The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

  “If you’ve finished yore bath, fella, you can come out,” he said. “Chuck yore weapons ahead o’ you.”

  He watched while a gun and a knife curved through the air towards him, and then a woebegone, dripping, and utterly disgusted figure crawled out of the hole.

  “What’s the idea, drownin’ a hombre thataway?” the wet one snarled, and then, as though he had just discovered the identity of his opponent, “Why, damn me if it ain’t the marshal.”

  Green picked up the surrendered weapons. “You didn’t know, o’ course,” he said sarcastically.

  “An’ that’s a fact,” Leeson replied. “I took you for that road-agent. Sudden. Well, mistakes will happen, but there’s no harm done; I’m glad I didn’t get you, Marshal.”

  “I’m a mite pleased about that my own self,” the officer admitted. “I got you instead, an’ I’m takin’ you in.” Leeson stared at him in anger and amazement, the latter well simulated. “Ain’t I explained it was a mistake?” he demanded.

  “Folks have to pay for ’em in this hard world, fella,” the marshal told him. “Get a-goin’.”

  “Seth’ll have a word to say ’bout this,” Leeson growled, and for the rest of the journey maintained a sullen silence. On reaching town, the marshal handed the captive over to his assistant and went in search of Raven. He found him in his private room at the saloon.

  “Leeson tried to bushwhack me this afternoon,” he said bluntly. “I fetched him in—alive.”

  For one fleeting second the man’s face betrayed an emotion, but whether it was surprise, anger, or disappointment, the marshal could not determine; then it was gone, and the cold, passionless mask was back again.

  “Leeson shot at you? Whatever for?” he asked.

  “Pure affection, don’t you reckon?” Green returned flippantly, and then, “He claims he took me for Sudden.”

  “Well, that’s likely enough too,” Raven returned. “You better get rid o’ that black hoss. As for Leeson, I’d turn him loose, in yore place. The fella’s just one o’ my hands—not too good a one at that. His tale will clear him with most.” Green nodded and came away. At the office he found Pete and the prisoner chatting amiably. When handed his weapons and informed that he was at liberty to depart, a sneering grin further disfigured Leeson’s features.

  “Got yore orders from Seth, huh?” he said.

  “Don’t push yore luck too hard, fella,” the marshal replied caustically.

  When he had gone Barsay burst into a roar of merriment, and it was some moments before he could explain.

  “He’s bin tellin’ me how you turned the tap on him,” he said. “An’ he was as solemn as an undertaker at his own funeral.”

  “It was shorely funny,” the marshal grinned. “When he sat down in the water. An’ crawlin’ outa the hole he looked like a wet cat. Just the same, he damn near got me.”

  “You oughta abolished him right away,” Pete said disgustedly. “Where’s the sense in totin’ him in?”

  “Wanted to see what line Raven would take,” Green replied. “But he warn’t makin’ presents today. As hard to catch as a greased snake, that fella. The 88 is rustlin’ Double S cows. What you make o’ that?”

  “I ain’t surprised a-tall,” Pete told him. “That gang at the 88 ain’t got enough honesty to protect a plugged peso. I’ve a hunch Mister Raven is swingin’ a wide loop.”

  In which conjecture Pete was undoubtedly correct, but as to how wide the said loop was neither of them had, as yet, the smallest conception.

  CHAPTER XII

  Seth Raven was paying a visit, and though attired as usual, a careful observer might have noted that his sallow face was newly shaven, his shirt and collar clean, and his black coat and boots brushed. Slumped in his saddle, with a loose rein, he jogged steadily along the eastern trail on his way to the Double S. The move he was about to make was one he had long deliberated, being, in fact, the coping-stone of all his plannings. He would have to walk warily—today’s expedition was merely the first step. Overeagerness was the fault of a fool, and therefore, as he reflected sardonically, the weakness of the majority of mankind. Halfway along the shadowed gloomy defile of the Cut he pulled his pony to a stop and looked around, his thin lips curving in a sneer.

  “Must be about here you wished the world a fond farewell, Mister Anthony Sarel,” he soliloquized. “You was one o’ them uppity folk—used to tip yore chin when you spoke to me, didn’t you? Well, I’m here an’ you’re—where? An’ if I come to own the Double S, to say nothin’ o’ the Box B an’ the 88, I wonder what you’ll think, s’posin’ you can see from hell this far?”

