The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

  “They ain’t,” Andy assured her. “But, for now, the marshal wants it kept quiet.”

  “I shall be glad when you are back from your drive, Andy,” the girl said. “I’m a bit scared, I think.”

  “Of El Diablo?” he asked.

  “No—not altogether,” she said slowly. “I can’t explain it, but I’ve a breakers ahead sort of feeling, and that man Raven has begun visiting the Double S.”

  Bordene laughed. “Nothin’ to that, Tonia,” he replied. “I s’pose he had business with Reuben.’

  “That’s the excuse, of course, but if it weren’t so absurd I’d say he came to see me,” Tonia told him. “Yesterday he brought me a box of candy, and—he pays me compliments.”

  Andy’s eyebrows rose. “You think he’s courtin’ you?” he gasped incredulously. “Ain’t Reuben showed him the door?”

  “He sings his praises; I think he’s afraid of him in some way,” Tonia replied.

  “My Gawd!” the young man exploded. “Seth Raven shinin’ up to you—a Sarel? Well, if that ain’t the frozen limit.” He looked at her closely. “You still don’t like the fella, Tonia?”

  “I detest him,” was her emphatic reply.

  For some time the rancher rode in moody silence; he was getting a new angle on the man he had hitherto regarded as a good sort. The seeds of doubt sown in his mind by the marshal were beginning to germinate. Had the note been tampered with? Was the breaking up of his drive herd the work of the 88? He recalled the poker game, in which he had a shrewd suspicion that Green had saved him from being skinned—for he now knew that Pardoe was not too scrupulous a professional gambler. Were these all part of a plan to put a rival out of the running? The questions milled in his mind and he could find no satisfactory answers.

  CHAPTER XV

  The marshal’s return to Lawless excited a great deal of curiosity which had to remain unsatisfied. His own explanation was that he had been absent on business connected with his office, and he treated any suggestion that he had been kidnapped by El Diablo with a tolerant smile, an attitude which aroused Pete’s personal wrath.

  “What’s the grand idea?” he enquired. “Here’s me workin’ up a case agin the Mexican an’ you percolate in an’ knock it flat. Makes me look a fool.”

  I can’t see that yore appearance has altered the littlest bit,” the marshal told him. “We gotta walk in the water, ol’ timer; you watch Raven’s face when I say my little piece.” They had not long to wait, for the saloon-keeper came in soon afterwards.

  “’Lo, Marshal, so yo’re back again all safe an’ sound,” he began. “We’ve shore bin some worried ’bout you. Barsay here, reckoned you’d bin carried off by Moraga.”

  “Hold yore hosses, Raven, it sticks in my mind that suggestion come from you,” the deputy protested.

  “That so? Well, mebbe yo’re right,” Raven admitted easily. “Yore high-falutin’ yarn made it seem likely.”

  “Pete’s a born romancer,” the marshal said.

  “So it warn’t the Mex?” Raven asked.

  “Señor Moraga has not yet settled his little account with me,” Green smiled, adding, “I’ve been at the Box B.”

  This was not all the truth, but it served, for the marshal saw the visitor’s eyes widen. All he said, however, was, “Andy’s drivin’ today, I hear. Where’s he campin’ this time?”

  “Same place as before, I understand. It’s a good beddin’ ground an’ he reckons there ain’t no storms around.”

  Raven nodded. “Weather seems likely to stay put,” he agreed.

  When he had gone Pete turned aggressively on his chief. “Why d’you tell him where Andy was campin’?” he asked.

  “I didn’t,” the marshal grinned.

  “But—” the deputy began, and then comprehension came to him and he grinned too. “You think—” he commenced.

  “Sometimes,” his friend confessed. “I gotta—for both of us.”

  “Awright, Solomon,” the little man said. “What you goin’ to do now?”

  “Put some money in the bank,” Green told him.

  Barsay dropped into the nearest chair. “Savin’ coin, the hawg, an’ me with a thirst,” he ejaculated in mock horror.

  Outside the bank Green hung about until he saw the clerk emerge and then entered. As he had hoped, Potter was alone. He took the money Green tendered and wrote out a receipt.

