by Matt Rand
“An’ that’s all we’ll get,” the owner said gloomily. “The rustlers an’ that blasted quicksand, has got the rest, an’ we’ll never see hide nor hair of ’em. No use makin’ the drive with this handful, boys; we’ll get back to the ranch an’ gather another herd.”
In the early morning they started the depleted herd homewards, and the marshal and his deputy rode in the other direction—and, at the far end of the valley, found what they were seeking—the spot where the stampeders had been stationed. Behind a sharp ridge the soft ground was scored and trampled.
“Shod hosses an’ men wearin’ boots,” Green commented. “I had a notion that Injun yell warn’t just the genuine article.”
Beyond a few spent shells there was nothing else, and though they tried to follow the tracks, they soon lost them in the welter of the main trail. Giving up the task as hopeless, they followed the herd.
CHAPTER X
Long before the remnant of the trail herd had got back to the Box B the news of the disaster had come to the Red Ace. On the afternoon following the stampede, a Mexican rider, who had approached the town by devious ways, slipped into the private office. Raven’s small black eyes gleamed maliciously as he listened the messenger’s tale.
“Pretty well scattered, huh, Pedro?” he asked.
“Si, señor,” the man replied.
“Good for you,” Raven told him, and threw over a bill. “Here’s somethin’ to buck the wheel with, but don’t talk. If you do—”
When the man had gone, Raven sat thinking for a while, and then, taking his hat, sauntered down the street. Lawless boasted only one bank. The manager, Lemuel Potter, who was commonly regarded also as the owner, possessed one of those curious neuter personalities which caused him to be neither liked nor disliked, but he was reputed to be straight in his dealings. It was into this building that Raven turned, and, with a nod to the clerk behind the counter, walked through the door marked “Manager.” At the sight of his visitor, Potter stood up, and then as suddenly sat down again.
“Afternoon, Potter,” the saloon-keeper said, and, not troubling to remove his hat, took a seat and lit a cigar. “How’s Andy Bordene’s account stand?”
The manager’s fleshy, clean-shaven face flushed, and with some attempt at dignity he replied. “It is against all rules, Mr. Raven, for a bank to disclose the affairs of a customer.”
“Come down to earth, you worm,” he said cuttingly. “It suits me that folk should think you own this place, but you know better. Don’t put any frills on with me or I’ll trim you good an’ plenty, Mr. Rutson.” The man’s cheeks became deathly white. Raven chuckled. “I asked you a question, Mr.—Potter,” he added. Utterly cowed, Potter went into the outer office and consulted a ledger.
“Bordene is overdrawn five thousand,” he announced. “I saw him a few days ago and I understood that the sale of his herd would put him right.”
Raven grinned sardonically. “Mebbe, but he’s lost most of the cows in a stampede,” he said. “Now listen to me. Bordene is in a hole an’ he’ll be comin’ to you. Let him have thirty thousand on his ranch but tie him up tight. You understand?”
“Yes—sir,” the manager replied.
The tide of respect only brought a sneer to the visitor’s lips. “See to it then, an’ keep yore mouth shut or—I’ll open mine,” he growled and went out.
Two days later Bordene, having brought his salvaged herd safely back to the Box B, was sitting in Raven’s office, telling the story of the ill-fated drive. The elder man listened with a sympathetic expression.
“So you saved ’bout a third of ’em,” he commented. “Well, that’s somethin’. But you was shore playin’ in pore luck, an’ it hits us both. I told you how I’m fixed, an’ I was dependin’ on you gettin’ that money. What you aim to do?”
“Scratch up another bunch—it won’t be such a good one—an’ try again. I’ve sent word to my buyer.”
“That means waitin’—which I can’t do. Why not see Potter? He’ll let you have the cash on yore ranch, an’ that’ll give you time to turn round. I don’t want to ride you, Andy, but I’m bein’ rode myself.”
So because it seemed the only way out, and to avoid letting down one whom he deemed to be a friend, Andy went to the bank, and the man who had advised him to do so grinned felinely when he was alone. Once he held the mortgage, he would see that Bordene got deeper in the mire, and in the end the Box B would be his. Things had not quite come out as he had planned, but perhaps it was as well.