  By the time he had covered the open range and reached the ranch house the sun’s rays were slanting down like beams of flame and the shaded veranda was a comforting sight. An even more pleasant one was the girl standing upon it, though there was no welcoming smile on her face; she had early discovered the identity of the visitor.

  “Mornin’, Miss Tonia.”

  The girl returned the salutation, adding, “You want to see my uncle, of course.”

  “No ‘of course’ about it when you’re around,” Raven replied with clumsy gallantry. “But, as a matter o’ fact, there’s a bit o’ business I wanta talk over with him. Ah, here he is. ’Lo Reub, how are you?”

  “Mornin’, Seth. Hot, ain’t it? Me, I’m just meltin’ away.” The saloon-keeper was only half listening. He was watching the girl as she left them to talk, admiring the lithe grace of her every movement, savoring the appeal of her slim, rounded form.

  “What’s brung you, Seth?”

  Raven did not reply at once; he was taking in his surroundings, noting the solidity and apparent comfort of the ranch.

  “Anthony knowed what he was about when he hit on this place—I reckon there ain’t a better ranch in a hundred miles,” he said slowly. “How much stock you runnin’, Reub?”

  “Can’t tell till round-up,” the fat man replied. “Oughta be around four thousand head, I guess.”

  “An’ it all belongs to Tonia. She’s of age, ain’t she?” Reuben Sarel nodded.

  “It’s a big property for a gal to manage,” Raven said reflectively.

  “She’s got me,” Sarel pointed out.

  “Yeah, an’ she had her dad,” the saloon-keeper reminded him. “Somethin’ might happen to you too, Reub; we’re all mortal.”

  The stout man’s face lost a little of its color. He did not like the suggestion, or the tone in which it was made.

  “Cheerful chap, ain’t you?” he said, with an attempt at jocularity. “Anyways, I s’pose Tonia will be gettin’ married sooner or later.”

  “To Andy Bordene?”

  “Looks like, though I dunno as anythin’ is fixed.”

  “An’ what happens to you then, Reub?”

  Sarel stared in surprise. “Why, I hadn’t give it a thought,” he said. “S’pose I’d stay put, or perhaps Andy would let me run the Box B if they decided to live here.”

  “Don’t you gamble on that,” the visitor said quietly. “I happen to know that Andy don’t think much o’ yore business capacity—heard him say so once. I’m bettin’ you get yore time.”

  The statement was made with conviction, and, moreover, though he had denied it, confirmed a fear that had already assailed Tonia’s relative more than once. As manager of the Double S he knew he had a soft job, and the prospect of having to turn out and really work for a living appalled him; he was too old, too gross, and too accustomed to an easy time. Raven’s crafty eyes read all this, saw that the man was shaken to the core, and sneered inwardly. What a difference between the two brothers! Anthony, robust, active, purposeful, cutting his own trail and following it, regardless of opposition, once his mind was made up; a good friend but a bad enemy. Reuben, a mountainous mass of vacillating flesh, neither good nor bad but just—weak.

  “Tonia wouldn’t turn me out,” Reuben protested.

  “Mebbe not, but her husband might, an’ I figure she’ll be a duti
ful wife,” Raven replied, and struck again; “I’m hopin’ not, seein’ you still owe me four thousand.”

  “It ain’t so much, Seth; you had fifty cows.”

  “Which I gave you twenty a head for—good price too for stolen stock,” the saloon-keeper retorted, sneering when the other winced. “It was five thousand, warn’t it? More than I can afford to drop, Reub. If you lose out here I’ll have to go to Tonia.”

  The threat of exposure to the child he had robbed, but of whom he was genuinely fond, wilted the man. Sagging limply in his chair, as though he had been hung over it like a wet rag to dry, his bulging cheeks the color of rain-washed chalk, he goggled at his tormentor. When he spoke it was in a husky whisper:

  “Anythin’ but that, Seth. Take some more cows; I can manage so they won’t be missed.”

  Raven shook his head. “Too risky—for me. Think I wanta be pulled for rustlin’? I only took ’em before ’cause I was damn short an’ to oblige you. No, there’s a better way.”

