The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

  “The señor understands? He will remain here, where nothing can live—long. It is the fate of those who cross El Diablo.”

  “Shucks! I didn’t cross you; it was the Injun did that,” Green retorted. “How them scars healin’ up?”

  The reminder of his humiliation—one that nothing could ever wipe out, shattered the Mexican’s self-control, and turned him into a raving beast. With eyes glazed and body shaken by rage he poured out oaths and threats at a prisoner who heard them unmoved, a contemptuous sneer on his lips. Suddenly the madman paused, a look of cunning in his little eyes.

  “Sangre de Dios! Almos’ you treek me,” he said, and thrust back the gun he had drawn. “The señor is brave—he think it is easy to die, not so? El Diablo teach him how hard it can be—sometimes.” The unmoved demeanor of the man before him brought on another short spate of rage.

  “You Gringo dog!” he stormed. “You shall die by inches, slowly, horribly, with life a few paces away and yet out of reach. The señor has seen a man die of thirst—yes? He know how the tongue go black and swell up teel it too beeg for the mouth; how the body burn like—”

  “Them scars on yore chest,” the marshal suggested. This time the gibe produced no outward effect. Moraga went on: “Like fire; the eyes lose their light; and the brain—melts. It is not nice, señor, as you weel learn—presently.”

  “You got me plumb scared,” the prisoner replied, and if he was telling the truth his bearing did not show it.

  At an order from the leader, Green’s wrists were first freed and retied with a lariat, which was then fastened securely to one of the smaller horizontal stones. He was too near to the weight to turn round, but he could sit down, and did so, watching the rest of the preparations with a face of iron. Moraga, dismounting, inspected the bonds, and then stepped back a few paces to gloatingly survey his victim.

  “I might wheep you, señor,” he said, “but I want that you have all your strengt’; you weel suffer longer.”

  With a harsh laugh he turned away, and as he did so a knife slipped from his sash and dropped soundlessly upon the soft sand. To the marshal’s surprise no one appeared to have noticed it. Moraga croaked another command, and one of the men unslung his gourd canteen and placed it in the shadow of a stone about ten paces from the bound man, who caught the swish of the water as he put it down. The guerrilla leader waved to it.

  “There is life, señor, if you can reach it,” he jeered. “But the stone is a leetle heavy, I fear. When next I thrash an Indian dog, or pay my respects to a senorita, you weel not interfere—no. Adios!”

  With a snarling grin, he bowed to the man he was condemning to a cruel death, and leaping on the back of his horse, signed to his troop and followed them on the journey out of the desert. The marshal watched the riders vanish over a distant swell and then gazed around; he could see nothing but sand, ridges, humps, and flat levels, reaching unendingly to the horizon. His position appeared to be desperate; even if he got free, the task of making his way on foot out of this grim wilderness would be well-nigh hopeless.

  The stillness of the desert wrapped him like a shroud. The sun, a ball of white flame, blazed out of a cloudless dome of pale blue. There was no movement in the air, no bird, reptile, or insect. With the departure of his captors, sound seemed to have gone also, leaving a silence which was that of a tomb. An instinctive desire to break this menacing, nerve-shattering quiet made him speak aloud.

  “Wonder what kind o’ hombres fetched these rocks? Sorta temple, looks like; been here a few thousand years too, I reckon. This fella I’m roped to might be an Aztec stone o’ sacrifice. Well, it’ll shore have another offering if I don’t get busy.”

  The sound of his own voice amazed him: he hardly recognized it. He found difficulty in forming the words; his throat was parched and his tongue already swollen. Anxiously he peered through the dancing, quivering heat, but the surrounding desert was empty.

  “Damnation! I’ll beat the game yet,” he said, and the fact that the words were a whisper only warned him that he had no time to lose.

  Twisting his fingers round the lariat, he dug his heels into the sand and flung his weight forward. There seemed to be a slight movement, but whether it was the stone or a mere stretching of the rawhide he could not determine. Again he tried, and this time felt sure that the weight behind him rocked. It gave him an idea. Turning as far as he could, with the toe of his boot he scraped the sand from under the stone, forming a hollow for it to fall into. This helped, but it was slow work, and at the end of a hour’s digging and pulling he had advanced little more than a yard.

