The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

  “I ain’t refusin’, Mr. Potter,” Green said. “I’ll take yore envelope, an’ no one shall see or hear of it again till you are beyond human hurt. That’s what you want, ain’t it?” The banker nodded, a look of relief on his face. The marshal hesitated for a moment and then added, “You got any reason to think you are in danger?”

  “I can’t tell you another word, Marshal,” the banker replied, as he rose and held out his hand. “I am deeply obliged to you.”

  After the visitor had gone Green looked at the envelope, but it was a plain one and told him nothing. That the maker of this strange request was in deadly fear was very evident, but why? With a shrug of his shoulders he set about the task of concealing the envelope. Wrapped in a piece of an old slicker, he buried it beneath his bed, stamping the earth flat again to remove any signs of disturbance.

  “If what Potter says is right it’ll be like sleepin’ over a keg o’ giant powder,” he reflected grimly. “Well, I reckon that won’t ruin my rest anyways.”

  Andy Bordene rode into Lawless with a light heart and let out a whoop of delight when he saw the marshal and his deputy talking to Raven just outside the bank. Leaping down, he greeted the officers joyously, but his manner towards the saloon-keeper was more distant.

  “’Lo, Andy, so you fetched ’em through this time?” Green said.

  “You betcha—no trouble a-tall,” the young man replied. “An’ I sold well too; I got over thirty thousand in my clothes an’ I’m a-goin’ to talk turkey to Potter an’ get my ranch back right now.”

  “Good for you,” the marshal said. “No time like—hell! Here comes a gent in a hurry.”

  At the eastern end of the street, a buckboard, drawn by two wild-eyed, maddened ponies rocketed into view.

  “I’m an Injun if it ain’t Reub Sarel,” Andy exclaimed. “What’s broke loose now?”

  Flinging down reins and whip, he fell rather than stepped out of the conveyance, gulped once, and then said huskily, “Marshal, they got Tonia.”

  Andy started forward, his eyes wide with fear. “What do you mean by ‘got Tonia’?” he asked. “That she’s—dead?”

  “I dunno,” the fat man said dully. “She went for a ride yestiddy an’ didn’t come home. I sent the boys out to comb the country, an’ this mornin’ early they found her hoss—shot. There warn’t no sign of her. I left the boys searchin’ an’ come for help. I’m guessin’ that damned Mexican has nabbed her.”

  “By God! If Moraga has dared to lay a finger on her I’ll tear him in strips,” Andy swore. “Guns an’ hosses, Marshal; we’ll get that coyote if we have to foller him clear across Mexico.”

  Green was watching Raven. At the first mention of the Mexican the man’s sallow face had gone paler and his little black eyes had gleamed with sudden anger. Now he turned to the officer and spoke, his voice charged with venom, “If it’s Moraga, get him, Marshal,” he rasped. “Spare no effort or expense. I’d come with you, but I’m no good with a gun; I’d only be a hindrance. Kill the dirty cur. Bring the girl back an’ you can name yore own reward. Sabe?” There was no mistaking his sincerity. For some reason which the marshal could not fathom the disappearance of Tonia had stirred unsuspected depths in the saloon-keeper.

  “We’ll find her,” Green said, and turned to Bordene. “Better hurry up yore business with Potter.”

  “That must wait,” the rancher replied. “I’ll leave the coin with him an’ settle when I come back. Tonia—” He broke off and darted into the bank.

  No time was wasted. Andy, having deposited his money, set out at once for the Box B to collect some of his riders. They were to meet at the Double S, for which ranch the marshal, Pete, and the Indian started soon after. Green had declined to take men from the town.

  “It’s a job o’ them two ranches, an’ I reckon they can handle it,” he pointed out. “We don’t want no army.”

  Seth Raven had a last word. “What I said goes, Green,” he reminded. “An’ don’t make no mistake this time. Kill the damn yellow thief!”