  Sarel raised his head, a gleam of hope in his deep-sunk eyes.

  “S’pose she married someone else?” Raven went on.

  “You got anybody in yore mind?” Reuben queried.

  The saloon-keeper hesitated, and then, “Yeah,” he said firmly. “A fella who wouldn’t send you travelin’ an’ who might forget about that four thousand.”

  It took a moment or two for the significance of this to sink in, but when it did the fat man sat up in his chair as though he had been stung.

  “You?” he cried. “You marry Tonia? Why, damn—” He clamped his lips suddenly.

  “You were goin’ to say—?” Raven suggested softly.

  Sarel swallowed hard and looked uncomfortable. “I was goin’ to say, damn me if I ever thought of it,” he lied.

  “Why should you ’a’ thought of it, Reub?” he asked smiling. “An’ again, why shouldn’t you? I’m young yet, an’ there’s less important fellas than me in these parts. Is there any reason why I mustn’t aspire to yore niece?”

  The cold, beady eyes of the speaker bored into those of the man opposite, daring him to say what he knew was in his mind—that there was a reason, one no amount of argument could ever remove. Reuben Sarel squirmed in his chair, fearful of giving offence, as helpless as a hog-tied calf in the branding corral. When the words came they were no answer to the question.

  “I expect she ain’t never thought o’ you thataway, Seth. It’s her say-so, you know.”

  “Shore, but you bein’ her only relative, I reckoned it right to get yore—consent. No doubt it’ll take time, but with you on my side I got a chance.”

  “Tonia’s fond o’ Bordene.”

  “Natural enough—they’ve been brought up together,” Raven agreed. “But Andy’s affairs are in bad shape, an’ he’s drinkin’ an’ gamblin’ more’n a young fella should who’s expectin’ to settle down. You sabe?”

  The Double S man nodded miserably; he was getting orders and hated it, but he could not help himself. At his invitation the visitor stayed for the midday meal, and made a surprising effort to be pleasant. He paid Tonia one or two little compliments, but was careful not to let any hint of his intentions escape him. When Bordene’s name was mentioned, all he said was, “Andy’s havin’ a tough time; I’m hopin’ he’ll make the grade.”

  After he had gone, the girl turned to her uncle. “I don’t think I ever disliked anyone as I do that man,” she said. “He’s—slimy.”

  “Oh, Seth’s all right,” Reuben muttered, and cursed the passion for poker which had put him in the saloon-keeper’s power. He watched as she went to get her pony from the corral, stepping with a fine, swinging grace which, as so many things in her did, brought back her father. The thought that followed made him sick. How would Anthony have received the proposal to which he had tamely listened? He knew only too well—flung the maker of it headlong into the dust, at no matter what cost to himself. Anthony had been all man, while he… With a bitter oath he turned into the house.

  At the slow “Spanish trot” of the cowpuncher, Raven was returning to Lawless. He was well satisfied with the morning’s work. Another instrument for the furtherance of his schemes had been created. His lips curled disdainfully when he dwelt upon Reuben Sarel.

  Before his brooding eyes flashed a picture of the future as he had planned it: Seth Raven, offspring of a drunken prospector and his Comanche woman, owner of three big ranches and husband of the prettiest girl in the Southwest, rich, respected, and above all, feared. He saw himself sent to Congress, even appointed Governor of the Territory, and at the thought of that he laughed harshly.

  “By God! I’ll make some o’ these damn Yanks step around,” he cried.

  It was typical of the man that he did not long indulge in these daydreams. Almost immediately his mind was again milling over the problems he had to solve, and of these the most pressing was the marshal. Leeson had failed and he cursed him for a clumsy fool. Then his scowl changed to a Satanic smile of satisfaction; he had hit on a plan, one which would achieve his object without any comeback, which was what he deserved.

  “That’ll fix him,” he exulted, and awoke his dozing pony by ripping it across the ribs with both spurs.

  CHAPTER XIII

  It was two mornings later that Pete, who for once, was first astir, found a somewhat grubby envelope thrust under the door. It was addressed to “The Marshul.”

  “Huh, one has come at last,” he said.

  “One what?” asked his friend.

  “A love letter,” Pete grinned. “I’m wonderin’ which o’ the damsels in this doghole of town has fallen for yore fatal beauty?”

