by Matt Rand
With the little man in this mood it was a waste of time to argue, so the marshal did not explain that he had a use for their guest. But as soon as the Indian was able to sit in a saddle, he took him to the Old Mine and showed him the hoofprints of the killer’s horse, which, as there has been no rain, were still clear.
“I was followin’ them when I run across you,” he explained.
Black Feather studied the marks closely for a few moments and then swung into his saddle again. “Me find,” he said gravely, and rode away.
The marshal returned to Lawless, and in reply to Pete’s inquiry as to the whereabouts of their guest, told him of the incident. The deputy was plainly pessimistic. “Betcha five dollars he fades,” he offered and chortled when the other took the wager. “Easy money, ol’-timer, easy money.”
“Yeah, for me,” the marshal retorted.
And so it proved, for, to Pete’s chagrin, the Indian returned late in the evening. Standing for a moment before the marshal, he said, “No find—yet,” and stalked solemnly into the kitchen.
When they rose the next morning, the Indian had already vanished, and they saw no sign of him until the evening. Though he was obviously tired out, there was a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
“Me find urn,” he said, and that was all.
Peeping into the kitchen a little later, they saw him rolled in his blankets, fast asleep, his precious carbine beside him.
“Bet he’s had one punishin’ day trailin’ that hoss,” Green said. “Wonder where he found him?”
“S’pose he’ll show you tomorrow,” the deputy said. “You want me along?”
“No use both goin’,” Green replied. “You better stay here to see that no festive cowperson ropes the office an’ drags it into the desert.”
The sun was not yet up and there was a keen bite in the air when the marshal and the Mohave set out. Once clear of the town, the redskin turned his horse’s head to the northwest, in the direction of Tepee Mountain. Green guessed that his guide was taking him direct to the finish of his trailing; evidently the murderer had, as he suspected, doubled back after crossing the Border.
As they approached the mountain the country became more broken, and rock ridges had to be negotiated, requiring a slower pace. When they reached the foothills the scenery became even more rugged and forbidding. Deep gorges, masked by black pine forests, slashed the lower slopes of the range, and above them towered the great grey granite peak.
Into one of these ravines the Indian led the way, his mount splashing along a small stream. For about a quarter of a mile they rode in the water, and then the leader turned sharply to the left and vanished in the bordering bushes. The marshal followed, to find an unexpected break in the wall of the gorge, an opening only a few yards wide, guarded by a rough pole gate. On the other side was a pocket of not more than a dozen acres, covered with rich grass and walled in by cliff. At the far end a black horse was grazing. On a bare patch of ground near the entrance, which his guide carefully avoided, were several hoofmarks, some of which Green recognized; the others had been made by a smaller horse.
“Good work,” he said approvingly, and the Indian’s expressive eyes gleamed at the praise. “I reckon there ain’t much doubt, but we’ll make shore.”
They rode slowly into the valley, keeping away from the strange horse until they were level with it, and then Green suddenly whirled his mount and jumped it at the grazing animal, round the neck of which the noose dropped before the victim could dodge. Slipping from his saddle, the marshal walked up the rope, coiling it as he approached, but ready for a breakaway. The black, however, proved rope-wise and docile; it allowed him to pull its head down and discover, at the roots of the hair, little flakes of white. Lifting the near foreleg, he found the same singularity.
“She’s the hoss, shore enough,” he muttered. “All we gotta do now is find the owner.”
“Nothin’ here—me look,” Black Feather said.
“Huh! Just uses it as a private corral. Rides here, changes mounts to do his dirty work, an’ has the other hoss waitin’ to get away on,” mused the marshal. “That means he ain’t too far from here.”
Leaving the gate exactly as they found it, they made their way back to the open range, and then, having warned him not to talk the marshal sent his companion back to town. He himself headed east, following the line of the mountain. Presently he began to come on scattered groups of cattle. He had drawn near to one of these and was attempting to decipher the brand when a bullet droned through the air, followed by a flat report, and a hoarse shout of “Put em up; the next one drills you.”
Despite the threatening weapon, the marshal laughed. “What you mean, searin’ my hoss thata way?”
The gunman glared at him, his finger itching to pull the trigger. Although his own gun was already out, he had an uneasy feeling that this jeering, confident devil would somehow get the better of him. So he holstered his pistol and said sullenly, “Didn’t know you, Marshal. Wondered what yore interest was in our cows, that’s all.”
“Yore cows?” the marshal repeated.
“Yeah, I’m ridin’ for the 88,” the man explained. “Raven’s ranch, huh? How far away is it?”
He pointed east and said it was some three miles to the ranch house.
“What’s yore name?” Green asked.
“Leeson,” he replied sullenly.
He turned his horse and rode in the direction of the Raven ranch. Leeson glared malevolently at the broad back and then, with a bitter oath, spurred his horse the other way.
The 88 ranch house was an unpretentious log building of no great size and somewhat slovenly in appearance. The place appeared to be deserted, but Green’s shout of “Hello, the house,” brought Jevons to the door. His eyes narrowed when he saw who the visitor was, but he forced an unwilling grin to his lips.
“’Lo, Marshal,” he said. “What’s brung you out so far?”
“Just havin’ a look round,” Green said easily. “New territory to me, you see. Didn’t know I was so near yore place till I ran into Leeson a piece back.”
“Light an’ rest yore saddle,” he invited.
The room they entered was rudely furnished with the barest necessities and littered with a medley of ranch equipment. Jevons produced a bottle and glasses.
“You ’pear to be pretty well fixed here,” the guest offered, meaning exactly the opposite. “Raven come out much?”
“The place serves its purpose,” the foreman said. “Seth leaves things to me—must be a’most a month since he drifted over; reckon he finds the Red Ace more comfortable.”
“Can’t blame him,” the marshal agreed. “You got some fierce scenery back o’ you; I ain’t surprised yo’re losin’ cows.”
“We ain’t shy many, an’ if folks warn’t so soft over warpaints we wouldn’t be losin’ them,” Jevons said pointedly. “My men has orders to shoot any brave pirootin’ round this range.”
The marshal made a mental note to warn Black Feather, declined a second drink, and asked the nearest way back to Lawless.
“Bear off east an’ three-four miles’ll bring you to the drive trail north,” Jevons told him.
Until the visitor had become a mere speck on the plain the foreman watched him, his lips twisted into an ugly sneer. “Wonder what you were after, Mister Man?” he muttered. “I’ve a hunch you ain’t exactly mother’s little helper so far as Seth is concerned.”
Meanwhile the subject of this speculation was proceeding leisurely homewards, his mind busy with the problem he had to solve. That the man masquerading as “Sudden” was one of the refugees in Tepee Mountain he did not believe. The fact that the crimes had been perpetrated at propitious times could not be mere coincidence, the miscreant must have had inside knowledge. The location of the hidden horse so far from Sweetwater made Lawless the most likely place to look for the owner. He thought of Leeson.
“It don’t need much nerve to shoot a fella from cover,” he reflected. “If
he thought I’d found an’ collared the black it might explain his cuttin’ loose on me so prompt, an’ that shot was meant to hit—he warn’t funnin’.”
It was late in the afternoon when he reached the town, and putting his horse in the corral, joined Pete in the little front room of their quarters.
“The redskin sifted in two-three hours back,” Pete said. “Couldn’t git a word outa him. Cripes! A clam is one big chatterbox alongside that redskin.”
“He’s obeyin’ orders,” Green said, and told of the finding of the black horse and what followed.
“Leeson ain’t got the brains,” the deputy decided.
“Somebody else may be doin’ the plannin’,” Green argued.
“Who?” Pete asked.
The marshal looked at him commiseratingly. “That’s the worst o’ them hair-trigger tongues,” he said. “Fella’s gotta say somethin’ even when he’s got nothin’ to say.”
This reasoning was too much for the deputy; with a snort of disgust he stamped out of the room. The marshal’s smiling glance followed him.
“Tubby, yo’re one good little man,” he apostrophized. “I’m shore glad I met up with you.”
But not for worlds would he have had his friend hear this eulogy.
CHAPTER VIII
Unwanted tranquility reigned in Lawless, and the popularity of the new marshal with the better type of citizen increased daily. The rougher element, though it did not like the officer, feared him, sensing the possibilities of violence beneath the quiet exterior. Naturally there was a good deal of curiosity respecting him. Durley, chatting at his door with Timms, the blacksmith, stated his own opinion:
“He’s a man. Give him a square deal an’ you’ll get the same. Hello, there’s Tonia Sarel; ain’t she the prettiest thing that ever happened?”
The girl, who had just emerged from the store on the other side of the street, had stopped to speak with Andy Bordene. Lawless had seen little of the young owner of the Box B since his father had been laid to rest in the little cemetery by the creek, for there had been much to do at the ranch.
“’Lo, Tonia, what good wind fetched you in today?” he asked.
“A woman’s usual excuse—shopping,” she smiled. “We’ve been expecting you at the Double S.”
“I know, but I’ve had stacks to do,” he replied. “Dad hadn’t what they call a business head—he was straight himself an’ trusted folks. His affairs were in a bit of a mess, an’ I’ll have to buckle in to put them right.”
Tonia nodded. She knew he was telling her that the Box B was not as prosperous as he had expected to find it.
“If we can do anything, Andy—” she began, and broke off at an exclamation from her companion.
“Sufferin’ serpents! Here’s a circus a comin’.”
The girl turned and saw a group of riders pacing slowly up the street. Their leader, who was mounted on a fine Spanish horse, was the most magnificently attired person Lawless had ever beheld. His sombrero, bright scarlet tunic, and blue trousers were lavishly decorated with gold braid, the spurs on his polished boots were of silver, and a wealth of the same metal adorned his saddle and bridle. From beneath the broad brim of his hat his small, black eyes rested contemptuously on the hated Gringos into whose town he was riding with the air of a conqueror. The half-dozen men who followed him were Mexicans, dressed in nondescript ragged garments, but all well armed.
“Who the blazes is that spangled jay?” asked a bystander.
“El Diablo, the guerrilla, though what the hell he’s doin’ this side o’ the line, I dunno,” replied another.
Fully conscious of, but outwardly indifferent to, the interest his appearance evoked, the Mexican ambled along, pricking and then restraining the superb animal he bestrode with the obvious aim of displaying it and his own horsemanship. It was Andy’s laugh which drew his attention to the girl, and at the sight of her his eyes gleamed. With a wrench at the reins he forced his mount to pivot on its hind legs, and pulling up at the sidewalk, swept off his hat and spoke to Bordene, using the American tongue:
“I am Moraga; present me to the senorita.”
His voice was harsh, commanding, and the bold gaze rested on the girl possessively. The young rancher saw the lust in the look, and this, added to the insolence of the demand, made him careless of offence. Disdainfully he replied. “Never heard o’ you, an’ we ain’t earin’.”
The guerrilla’s yellow face became suffused and his smile changed to a snarl. “Perhaps the señor has heard of El Diablo?” he said softly, and seeing the question in the young man’s face, he added, “Si, señor, I am El Diablo.”
Andy’s cool gaze traveled slowly over the Mexican. “Well—you—shore—look it,” he drawled, and taking Tonia by the arm, turned away.
For an instant the man who had called himself Moraga glared murder, his claw-like fingers hovering over the butt of the pistol thrust through his brightly colored sash. But he knew it would be madness—a dozen men would shoot him down if he drew the weapon, and with a savage Spanish oath he wheeled his horse and rejoined his waiting followers. The humiliation made the still unhealed stripes under the gay coat burn like fire.
“He shall pay—and that other too, when I find him; but the girl! Dios! But she is beautiful,” he muttered.
“Andy has shore rubbed that Mexican the wrongest way,” grinned one of the spectators of the scene. “S’pose he’s goin’ to visit Seth?”
His surmise was correct, for at the Red Ace the Mexican wrenched his horse to a stop, flung the reins over the hitch-rail, and with a wave of dismissal to his men, vanished inside. The escort rode back to the dive presided over by their countryman, Miguel.