  Panting for breath in that oven-like atmosphere, with every muscle aching and a throat which seemed to be on fire, he sat on the stone and gazed at the blade which meant freedom gleaming in the sunlight only a few feet away.

  Doggedly he resumed his labors, a slight slope in the sand helping a little, but the terrific exertion, the hammering heat, and the lack of liquid were taking their toll, and the next hour found his strength almost spent, with the goal still two yards distant. Grey with dust, speechless, staggering weakly, he fought on, creeping inch by inch towards the coveted bit of steel. His body was one huge throb of pain, but he battled with it, tensing his teeth and tugging until it seemed to him that his arms must leave their sockets.

  He was still some five feet from the knife when he again sank gasping upon the stone, unable to move the monstrous burden another inch. It seemed to be the end. Glaring with haggard eyes, a sudden possibility occurred to him; it was his last hope. Resting all his weight on his hands, he arched his body and reached for the knife with one heel. The strain on his pulsing sinews was agonizing, but after one or two attempts he hooked his spur over the glittering blade and brought it nearer. Pausing for long moments between each effort, he at last had the thing at his feet, but tied as he was, could not get his hands to it. Kneeling in the sand, he contrived to grip the haft between his knees and stand up again; then his groping fingers touched the blade, and a moment later he was free. Staggering like a drunken man he lunged forward and snatched up the canteen, only to fling it down; it was empty!

  A croak of mingled disappointment, rage, and despair broke from his strangled throat as the devilish cruelty of the trick seeped into his tortured brain. The knife left apparently by accident; the canteen of water, deliberately punctured when the man set it down, to deal a crushing blow to the reason of one already dying from thirst.

  Instinctively he glanced around, almost expecting to hear mocking laughter, but there was no living thing in sight. The Mexican and his men had not waited—there was no need to put themselves to that discomfort. Even if the prisoner succeeded in getting free and retained his sanity, he would not have the strength to escape from the desert without water, food and a horse.

  Faint and wracked with pain, the American was not yet beaten. Picking up the knife, he turned his face to the north. The sun’s rays were no longer vertical, but the heat was still terrific. Nightfall would bring a bitter cold air, and though this would mean some relief, he knew that unless he found water he must die. Lurching from side to side he floundered on through the burning sand.

  He staggered on, frequently falling from sheer weakness, but always, after a time, rising to continue the fight. A great stain of crimson on the western horizon told him that the sun was sinking, and the air was already cooler. In the effort to retain his reason, he tried to keep his mind from the one thing his whole body cried out for. It was in vain; pictures of cool running streams presented themselves, and the sound of waterfalls were perpetually in his ears. With leaden feet he stumbled on.

  The moon came up and threw a softening silver radiance over the harshness of the desert. To the desperately worn man plodding through it, the sand seemed a malignant devil which clutched his ankles and held them. Each step was now an achievement, for his strength was gone. Weaving blindly onwards he fell again, made a last attempt to rise, and then lay supine…

  CHAPTER XIV

>   The marshal awoke to a pleasant feeling of warmth and found that he was covered with a blanket and lying beside a fire of dead mesquite branches. Pete, with an anxious face, was kneeling over him, a canteen in his hands. Green made a feeble grab at it.

  “No, you don’t,” the deputy grinned. “That stuffs wuss’n whisky for you just now. You gotta be spoon-fed fella, yet awhile.”

  “How’d you find me?” the invalid asked.

  “You gotta thank the Injun for that,” Pete told him. “Fact is, we didn’t do no searchin’ for rustled cattle; I played a hunch an’ we followed you ’bout an hour after; when we met yore hoss I knowed somethin’ was wrong. We picked up the trail at the Old Mine. How the hell that copper-colored cuss followed it I dunno, but he did, an’ I’m bettin’ we come just in time.”

  “That’s whatever,” the marshal agreed, and held out his hand to the redskin. “I’m mighty obliged to you,” he added.

  Black Feather took the hand timidly. “White man my brother,” he said in his low, husky tone.