  He tore open the envelope, extracted a scrap of coarse paper, and read: “Marshul: If you wanta here about Sudden, come to the Old Mine at nune.—A Frend.”

  “Writin’ is pretty good, but she’s got her own notions o’ spellin’,” Pete commented.

  “You supposin’ it’s a girl?”

  “Shore am. One o’ these female wimmen wants to meet you on the quiet. Mebbe she’s bashful, or got a husban’ or somethin’.”

  “You ain’t got brains enough to outfit a flea,” the marshal said caustically.

  “I’m a-comin’ with you,” Pete irrelevantly announced.

  “You are—not,” Green retorted, and then laughed. “The lady wouldn’t like it, Tubby.”

  “Aw, hell, Jim,” the little man protested. “How d’you know it ain’t Leeson layin’ for you again?”

  “Shucks!” the marshal said. “Anyways, yo’re goin’ to have a nice chatty day with Black Feather lookin’ for more rustled Double S cows.”

  Barsay swore wholeheartedly. “Damn me if you ain’t as obstinate as an army mule,” he grumbled.

  The approach of noon found Green nearing the rendezvous. Although he had derided his friend’s doubts, he recognized that he was taking a risk, and had no intention of riding blindly into an ambush. Therefore he turned off the trail and advanced cautiously under cover of the chaparral until he was able to see the open space where Bordene’s body had been found. Squatting on the ground in the shade of a juniper was a man, smoking a cigarette. He was a Mexican of the poorest class, a peon, with a knife and pistol thrust through the dirty scarf wound round his waist. For a while the marshal waited, and then rode out. Instantly the man got up, a gleam in his eyes.

  “Buenos dias, señor!” he greeted. “No spik here; I breeng horse.”

  He slipped like a snake into the brush, and a moment later, a cackle of merriment told the marshal that he was trapped.

  “One leetle move, señor, and you die,” said a familiar voice.

  Green glanced round and saw Moraga covering him with a leveled carbine; saw too the dozen bandits with drawn guns closing in upon him from all sides, and realized that any attempt at resistance would be sheer suicide. His hands came away from his guns, and, disregarding the threat, he rolled and lighted a smoke. Then he turned to face the leader.

  “You win—this time—little
man,” he said contemptuously. “Brought yore army too, I see.”

  Moraga spat out a sibilant Spanish oath; like most small men he was touchy about his stature. For an instant his hand hovered over a pistol butt, and then, with a cruel smile, he hissed, “I can wait, señor.” Turning to his followers, he added, “Seize and tie him.”

  The marshal had made his preparations. While his hands had apparently been fumbling with his cigarette papers, he had deftly tied the reins to the horn of his saddle. As soon as he heard the command, he slid to the ground and uttered a shrill call. His horse knew it for the signal that he was to go full speed, and bunching his great muscles he sprang forward, burst through the ring of astonished riders, and vanished down the trail. Green grinned scornfully as two of the guerrillas spurred after the runaway; he knew his horse. The return of the animal to town with the reins tied would tell Pete something was wrong, and they might be able to trail the bandits; it was his only chance.

  Two men removed the marshal’s guns and directed him to mount a pony; his wrists were then secured and his ankles roped beneath the animal’s belly. At a word from its leader, the party set out at a fast lope, headed for Mexico. The chance of deliverance was slim indeed, and Green had little hope of seeing another day dawn. Some time must necessarily elapse before a rescue party could be organized and the country on the other side of the line was of the wildest description, making the following of a trail a slow and arduous affair.

  Plodding on, the horses’ feet sinking to the fetlocks in the hot, powdery sand, at length the leader called a halt. It was a curious place. Pieces of stone were set in a rude circle, some upright, pointing like fingers to the sky, others lying prone. Old, weather-scarred, they yet seemed to suggest humanity. The marshal had no thought for them; his mind was busy with the problem of why the stop had been made. It could not be to camp, for there was neither wood nor water: it must be that this was where he was to die. He looked at Moraga, as two of the men removed the rope from his feet and dragged him from the saddle, and saw that he had guessed correctly; the guerrilla leader’s face was that of a devil. When he spoke his voice was soft, silky, but charged with menace: