed the marshal’s return. Rest and regular food soon restored the Indian to health, but he showed no disposition to depart. He had relinquished Pete’s bed and slept on the floor of the little kitchen, Green presenting him with a couple of blankets. As soon as he was able he chopped wood for the stove and cleaned the place up generally. In spite of this evident desire to be useful, Pete continued to regard him with suspicion.

  “When’s that war-paint a’goin’ to drift?” he asked.

  “I don’t want that he should—he’ll mebbe prove useful,” the marshal said. “You oughta seen his eyes when I told him he could have the hoss an’ saddle we lifted from the Mexican. There’s a carbine, too, an’ he’s shinin’ her up this minit like she was pure gold.”

  “An’ when he’s stole some cartridges he’ll be all fixed to blow us to hellangone,” Pete grumbled.

  “Shucks! What a suspicious fella you are,” Green laughed. “Black Feather is a good Injun.”