by Matt Rand
“Prayer-meetin’ poker I call this,” Raven said sourly, as the Box B man raked in another small sum without opposition. “Ain’t nobody got pluck enough to make a worthwhile bet?”
“Yo’re playin’ too, you know, Seth,” Andy slyly reminded.
“I ain’t playin’—I’m payin’,” Raven said angrily.
The stakes rose gradually, and Bordene continued to win. Convinced that the other two were out to skin the young man, the marshal had determined to prevent it. Therefore he had warned Pardoe that he knew him, and the gambler—unable to place Green—was afraid to play his usual crooked game. The situation, combined with his not inconsiderable losses, jarred him out of his professional immobility. The saloon-keeper too was beginning to let his temper follow his money.
“Never see such mean luck,” he grumbled presently. “We’ll have a fifty-dollar pot for the last.”
It was the marshal’s deal, and there was a twinkle in his eyes as he carelessly flipped out the cards.
“She’s loose for half the pot,” Pardoe said, pushing forward a hundred dollars.
Andy came in, but Raven flung down his hand with an oath of disgust, and Green’s followed it. Both players declined cards and Pardoe opened with a bet of two hundred, which his opponent promptly doubled.
“Make it eight hundred,” snapped the gambler.
Andy hesitated for an instant, and then, “Ten,” he said. This time it was Pardoe’s turn to pause. Green saw his look at Raven, and the almost imperceptible nod he received. “Two thousand,” he said harshly.
“See that,” Andy replied. “What you got?”
“Four merry monarchs,” said Pardoe, laying the cards down, triumph in his tone.
It was short-lived. “Four little bullets shore kills them monarchs,” Andy grinned.
For a long moment the gambler stared pop-eyed at the upturned pasteboards, and then the habit of years came to his assistance.
“Aces wins,” he said, but his look at the marshal was venomous.
They adjourned to the bar, where the winner bought drinks. He was jubilant over his success and did not trouble to conceal it.
“Looks like my luck has turned at last, Seth,” he said. “It was shorely time.”
The saloon-keeper forced a smile on his thin lips. “We’re only a-lendin’ you that mazuma, Andy,” he said. “Me an’ Pardoe’ll take it away again when you ain’t playin’ with green—cards; that’s certainly a lucky color for you, too.” The young man did not detect the meaning under the bantering words, but the marshal did, and suspected that it was not entirely due to the game. When he and Andy drifted off Raven turned on the gambler.
“What the ’nation was wrong with you, tonight?” he asked. “I thought you could play poker.”
Pardoe prefaced his reply with an oath. “Couldn’t you see that blasted marshal had me hobbled?” he snarled. “He knows me, though I can’t remember him, an’ that’s why he switched the decks. He can play too; I’ll swear one o’ them aces was the bottom card when I cut for his deal. What’s he dry-nursin’ Andy for?”
In truth, he did not know. That the marshal was seriously interfering with his plans to acquire the Box B was evident enough, but Raven could find no reason for it. With knitted brow he wrestled with the problem. One thing stood out—the marshal must be got rid of. If Leeson failed—
Early on the following afternoon a musical call of “Hello, the house,” apprised Bordene that he had a visitor. Stepping out on the veranda, he saw Tonia.
“Why, Tonia, what good angel fetched you?” he cried.
“I haven’t seen you since your drive failed, Andy,” she said. “It was bad luck.”
“Might ’a’ been worse,” the young man replied. “I got nearly two-thirds of ’em back in the end,” and went on to relate the story of the strays from the 88.
“Andy, how much do you owe Raven?”
“Who’s been tellin’ you—” he began, and paused. “Well, here’s the straight of it, Tonia. I did owe Seth money an’ was aimin’ to pay when I sold the herd. When the drive was busted I had to borrow from the bank on mortgage.”
“I don’t like that,” she said. “Why didn’t you come to us?”
Bordene shook his head and she rose to go. “It’ll be all right, Tonia,” he assured her. When I’ve sold my cows I can square up. I’ll see you a piece on the way.”
The girl laughed at him. “Do you think I’m an Eastern miss to want shepherding?” she asked. She held out her hand. “Don’t trust Raven too much, Andy,” she said earnestly.