  Water, warmth, and food gradually restored the marshal’s strength, but the red rim of the sun was rising above the horizon before he was able to stand. Helped by the others, he mounted the Indian’s horse, its owner electing to walk, and they set out. By this time he had managed to tell the full story; on the redskin it produced no visible effect, but the deputy was furious.

  “By God!” he said. “If I find the fella that wrote that invite I’ll make him curse his mother for bringin’ him into the world. Who d’you reckon it might be?”

  “Ain’t a notion,” the marshal admitted. “Moraga sprung the trap, but I’m figurin’ he didn’t bait it. He speaks our lingo pretty good, but that don’t mean he can write it.”

  “Leeson?” Barsay suggested.

  Green shook his head. “Them mistakes was made a-purpose,” he said. “Good writin’ an’ bad spellin’ don’t usually go together.”

  After a short silence, Barsay spoke again. “See here, Jim, I got an idea.”

  “What’s yore notion?”

  “That you an’ the Injun rest over at the Box B till tomorrow,” Pete explained. “I’ll get back to town an’ not let on you’ve been found. Mebbe somebody’ll give us a pointer.”

  “It’s certainly a chance,” Green allowed. “You see, nobody in town oughta know what’s become o’ me.”

  So when they had got clear of the desert and over the Border, the marshal and Black Feather struck out for the Box B ranch, and the deputy took the trail for Lawless. The evening found him in the bar of the Red Ace. He had already decided on his plan of action. Remembering his friend’s dictum that a man in liquor may learn more than a sober one, he had resolved to try it out. Draping himself against the bar, he swallowed several drinks in rapid succession and then turned a scowling face on the company.

  “’Lo, Pete, how they treatin’ you?” asked the storekeeper jovially.

  “Mighty seldom—you’ll never have a better chance,” the deputy told him.

  Loder laughed and ordered liquor. “What’s come o’ the marshal—ain’t seen him all day,” he went on.

  In a voice that could be heard all over the room Barsay related his own version of the mysterious missive, adding that, becoming uneasy, he had followed the marshal to the appointed spot only to discover ample evidence of an ambush. The story gained him the attention of most present. Suddenly he darted a finger at Leeson.

  “Ask that fella,” he said. “Mebbe he can tell you somethin’.”

  He watched the man closely as he spoke and noted the look of blank amazement. “What you gittin’ at?” Leeson protested. “How should I know anythin’ of it?”

  Pete, in fact, saw that he did not, but he had to justify his charge. “Huh! You tried to bump him off two-three days ago,” he growled.

  “I told you it was a mistake,” the 88 man explained quickly.

  “Shore was, an’ one more o’ the same’ll be yore last,” Pete threatened.

  He poured himself another drink, took a mouthful, spat it out and turned wrathfully on the bartender: “Ain’t you never goin’ to get some decent liquor?” he asked belligerently. “That stuff would pizen a hawg.”

  “Which was why you didn’t swaller it, I s’pose?” Jude replied with a snigger.

  Pete whirled upon him, his eyes bleak, menacing. “Don’t you get fresh with me, you—dish-clout,” he warned. “An’ keep yore hands in sight or I’ll blow you forty ways to onct.”

  “What’s the trouble, Jude?” The saloon-keeper’s spare, stooping figure injected itself into the group.

  “Barsay’s on the prod ’bout the nose-dye,” the bartender explained.

  Raven’s sneering gaze swept the deputy. “Too strong for him, seemin’ly,” he said.

  “Meanin’?” snapped Pete.

  “Yo’re drunk—just that,” Raven retorted.

  The deputy cackled. “That’s an insult to me an’ a compliment to the dope you call whisky,” he said, with a slight stagger. “What I wanna know is what you done with the marshal?”

  The saloon-keeper’s face was wooden. “Yo’re either drunk or loco,” he replied, and appealed to one of the bystanders: “What the hell’s he mean?” He heard the story with apparent indifference, but Pete, lolling against the bar, saw an expression in the narrowed eyes which might have been satisfaction.

  “Looks like he’s met up with Moraga,” he commented. “I warned him the Mexican was bad medicine. I guess we won’t see him no more.”

  Barsay nodded his head stupidly and fumbled with his glass.