  “We’ll get him,” the officer promised, inwardly marveling at the vindictive emphasis on the last words. Riding rapidly along the trail to the Double S, his mind was busy with this new problem. What was the reason for this abrupt change of front? Had the Mexican’s act interfered with Raven’s personal plans? He remembered the look the saloonkeeper had given Andy, and, all at once, the key word came to him—jealousy. Yes, that was it; Raven wanted the girl himself. Was this the explanation of young Bordene’s persistent ill luck? If so, for how much of it was Raven responsible? The marshal found his imagination running away with him, and impatiently decided to put these questions aside until the task in hand—the rescue of Tonia—was accomplished, but he could not keep the sinister figure of the half-breed out of his mind.

  They were met at the Double S by a tall, thin, middle-aged cowboy who had just ridden in from the other direction. This was Renton, the foreman, and his frowning, worried features lighted up when he saw them.

  A hail from outside proclaimed the arrival of the Box B contingent which consisted of Bordene, Rusty, and two other riders.

  In less than an hour Renton had picked his men, necessaries were packed, and the party set out for the spot where the dead horse had been found. This proved to be the mouth of a shallow arroyo about six miles from the ranch and somewhat south of the direct line to the Box B. Here the marshal called a halt.

  “Better let the Injun have a clear field,” he said, and nodded to Black Feather.

  The redskin slid from his saddle and approached the carcass, or what the buzzards had left of it, walking slowly in a half-crouch, his keen eyes scanning every inch of the ground. They saw him circle round it and then head for a mass of brush some thirty yards distant. Behind this he vanished for several moments and then came striding back. His low, throaty words were addressed to the marshal:

  “Four Mexican fellas wait there long time,” he said, pointing to the brush. “Girl ride by, see them, an’ start run. One fella him shoot hoss an’ they grab girl.” He waved to the south. “Go that way. One hoss, two riders.”

  “How do you know they were Mexicans, Black Feather?” Green asked.

  The Indian held out his hand. On the opened palm were a strand of silk, a cigarette end, and an empty cartridge shell. The first might have come from a sash, the second was rolled in a corn-husk, and the third had been fired from the short carbine usually carried by the Mexican revolutionaries. The marshal nodded comprehendingly.

  “Guess he’s got the straight of it,” he commented. “The sooner we get on their trail the better. Go ahead, Black Feather; it’s El Diablo we’re after.”

  The abductors had apparently made no attempt to hide their trail, and whenever they crossed a patch of sand the riders could see, from the deeper indentations, that one of the horses—as the Indian had said—was carrying a double burden.

  “They got too big a start for us to catch ’em up,” Andy remarked. “We’ll have to smoke ’em outa their hole.”

  Mile after mile they pressed steadily on, strung out in a double line behind the guide. Night was at hand by the time they reached the sluggish stream which here marked the northern limit of Mexico. Under an overhanging rock near the bank they found the dead ashes of a fire, and not far away the Indian picked up a small leather gauntlet.

  “That’s one o’ Tonia’s gloves,” Andy pronounced at once. “We’re on the right track, anyways; mebbe we’ll overhaul ’em yet.”

  “No catch—find um,” the Indian said.

  “He reckons they’re still more than twelve hours ahead of us,” the marshal explained. “Nothin’ to do but keep on their tails.”

  Camp fires were lighted, food eaten, sentries posted, and the rest of the men turned in, conscious of a still harder day’s work to come.

  When the cold light of the coming dawn showed above the eastern horizon the rescue party forded the stream and plunged into what was to all of them, save perhaps the Indian, unknow
n territory. The, tracks they were following headed straight into what appeared to be expanse of open country, but the guide turned sharply to the right, pointing his horse’s head towards a jumble of rocky ridges, the valleys and gorges between which were hidden by close-growing timber.

  “We’re leavin’ the trail; that’s a risk, ain’t it?” Andy asked.

  “The Injun is wise to his work,” Green replied. “This way may be harder, but I’m bettin’ he’s got a reason an’ a good one.”

  Midday found them clear of the barrier of broken country and they saw ahead a broad, billowing stretch of semi-desert, walled in on the far horizon by a jagged line of purple hills.