  “Ain’t got on the track of that outlaw yet, I suppose?” he remarked, and when his customer admitted that his supposition was correct, he added, “I was saying to Raven yesterday that you hadn’t much to go on, and that probably he’s hundreds of miles away by now.”

  The marshal smiled inwardly; that the saloon-keeper was trying to undermine his popularity showed that he feared him.

  “Raven is a hard man to satisfy,” he stated.

  “You are right,” the banker agreed harshly. “He’s—” he paused suddenly, and then, in an altered tone, went on, “a good customer, and I ought not to be discussing him, but I know you won’t chatter, Marshal.”

  Having assured him on that point, Green came away, wondering. A comparison of the receipt with the mysterious note showed a similarity in the writing; they might have been done by the same person; but why, Green asked himself, should the banker help Moraga? For the rest, all he had discovered was that Potter disliked but feared Raven, an attitude common to many of the citizens of Lawless.

  That same evening, the marshal was nearing the bank when he heard Seth’s voice, and, curious as to his business there so late, slipped round the corner of the building and waited. In a moment the door opened and he beard the banker say, in a tone of abject humility, “I’ll do as you wish, sir.”

  “You’d better,” the saloon-keeper said contemptuously, and went up the street.

  From his door the banker watched until the other was out of hearing and then his pent-up bitterness burst its bonds:

  “And may God damn your rotten soul,” he hissed, and shook his fist at the retreating figure.

  Not until the door slammed did the marshal resume his way. One thing the incident told him—Potter was in The Vulture’s power, and might therefore have been compelled to write the decoy message.

  “Odd number that,” he ruminated. ‘The banker is a bet I mustn’t overlook.”

  A week slid by and the marshal was no nearer the solution of the problem he had set himself to solve. Though there had been no further activity on the part of Sudden the Second, Green did not agree with Potter’s suggestion that the outlaw had departed for fresh pastures; the black horse was still in its hiding-place. In the meanwhile, he had plenty to occupy his mind. Two attempts had been made on his life, and though he believed that the saloon-keeper had something to do with them, he had no proof. Since his escape from death in the desert, the autocrat of Lawless had treated him with jovial friendliness. So marked indeed was the change that Pete was moved to caustic comment.

  “If you was a turkey I’d say he was fattenin’ you up for the killin’,” the deputy said. “Looks like Andy has made it this time.”

  The marshal nodded. “Jevons was at the Red Ace last night,” he said. “An’ his boss didn’t seem none pleased ’bout somethin’.”

  Green’s guess was a good one. The 88 foreman had come on an unpleasant errand—the admission of his own failure; and that this was due to wrong information supplied by his employer.

  “Well, how many d’you get?” was Raven’s opening question, as the foreman entered the private room.

  “Not a hoof,” Jevons replied. “Bordene musta pushed ’em hard, for they passed Shiverin’ Sand early an’ went right on. We couldn’t do nothin’ in daylight.”

  “So you sit down like a lot o’ mudheads an’ let ’em go, huh?” Raven said savagely. “Why didn’t you foller an’ wait yore chance?”

  “Whoever told you they aimed to bed down in the Pocket got it wrong,” the man defended sullenly.

  The half-breed gritted out an oath as he remember
ed where he got the information.

  “Green again, blast him,” he muttered. “He’s allus in the way.”

  “Put him outa business,” the foreman suggested callously.

  “Tell me how,” snapped the other.

  “But you can’t—he’s got you all buffaloed. That windbag Leeson made a botch of it, an’ Moraga ’pears to have done the same.”

  Jevons was silent for a while, and when he did speak his remark seemed to be irrelevant: “‘Split’ Adam is at the 88,” he said.

  Raven reflected. “Think he’d tackle it?” he asked.

  “‘Split’ is mighty near sellin’ his saddle,” Jevons told him. “Five hundred dollars would listen good to him about now.”

  “Send him in,” he said shortly.

  Hard-looking strangers attracted little attention in Lawless, unless they invited it by their actions, and this Mister Adam was careful to avoid. In fact, he arrived after dark, went furtively into the Red Ace by the side door, and so into the owner’s private sanctum. He endured the other man’s scrutiny for a moment or two, and then in a harsh, rasping voice, he said, “Jevons allowed you wanted to see me. Well, you done it, an’ if that’s all I’ll be on my way.”

  The truculent, bullying tone did not appear to affect Raven. “How many men have you killed, Mister Adam?” he asked.

  “What the hell’s that gotta do with it?” blustered the gunman.

  “I didn’t know but you’d like to make it an even dozen,” the half-breed said softly. ‘There’s a fella in this town we could git along without, but he won’t take a hint.”

  “That’s nice,” the bully said. “Whyn’t you shoot him?”

  “Natural for you to think that, Mister Adam,” Raven went on, “but I’m not a gun-fighter—don’t even tote one. My weapons are brains and—dollars.”

  The killer smiled wolfishly. “How many—dollars?” he asked.

  “Five hundred,” Raven replied. “The fella happens to be the marshal too, so if he—left us—there’d be a vacancy.”

  “I’ll go you,” Adams said. “I can use that mazuma, an’ I’ve allus thought a star would look about right on me.”

  “You gotta earn ’em first,” the other warned. “The chap ain’t no pilgrim.”

  “I ain’t exactly a beginner my own self,” the gunman replied. “Nothin’ will happen tonight—don’t want it to look like I come in a-purpose—but I’ll be takin’ his measure.” He departed, again using the side door. Some time later he oozed into the Red Ace, posted himself at the bar, and called for the customary drink. Beyond a casual glance, no one took any notice of him, but his own eyes were busy. Presently Pete drifted in, and when he caught sight of the deputy’s badge, Adam looked at Raven, who was playing cards at a nearby table. The saloon-keeper shook his head slightly.

  When Green eventually made his appearance, Adam got from Raven the sign he was waiting for, and his cold gaze watched the marshal incessantly. He turned to the bartender. “Ever heard o’ Split Adam?” he asked loudly.

  “Yeah, but I never seen him,” Jude replied.

  “You have now,” came the answer. “Yessir, I’m that eedentical fella. Know how I got that label?”

  The barkeep shook his head.

  “’Cause I c’n split a bullet on a knife edge at twelve paces,” boasted the killer, with an aggressive look at Green. “That’s shootin’, Mister Marshal.”

  “Shore is,” the officer agreed mildly. “But if the knife-edge was bustlin’ bullets in yore direction at the same time it might make a difference.”

  “There’s quite a few who found it didn’t,” Adam sneered.

  “I’ll have to take yore word for that, seh,” the marshal replied. “I reckon theirs ain’t available.”

  He turned away, ending the discussion, and the gunman’s gaze followed him with malignant triumph. He did not want to clash yet; he was merely trying out his man. The marshal left the saloon early, and when Pete followed some time later he found him cleaning and oiling his revolvers.

  “Know anythin’ ’bout that hombre Adam?” asked the deputy casually.

  “Heard of him,” Green replied. “He’s bad, all right—one o’ the gunmen you can hire. There’s towns in Texas where they’d jerk him on the way to Paradise with considerable enthusiasm.”

  “He’s after you,” Pete said. “I’m a-goin’ to be yore shadder tomorrow.”

  To this decision he adhered; wherever the marshal went Pete was, unobtrusively, close at hand. It was about noon when the pair of them entered the Red Ace. Adam was there, talking and drinking with several of the toughest inhabitants. Raven was leaning against the far end of the bar, and the attendance was bigger than usual. Immediately as the marshal entered all eyes turned upon him, and he guessed that the killer had been talking. Most of those present had witnessed the scene of the previous night and knew that a clash between the two men was inevitable. With an evil look that advertised his intention to force a quarrel, Adam stepped towards his quarry.

  “Marshal, you ain’t lookin’ too good—kinda peaky ’bout the gills,” he began. “I reckon this part o’ the country don’t suit you.”

  “You think I’d better be goin’?” he asked in mild surprise.

  “Yeah, you got me right,” the other sneered.

  “Goin’—for my gun?” the marshal said softly.

  “Don’t be funny with me, fella,” he warned. “I let you git away with it las’ night, but that don’t happen twice. Savvy?”

  Hands hanging over his gun-butts, teeth bared like a snarling dog’s, he thrust his face within a few inches of his intended victim’s, his narrowed eyes flaming with the lust to kill. The marshal straightened up and stepped back a pace.