With a wave and a smile, she wheeled the pony and was off. The young rancher watched her, something more than admiration in his eyes.
Tonia had crossed the miles of open plain and reached a strip of rougher country which formed one of the boundaries of the Box B when, at the end of a long, narrow ravine, she saw a rider approaching. One glance was enough—there was no mistaking the flaming scarlet tunic, with its wealth of gold braid glittering in the bright sun. Though she had seen him but once, Tonia knew that it was El Diablo.
With a shiver of apprehension she sought a means of avoiding the meeting, but it was too late; he must already have seen her. So she rode on, hoping that by a display of indifference she might get past. But when she was a few yards distant the man pulled his mount across, barring her path and swept the sombrero from his head.
“Buenos dias, senorita,” he said, and in her own tongue he added, “Miss Sarel ride all alone, huh?”
“As you see, señor,” the girl replied. “I must ask you to excuse me; I am in haste.”
“A lady so beautiful must also be kind-hearted and grant a few meenits to her so great admirer.”
“I have no time to spare, and—I do not know you, señor,” Tonia returned.
The guerrilla captain bowed low over the neck of his magnificent mount. “No?” he smiled. “Then we must—how you say?—become acquaint. In the absence of Meester Bordene I present myself, Don Luis Moraga, a caballero of Old Spain, and at your feet.”
“In my way would be more correct, señor,” the girl retorted. “As for Mr. Bordene, I am expecting him to overtake me, and he may have friends with him.”
The man laughed mockingly. “I too have friends here, senorita,” he said, and tapped the butts of the silver-mounted pistols thrust through his sash.
“I must repeat, señor, that I am in haste,” she said coldly. “A caballero would not detain me.”
Moraga grinned as he forced his horse to her side. “The senorita is at liberty to go—when she have paid, oh, so small a ransom,” he said. “One leetle kees—”
Tonia’s eyes and cheeks flamed at the insult. Heedless of her helplessness, she gripped the quirt dangling by a thong from her wrist, and cried. “Lay a finger on me, you yellow dog, and I’ll thrash you!”
The contemptuous epithet stung the Mexican to fury. “Dios!” he hissed, “you shall pay for that.” He snatched at her wrist, but she jumped aside and swung the whip. Moraga cursed as the lash seared his cheek but before she could strike again his claw-like hands were sinking into her flesh and he was dragging her from the saddle, his snarling lips, like a ravening wolf’s, close to her own. Panting for breath, she fought on, but could not loosen that iron grip, and her strength was well-nigh spent when a cold, rasping voice said: “Put ’em up, Moraga, an’ pronto!”
Moraga flashed round, his hands going to his guns, but when he saw who had spoken they went above his head instead; he knew better than to try to beat the marshal of Lawless to the draw. Green, lounging in his saddle, surveyed the ruffian sardonically.
“Gettin’ whipped seems to be a habit o’ yores,” he commented, his gaze on the angry crimson stripe across the man’s face. Green turned to the girl. “Has he hurt you?” he asked.
“No, I’m only frightened,” she replied.
“Ride on a piece, Miss Sarel,” he said. “I’ll be along.”
“What are you going to do?” she questioned.
/> “Kill a snake,” he said coolly.
“No, no,” she protested. “He’s a Mexican and didn’t understand. Please let him go.”
The marshal shrugged his broad shoulders. “I oughta wiped him out the first time,” he said. “Very well, ma’am, but he’s gotta have a lesson. Get off yore horse an’ stand over there,” he directed the Mexican, pointing to a spot about ten paces distant, and when the command had been sullenly obeyed, he added, “An’ stand mighty still if you want to see another sunrise.”
He got down himself and drawing the two pistols from the bandit’s sash, stepped back. For a moment he paused, weighing the weapons, and then the gun in his right hand roared and the brooch in Moraga’s sombrero was torn from its place.
“You can thank the senorita for yore life, Moraga,” he said sternly. “Stay yore own side o’ the line; she may not be there to beg you off next time. Vamos!”
He swung into his saddle and joined Tonia, unmindful of the stream of Spanish imprecations and threats the almost demented bandit hurled after them.