  “How’d you know it was the Mexican?” he queried.

  “I don’t—I’m guessin’,” Raven replied. His lips suddenly split in a feline grin. “Anyways, what you belly-achin’ about? Don’t you want his job?”

  Pete blinked at him owlishly. “Hell’s bells! I hadn’t thought o’ that.”

  So ludicrous was his expression that the onlookers laughed aloud, and Raven was quick to seize the opportunity. “Set ’em up, Jude,” he cried. “We’ll drink to the marshal.”

  “The new one?” someone questioned.

  “There ain’t a new one—yet,” Raven told him, and lifting his glass added, “The marshal.”

  Pete grinned foolishly as he raised his glass with the rest, and said thickly, “Here’s hopin’”—he paused a second and a man guffawed—“he comes back.”

  “O’ course, we’re all wishin’ that,” the saloon-keeper agreed, and smiled understanding at the deputy.

  The smile confirmed the little man’s suspicions, and sent him back to his quarters in an unusually thoughtful frame of mind.

  The marshal received an enthusiastic welcome at the Box B; in the eyes of its owner nothing was too good for the man who had rescued Tonia and punished her assailant. He listened with amazement and growing anger to the marshal’s account of Moraga’s attempted vengeance.

  “That Mexican’s gettin’ too brash whatever,” he said. “’Bout time he was abolished. You got that paper with you? Mebbe I know the writin’.”

  When the marshal produced it the young man stared in puzzled bewilderment.

  “If it didn’t seem ridic’lous I’d have said Potter wrote that,” he pronounced. “But he wouldn’t be agin you or for the Mexican.”

  “It ain’t Raven’s fist, I s’pose, or Leeson’s?”

  “Dunno ’bout Leeson—shouldn’t think he could write so good, but it certainly ain’t Raven. What’s put them in yore mind?”

  The marshal told of the 88 rider’s attempt to bushwhack him, and the rancher’s eyes widened.

  “You think Seth put him up to it?”

  “I dunno, Andy, an’ that’s a fact. Leeson is one o’ Raven’s men, an’ unless he’s been told different, he’d figure me the same, seein’ that Raven made me marshal.”

  Both men were silent for a few moments, and then Green said: “Don’t think I’m hornin’ in, Andy, but did yore dad owe Raven money?”

  “Fifteen tho
usand, though I didn’t know of it till I saw the note,” Bordene replied. “I paid it off. Why?”

  “When he drew out that five thousand the Mornin’ he was—got, he told Potter it was to square a debt, an’ he went to the Red Ace,” the marshal said quietly. “Raven was out—at the 88. You have that note?”

  He studied the canceled document carefully. ‘That figure one could ’a’ been put in after it was wrote,” he pointed out.

  “Shore could,” Andy agreed. “I reckon the Old Man was some careless, but you got Seth sized up wrong, Marshal; he wouldn’t play it that low on me.”

  Green laughed. “Well, seein’ you’ve paid, I s’pose it don’t do no good to worry about it,” he said. “Aimin’ to try another drive?”

  “Yeah, an’ it’s goin’ through this time, you bet you,” Bordene said.

  “Don’t camp too near Shiverin’ Sand,” Green warned.

  “Seth was tellin’ me the same thing yestidy,” Andy smiled. “I said I hadn’t made no plans.”

  “Let it be known you expect to bed down in the Pocket again, an’ then change yore mind,” the marshal advised.

  “Yo’re a suspicious jigger, but it ain’t a bad notion,” the other agreed.

  When his guest had departed on the following morning, Andy set out for the Double S to take Tonia riding. He soon noticed that Reuben Sarel was not his jovial self, and that there was a tiny crease between the girl’s level eyebrows.

  “What’s troublin’ Uncle this bright mornin’?” he asked as they trotted away. “Not losin’ weight is he?”

  “Losing cows, Andy,” she told him, “and we don’t know how. I think, too, he’s worrying about that Mexican.”

  The young man snorted. “That fella’s becomin’ a menace to the country,” he said, and told of the guerrilla’s latest exploit.

  The girl shivered. “Are the men around here going to stand for that?” she asked indignantly.