* * * *
Green and Pete found the Indian waiting for them at the corral, and having secured their own mounts, set out. Keeping, at the marshal’s suggestion, behind the houses, they slipped out of town unobserved. The redskin led the way due west, riding at a smart clip. Several miles of semi-desert were covered in silence and then Pete’s patience came to an end.
“This craze for the open air can shore be overdone,” he remarked. He shot an oblique glance at the long, silent figure riding beside him, and then the marshal laughed.
“I’m hopin’ to find some o’ Bordene’s cows for him,” the marshal said. “Black Feather don’t talk much.”
“Yo’re damn right, he don’t,” Pete agreed. “An’ yo’re pretty near as bad. Has it occurred to you that we ain’t as popular with that Raven person as we might be?”
Green nodded. “I’m beginnin’ to suspect he wouldn’t grudge the cost of a wreath,” he smiled.
The approach of night found them threading a tumbled tract of country which was new to both the white men. Their guide rode stolidly on, twisting and turning without hesitation, though they could see no trail. At length they emerged from an arroyo and saw a trampled track stretching away to the right and left. Black Feather slid down and examined the ground closely in the fading light. He rose with a grunt of satisfaction.
“No come—yet,” he said. “We wait.”
He pointed to the thick underbrush at the mouth of the arroyo out of which they had ridden, and, leading the horses, they ensconced themselves behind it. An hour passed and Green was beginning to fear the Indian had made a mistake when the distant bellow of cattle broke the silence. The moon was rising now, and peering through the bushes, they could see on the plain a dark blur which was coming nearer. Then came the dull tramp of hoofs and the low calls of the riders. Mounting their horses, the watcher waited until the herd began to file past at a tired trot. The man riding point on the left of the cattle was Leeson. The marshal forced his horse into the open.
“’Lo, Leeson,” he said.
Like a flash the man twisted in the saddle, his hand streaking to his hip, but it came away as quickly when he recognized the officer. Under the flapping brim of his hat the narrowed eyes looked vicious, but for the moment he could find nothing to say. Then reflecting that the newcomer was apparently alone, he blurted out:
“What the hell you doin’ here?”
“I’m good an’ lost,” the marshal smiled. “You see I ain’t very acquainted with these parts yet.” He raised his voice: “You can show yoreself, Pete; it’s some o’ the 88 boys.”
Leeson’s face lowered as the deputy and the Indian appeared. “What’s the bright idea, hidin’ yoreselves an’ bustin’ out thisaway?” he growled.
“We didn’t know who you was,” the marshal explained sweetly. “You mighta been Mexicans or—rustlers.”
The cattle were still moving slowly on. There was a rider on the right point and two more behind. The marshal cast a casual glance at a passing beast.
“Box B, huh?” he commented. “Where’d you find ’em?”
“Spraddled all over our range,” the man said sullenly.
“An’ yo’re takin’ ’em back to Andy, huh?” Green continued. “Well, that’s right kind o’ Jevons, I gotta admit, but ain’t you goin’ a long ways round? You’ll be over the Border ’fore you know it.”
“Thought you didn’t savvy the country,” sneered the 88 man.
“Oh, I got a sor
t o’ general idea. The Box B, I figure, lies well to the left o’ here, don’t it?”
Leeson nodded sulkily. “We turn off a piece along. This is an easier way if mebbe a bit further.”
“Tricky drivin’ at night,” the marshal pursued, and his tone conveyed a question.
“I reckoned to make it in daylight, but we had trouble,” the other explained. “Well, I gotta be movin’. So long.” He spurred his horse after the herd, but in two jumps the marshal was beside him.
“We’ll come an’ give a hand,” he said. “Four ain’t enough for a bunch this size—must be all of four hundred.”
“We can handle ’em.” Leeson said, his tone expressing anything but gratitude. “You needn’t trouble.”
“No trouble a-tall, ol’-timer,” Green said pleasantly. “We’re goin’ yore way.”
With a muttered curse the 88 man rode to the head of the herd. The cows must now be taken to their rightful owner instead of being handed over to El Diablo, whose men were waiting for them just across the line.
“Head ’em for Bordene’s ranch,” he called out to the man on the right, and gritted out an oath as he saw the marshal and his companions helping to swing the cows round so that they faced east instead of south.
Mile after mile they plodded on in the moonlight, making slow progress, for the cattle were tired. Leeson had evidently put his men wise to the altered situation for the marshal and his deputy came in for plenty of black looks.
“This’ll shore be a joyful surprise for Bordene,” Pete said genially. “He oughta be real grateful to you fellas.”
The journey was resumed in a silence broken only by the bawling of the cows and an occasional curse from one of the drivers when an animal tried to break away. Faint streaks of light behind the hills heralded the dawn when the Box B was sighted. Leeson, with Green and Barsay, rode up to the ranchhouse. A hail brought the owner.
“Well, damn me!” he cried. “Whatever are you doin’ here?”
“I’ve fetched back some o’ yore cattle, Bordene,” the 88 man told him. “Found ’em mixed up with our’n. We picked up the marshal on the way.”
The young rancher’s face lighted up at the sight of the herd. “It’s mighty decent o’ Jevons,” he said. “If he’d let me know I’d ’a’ sent for ’em, an’ glad o’ the chance.” Bordene was warm in his thanks.
“I’m a lot obliged to you, Leeson,” he said.
“Shucks! Couldn’t do nothin’ else,” that worthy replied uncomfortably, and Green smothered a chuckle; the fellow was, unintentionally, speaking the sober truth. Leeson and his men took leave hastily.
They watched the 88 men disappear in the distance, and then the marshal leaned back in his chair and laughed. Barsay caught the infection, and the rancher regarded them in blank amazement.
“Let me in on the joke, boys,” he pleaded. “I ain’t had much to be merry about lately, you know.”
“Sorry, Andy, but it was just too funny to see you squanderin’ gratitude on that fella and rubbin’ a sore spot every time you thanked him,” Green explained. “Fact is, if it hadn’t been for me, Pete, an’ the Injun, yore cows would ’a’ been over the Border hours back. Runnin’ across Leeson an’ that handful o’ steers put the idea in my head, an’ I sent Black Feather to keep an eye on the 88. He fetched us just in time.”
“The damned skunks!” Andy exploded. “Do you figure Jevons is in it?”
“Can’t say,” the marshal admitted. “Don’t see how Leeson an’ his men could get away with such a herd without the foreman knowin’.”
“Seems hardly possible,” Bordene agreed.
“Raven owns the 88, don’t he?” Pete asked meaningly.
“Yeah, but I can’t believe he’d have any hand in this,” Andy replied. “Lots o’ people don’t like him, but he’s my friend, an’, besides, there was a good reason for him wantin’ my drive to go through: I was sellin’ to pay a debt to him, an’ he wanted the money.”
“Then he’s still shy of it?” Green asked.
“Nope. I borrowed from the bank an’ paid him,” Bordene said. “He told me he had to have it.”
The marshal was silent for a while, and then he said,
“So he’s got his coin, an’ if he was in this steal he’d be the value o’ those steers to the good, huh?”
“That’s so, of course, but I can’t think it of Seth,” the young man replied. “He’s hard, an’ he wants his pound o’ flesh, but he ain’t crooked.”
Green let it go at that. After all, he had no proof that the saloon-keeper was anything but what he seemed. He had plenty to think about on the journey back to Lawless.
The marshal’s doubts as to Raven’s participation in the attempted rustling would have been speedily dissolved had he been present when the news arrived at the 88. Jevons was angry—for his own pocket was affected—but he was also alarmed.
“Seth’ll be pretty mad ’bout this,” he told Leeson. “You’d best keep outa his way for a bit.”
“How the devil could I help it?” the man asked savagely. “He’d have had to do the same hisself; there warn’t no other way out.”
“Shore; but you know what he is,” the foreman retorted. “Failure is failure, an’ he don’t make no allowances.”
“Then let him do his own dirty work, damn him,” Leeson snapped.
“You like to tell him that yoreself, or shall I?” Jevons jeered, and, reading the consternation in the man’s face, “Awright, I ain’t yappin’, but I gotta see Seth, pronto.”