“How can I thank you?” Tonia asked. “I’m not easily scared, but that fellow was—horrible!”
“Just forget it,” Green smiled. “This is part o’ my job as marshal; but you hadn’t oughta ride alone round here—it’s too near the Border.”
When they reached the Double S, Reuben Sarel emerged from his favorite corner on the veranda to greet them. “Glad to see you, Marshal,” he cried. “Why, Tonia, what’s the matter?”
In a few words she told of her adventure and the fat man’s expression became serious. “I’m thankin’ you, Marshal,” he said. “We’ll have to keep an eye liftin’ at the Double S. By all accounts, El Diablo is a poisonous piece o’ work, an’ he’ll move heaven an’ hell to square hisself. Mebbe you put a scare into him, but I doubt it. Wonder if he bumped off Bordene?”
“Possible, o’ course, but I got no reason to think so,” the marshal replied. “You losin’ any cows?”
The fat man opened his eyes. “Yeah, but I ain’t been advertisin’ it,” he said. “There seems to be a steady leak—few at a time, an’ I can’t trace it. Any reason for askin’?”
“Just a notion,” Green assured him. “Tell you later if I get to know anythin’.”
On his way back to town he pondered over the bit of information. It had been purely a shot in the dark, but it opened up a new line of investigation for the morrow. Looking at the Double S brand on the rump of Miss Sarel’s mount, it had suddenly struck him how very simply it could be changed into a passable 88. He slapped the neck of the black horse.
“You ol’ son of a sweep,” he told it. “Things is gettin’ right interestin’ in this neck o’ the woods.”
CHAPTER XI
Riding along the street, the marshal noticed that his appearance was creating unusual interest; men he knew greeted him boisterously, and others, though silent, looked at him curiously. It was not until he reached his quarters that he learned the reason.
“So you’ve had another fandango with Mister Moraga?” Pete burst out, and the marshal swore.
“Hell’s bells! Has that got around?”
Raven entered at that moment. He did not beat about the bush.
“Hear you’ve had another clash with Moraga.”
The marshal nodded. “I found him tryin’ to drag Miss Sarel from her saddle an’ had to admonish him some.”
“A gal hadn’t oughta be ridin’ round alone,” the saloonkeeper snapped. “I reckon I made a mistake over you, Green. You ain’t exactly a shinin’ success as a marshal, are you? Sudden gets away with a stage robbery an’ a murder, an’ all you do is to get the town in bad with a fella strong enough to wipe it out if he takes the notion.”
“You tryin’ to tell me that Lawless will lie down to be trampled on by that Mexican an’ his band o’ thieves?” the marshal asked.
“No, the damn idjuts would paint for war immediate,” Raven admitted crossly. “What I’m drivin’ at is that it’s bad business. I ain’t a fightin’ fool. I’m here to make coin, an’ I reckoned you was too.”
“Shore, but I’m a mite particular where it comes from,” Green told him.
The saloon-keeper regarded him with puzzled exasperation. Was he simply stupid, or playing a part? Raven could not determine, but one point stood out plainly—the marshal was not a tool to be used.
“You better tell the town to get organized,” he sneered. “Moraga’s got a good memory.”
“Then he’ll stay on his own side o’ the line, like I told him,” the marshal said. “If he don’t, you’ll lose a customer for yore cows.”
The other made no reply, but his brows were bent in a heavy frown as he went away.
Following up the notion that had come to him on his way back from the Sarel ranch, the marshal spent the whole of the next morning exploring the country east of the 88, his interest being in the brands of such cattle as he encountered.
“It would be easy as takin’ a drink, an’ if Jevons is honest he’s shore got a misleadin’ face,” he muttered.
Though he was many miles from the Double S, he was working in that direction, passing over a level expanse of good grass, gashed here and there with little gullies, with an occasional thicket of close-growing trees and shrubs. From one of these came the bellow of a steer, and forcing his way in, the marshal found that the trees ringed a grassy, saucer-like depression, in the middle of which was a rough corral. Riding down to the enclosure, one glance told him he had found what he sought—stolen stock. There were about a score of cows in the corral and the brand on them had been recently worked over, transforming a Double S into an 88. Until the scars healed the cattle could not be allowed to run loose. Regaining the level, the marshal loped leisurely in the direction of the town, turning over his discovery. That Raven, as owner of the 88, was in on the steal, he had not the slightest doubt, but the trouble was to prove it.
“Cuss the luck,” he soliloquized. “I’m findin’ nothin’ but loose ends.”
He was crossing a little tree-covered plateau from which a gravely stretch of ground sloped gently down when a slug sang past his ear, followed by the report of a revolver. Instantly he flung himself headlong to the earth, falling so that he lay behind a convenient boulder. Some sixty yards down the decline wisps of blue smoke showed that the shot came from behind a low bush, apparently the only cover the spot offered. At one side the chunk of rock did not touch the ground, and this provided the marshal with a peep-hole through which he could watch events. Motionless, with gun drawn, he waited, but nothing happened.
“He’s wonderin’ if he got me,” Green muttered. “Well, I ain’t tellin’ him.”
Another ten minutes passed, and first the crown and then the brim of a black sombrero edged into view above the bush. The marshal chuckled softly; he knew there was no head inside the hat and declined to be drawn. The hat vanished and the bush was slightly agitated, but the silence remained unbroken. Another interval and abruptly from behind the bush a man stood up, pistol in hand; it was Leeson. When the expected shot did not come, he laughed hoarsely.
“Musta nailed him,” he said aloud. “But I gotta make shore.”
His weapon ready for instant use, he stepped from his cover and began to mount the slope. The marshal waited until he was too far from the bush to regain it and then rose noiselessly to his feet.
“Reach for the sky, Leeson; I’m coverin’ you,” he called.
The man flung up his arms as ordered, but at the same moment he sprang sidewise and to Green’s astonishment and chagrin, vanished from view. A jeering laugh, and a shot which passed perilously near, provided the sole evidence that he was still in the vicinity. The marshal dropped behind his refuge and his spoken comment was vivid.
“The devil burn him, there must be a hole there.”
His surmise was correct—there was a hole, just sufficiently capacious to cover a stooping man, and Leeson had been quick to seize his only chance. True, he could not attack
without exposing himself, but his opponent was in a like difficulty.
“I got all the time there is an’ it’s his move,” Leeson chortled. He snuggled down in his retreat, rolled himself a smoke, and whistled a cheerful tune, peeping from time to time to see that the enemy did not attempt a sudden sortie. From a spot not far away on his left he could hear the throaty gurgle of a stream, which reminded him that he was thirsty. “This sun’s blamed hot; wish I had some o’ that water,” he muttered.
If there are, as some folks believe, fairies whose mission is to fulfill the fancies of favored humans, they must have laughed when they heard that wish. Green, irritated by the joyous sounds from below, was also thirsty, and had crawled cautiously back to satisfy his need. This done, his gaze followed the course of the rivulet as it went laughing and leaping down the dropping ground and noted the little trench which ran parallel to it for a few yards and then diverged to the left. A whimsical possibility occurred to him.
Without exposing himself, he hurriedly built a dam of stones and packed sand which turned the stream in the direction he desired, and presently had the satisfaction of seeing it flow steadily down the new channel. Lying behind his rock, with a grin of anticipation on his face and gun ready, he awaited results; they were not long in coming. The first intimation was a cessation of the concert, the performer breaking off in the middle of a high trill as he suddenly became aware that water was seeping into his hiding place. Already a little pool had collected at the bottom, and more was coming over the upper edge. This miraculous fulfillment of his wish did not produce the satisfaction the good fairies had a right to expect.
“What the hell?” he swore in bewilderment.
He popped up to discover the whyfor of this prank on the part of nature and dropped back with hate as a bullet burned his ear. He tried to erect a barrier, but when another shot went between his groping hands, filling his eyes and mouth with sand, he abandoned the idea. The whistling of a merry tune from up the slope apprised him that the marshal was enjoying the situation. In a very short time the water was level with his boot-tops, and he strove to scoop out a ledge to stand on. In the doing, he must have shown himself, for a shot snatched the hat from his head and so startled him that he slipped and sat down with a splash.