  “Mister Adam,” he said quietly. “I don’t like rubbin’ noses with a rattlesnake. That face o’ yores may look mighty near human two miles off, but at two inches it’s an outrage. I’m movin’ it.”

  With the words his right fist came up, and as the arm shot out, landed with terrific force on the out-thrust jaw of the killer. Driven home with all the power of perfect muscles backed up by the forward fling of the body, the blow lifted the fellow from his feet and hurled him full length on the floor. He was still conscious, for Green’s fist had just missed the point of the jaw, but he could not rise. Lying there, glaring his hatred, he poured out a stream of abuse, and clawed feebly for his gun.

  “I guess I wouldn’t,” the marshal warned, his hand on his own weapon. “Fade. I’m stayin’ here fifteen minutes. If I see you again, there’ll be one skunk less in the world an’ one more in hell.”

  The ruffian scrambled to his feet, a fury of passion shaking him. “I’ll git you,” he screamed, “if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “It will be,” the marshal retorted, and waved to the door. “That fifteen minutes is tickin’ right along,” he reminded.

  Staggering blindly like a drunken man, Adam went out.

  The marshal shook his head. He had noticed Raven’s departure immediately after the killer’s downfall, and was wondering whether his expression denoted contempt or disappointed anger.

  “Two-three of us’ll come out with you,” Pete suggested.

  “No, I’ll play her a lone hand,” the marshal said firmly. “I’m figurin’ the time is nearly up. You fellas get clear—case he makes a mistake.”

  Bunched together, the men went out into the sunshine, but halted a little way along the street. Evidently the news had spread, for there were other groups and heads protruded from windows and doors. Three tense minutes loitered past, and then the swing-door of the saloon was thrown back, and the marshal stepped out. At the same instant a gun roared from the corner of a log building opposite and the onlookers saw Green pitch sideways, to lie prone on the footpath, his right arm outflung and his left bent across his hip. With a crackle of malignant triumph, Adam emerged from his shelter, both guns poised.

  “Well, gents, I reckon I’ve sent yore marshal to hell. Any o’ you got notions?�
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  He knew he was safe. It was a duel between the two men, and the etiquette of Western gun-play forbade interference. Pete, filled with a bitter rage, looked at the prostrate form of his friend and wondered if his eyes were playing tricks. Surely that left hand was moving, nearer and nearer to the holster. A moment later he knew, for the gun was out and spouting flame. The amazed spectators saw the killer crumple up and collapse in the dust, and by the time they reached the marshal, he was on his feet again. They found him untouched.

  “I fell before he fired,” Green explained. “I guessed he’d hide an’ lay for me. Had to make him show hisself.”

  “You took a helluva risk,” Pete reproved. “S’pose he hadn’t believed you?”

  “He was too stuck on his shootin’,” his chief told him. “Well, he had his chance.”

  CHAPTER XVI

  During the next few days Green, in accordance with his resolution, made discreet inquiries regarding Potter. The result was meager. The banker had appeared in Lawless some years earlier—no one knew from whence. He had found the bank building derelict, the previous owner—also a financier—having ridden away one dark night with all the available funds. He had reopened the bank and gradually acquired a reputation for fair dealing. Residing in a room at the back of his premises, he had remained an Easterner in speech and habits, taking no part in the activities of the town. Even the Red Ace saw him seldom. So that it was a surprise to the marshal, sitting alone in his office one evening, when the banker opened the door and slipped quietly in.

  “Evening, Marshal,” he said. “Am I disturbing you?”

  Green assured him that he was not and invited him to take a seat. He noticed that the visitor selected a position where he could not be seen from the window, and that his hands were trembling.

  “Marshal,” he began, “I am going to depend on you in a matter of the greatest importance to me.” He drew out a long, sealed envelope. “I want you to take charge of this, hide it, and give me your word that it shall not be opened until the breath is out of my body. It is of no interest to any save one man, and he would sell his soul to destroy it Should he learn it is in your possession he would slay you without hesitation, and—the contents of that envelope are my death-warrant also. I felt it only fair to tell you this, Marshal, although it may mean refusal.”