Closeted with Raven in the latter’s office, the visitor showed no sign of his recent rage. Smoking a long, black cigar and occasionally helping himself to wine from a bottle on the desk, he was suavity itself. The saloon-keeper had been explaining something at length.
“So now you got it,” he concluded. “There’ll be five hundred steers—mebbe more. They won’t be wearin’ my brand. But once they’re over the line their monograms won’t matter, I reckon.”
Moraga’s thin lips curled in a meaning smile; he understood perfectly. This was not the first transaction between them, though on previous occasions the saloon-keeper had apparently sold his own cattle. He drew reflectively at his cigar and asked a question, casually.
“It musta bin Tonia Sarel,” Raven said, with a keen glance. “Owns the Double S.”
“So,” the Mexican said. “Ver’ preety, that senorita. Who was the man?” he asked.
“From yore description I’d say it was young Bordene o’ the Box B,” Raven told him.
“Whose father was also—removed,” Moraga said reflectively; and then, “So the Box B weel provide the steers thees time, señor?”
“See here, Moraga, better not horn in on what don’t concern you,” he advised. “It was a fool play to come ridin’ in at the head of a young army as if you owned the town.”
“Would you have me sleenk in and out like a cur, señor?” the Mexican returned haughtily. “I am El Diablo”
“Which is why I’m warnin’ you,” Raven replied, a touch of acid in his tone. “On yore side o’ the line you may be ace-high, but on this side”—he smiled sourly at his own humor—“yo’re the deuce. If you take my tip, you’ll git back to yore own bank o’ the ditch, pronto.”
“Moraga does not run away,” the other said boastfully. “I stay till evening.”
The saloon-keeper shrugged his shoulders and offered no further protest.
Raven was not present when, later on, the guerrilla chief made his appearance in the Red Ace. A few of Seth’s friends nodded a greeting, but most of the men present either sniggered or scowled as the garishly clad figure strutted arrogantly to the bar. He had almost reached it when he saw the marshal, who, chatting with Pete, had not noticed his arrival. For an instant Moraga stood motionless, his eyes distended, his lips working, and then
, with a scream of Spanish profanity, he snatched out his pistol.
The marshal caught one glimpse of the scarlet-coated form and acted. A powerful thrust with his left hand sent Pete reeling away and at the same time a spurt of flame darted from his right hip. The bullet, striking Moraga’s gun, tore it from his numbed fingers. His left hand was reaching for his second pistol when a warning came.
“Don’t you,” the marshal said, and the cold threat in the words penetrated even the brain of the infuriated Mexican.
He hesitated, and before he could make up his mind, two men had grabbed his arms, holding him, cursing and struggling, while others got out of the line of fire. In the midst of the uproar Raven came surging in.
“What in hell’s broke loose?” he thundered.
A dozen excited voices told him the story, and as he listened his face settled into a heavy scowl. He turned to Green.
“I’ll attend to this,” he said, and signed the men to release the captive. Then, with a fierce whispered word, he led the Mexican into his private room.
“What made him pick on you, Marshal?” the store-keeper, Loder, asked.
“Spotted my badge, I reckon,” Green evaded with a laugh.
“Pity you didn’t wipe him out—he’s only here to see what chances there is to steal our cows,” said a Double S rider. “We’re losin’ ’em steady, few at a lick.”
Meanwhile, Seth Raven was listening to a story which brought disquietude even to his usually impassive features, for Moraga, mad with rage at his second discomfiture, blurted out the tale of his former meeting with the marshal, despite the fact that he thereby published his own shame. Striding up and down the room, gesticulating, almost foaming at the mouth, his voice rose to a shrill shriek as he cursed and threatened.
“I’ll keel him—keel him by inches!” he cried, and his claw-like fingers opened and shut as though he held his enemy’s throat.
“I ain’t sayin’ you mustn’t,” Raven said quietly, “but you can’t do it now or here. He’s the marshal, an’ the way the fellas out there look at it you’ve tried to run a blazer on the town. You better slide outa the back door, climb your cayuse, an’ hike for the Border.”