Two hours’ riding brought him to the Red Ace. Entering by the back door, he sent in a message to the proprietor, who was playing poker. Raven rose instantly.
Here he found his foreman waiting, and it needed no second glance to see that he had come in a hurry and on no pleasant errand. The cards had proved unkind to Raven and he was in all ill mood.
“What’s the matter now, Jevons?” he growled.
The man told his story just as he had it from Leeson, and the saloon-keeper’s usually impassive face grew stormy as he realized the possible consequences of the disaster.
“You blunderin’ fool,” he hissed. “Why didn’t you go yoreself instead o’ sendin’ that mutton-head?”
“What difference would that ’a’ made anyhow?” Jevons retorted. “Lookit, the marshal finds us drivin’ four hundred Box B steers; what else was there to tell him? Let’s hear what you’d ’a’ done; shoot ’em down, huh?”
Raven sensed that he was going too far; the man was too useful a tool to lose. Moreover, looking at the problem Leeson had had to face more coolly, he could not but admit the only possible solution had been found. Tactfully he turned his wrath in another direction.
“Blast that marshal, he’s allus hornin’ in on what don’t concern him,” he snarled. “What was he doin’ over there?”
“Waitin’ for the herd, Leeson reckons,” the foreman said. “Some way he got on to it, though I’m blamed if I know how.”
Raven was silent, remembering something. “I can tell you,” he said. “That pesky Indian nosed it out.”
“You don’t often make a mistake in pickin’ a man, boss, but you shore slipped up on that marshal,” Jevons said acidly.
“Mistakes can frequently be rectified,” his employer told him. “Leeson don’t like Green much, does he?”
“Not that you’d notice,” returned the foreman, adding with an ugly smile as he read the other’s mind, “I’m bettin’ he’d like five hundred bucks a good deal more.”
“He can choose between ’em,” the saloon-keeper said meaningly. “Tell him I said so. By the way, what fool tried to spill Bordene in front o’ the stampede?”
Jevons made a quick decision. “News to me,” he replied. “One of his own fellas, I should say, shootin’ at the cows.”
“Don’t lie,” Raven spat out. “An’ get rid o’ that idea you can improve on my plans. Anybody see you ride in?” The foreman sullenly shook his head. “Slip out quiet an’ get back
to the ranch,” Raven added, and returned to his cards.
The 88 man was wrong in supposing he had not been seen. A pair of black, vigilant eyes, from a little depression fifty yards to the rear of the Red Ace, had watched both his arrival and departure. Black Feather was still working for the marshal.
When Raven reappeared he found that two of his party had gone, only Pardoe remaining. Andy and the marshal were standing near. In his present mood the chance of trimming the man who had so successfully interfered with his schemes was doubly welcome.
“’Lo Andy,” he greeted. “So you got some o’ yore cows back?”
“Thanks to yore fellas,” the rancher smiled. “I’m right obliged, Seth.”
“Shore, nothin’ to that, boy,” the saloon-keeper said heartily. “What about a little game? Goin’ to sit in, Marshal?”
“Pleased to,” Green assented. “What’s yore limit?”
“Oh, damn limits; let’s have a real game,” interposed the gambler. “Ain’t scared are you?”
“Only that you won’t have enough money to pay me, Parson,” was the dry response.
The gambler scowled. “You got me wrong,” he said. “My name is Pardoe.”
“Oh, yeah. My mistake,” the marshal replied, and picked up the pack of cards lying on the table. For a moment he held them, as though about to shuffle, his sensitive fingers feeling the edges, and then he said quietly, “S’pose we have a new deck.”
“What’s wrong with that one?” asked the gambler.
“I like ’em with green backs,” the marshal smiled. “My name an’ lucky color, you see.”
The bartender brought an unopened pack; Green saw the gambler slip the old one into his pocket and chuckled inwardly. Five seconds’ handling had told him that it was a “cold” deck, the ends and sides rubbed down with a file so that the high cards could be detected by touch.
The marshal found himself sitting opposite Andy, with Raven on his right and Pardoe on his left. For a time the betting was low, the gambler’s enthusiasm for a “big” game having apparently evaporated with the introduction of the new pack. Seth’s luck was poor, and the marshal and Bordene were winning.