  “Git ready to be grilled, boys,” Renton warned, his slitted eyes squinting at the view. “We’re pointin’ Pinacate way, seemin’ly—volcanic country—all lava an’ cactus. I’ve heard of it. We’ll need all the water we can carry; wells ain’t any too frequent.”

  A meal was eaten, canteens filled at a neighboring creek, and the journey resumed. Speed was out of the question in the soft sand, and before they had gone very far the Double S foreman’s prophecy was being fulfilled. From the sun flaming in the turquoise sky came a stream of heat which burnt like a hot iron, and absorbed perspiration before it had time to form.

  Helpless targets of a relentless sun, parched by a thirst they dared not satisfy, the riders slipped and slithered on across the burnt-out, forbidding wilderness. For the most part they rode in silence, for inattention to one’s mount might mean an awkward accident.

  Night found them still on the desert, camped at the base of a pinnacle of rock. They had found no more water, but by pulping the interiors of some barrel cactus they managed to supply the needs of themselves and their mounts. Dead mesquite branches provided a fire, but it was a miserable one, for fuel was hard to find. So that it was good news to hear that the next day would see them clear of the desert.

  And so it proved. Early in the afternoon they halted in a long, deep arroyo which contained more vegetation than they had seen for two days. This meant water, and they soon found a tiny, sparkling creek.

  “Moraga’s settlement ain’t far away from here,” the marshal said. “Me an’ Pete is goin’ to prospect it some. If we ain’t back in a coupla hours you better come an’ look for us. This is a good place to leave the hosses.”

  Discarding their own mounts and rifles, the two men traversed the arroyo and emerged, with due caution, into the open. Hidden behind lumps of storm-riven lava, they got their first view of the bandit settlement. It proved to be a mere collection of hovels, mostly with rock walls and sodded roofs, clustered beneath the shadow of a jagged cliff, the curving shape of which showed that it had once been part of the wall of a crater. Zigzagging steeply up the weathered face was a narrow path leading to a ledge about two-thirds of the way up. Only one building justifying the name was to be seen—a stout cabin of untrimmed logs standing in the centre of the other habitations.

  “That’ll be Mister Moraga’s mansion, you betcha,” Pete observed. “Lie close—there’s a fella who might come our way.”

  “I’m hopin’ he does,” the marshal said.

  His wish was granted; the man, stepping jauntily and humming a song, passed close to their hiding-place. A quick clutch, which effectually closed his windpipe, and he was behind the boulder, a gun-barrel boring into his ribs.

  “Silence, they say, is golden,” a voice whispered. “Noise, for you, amigo, will be leaden. Savvy?”

  Apparently the prisoner did for he submitted silently while his pistol and knife were removed from his belt. Seated on the ground with his back to the rock, he glared in amazement at the grinning cowboys.

  “Now you can talk, amigo, an’ I’m advisin’ you to,” the marshal said. “Where is El Diablo?”

  The Mexican scowled but said nothing, and a repetition of the question produced a like result, or lack of it.

  “Strip an’ roll him in the cactus,” Pete suggested. “Reckon that’ll lossen his tongue some.”

  The man’s eyes wandered to a near-by patch of choya and a shudder shook him. Well he knew the agonizing, blinding pain that even one of those frosty, barbed burrs could produce. To be rolled on them would be unbearable torture, would drive the sufferer mad. The captive decided that to speak would be more pleasant.

  “Señor Moraga ees in ze beeg cabeen,” he said sullenly, adding with vicious emphasis, “He keel you for dees.”

  “Mebbe,” the marshal agreed. “How many men has he got?”

  “Twenty onlee—no count me.”

  “Yo’re dead right to leave yoreself out,” the marshal said. “Where’s the girl?” The man looked at him stupidly. “The American senorita fetched in this mornin’ by four o’ yore men,” Green added.

  “In ze beeg cabeen,” he muttered.

  Marching the fellow back into the brush, they tied his hands and feet securely, using his own sash for the purpose and left him there.

  CHAPTER XVII

  They found the rest of the party eagerly waiting for their return. After a short consultation with Andy and Renton, it was decided that the attack should be made at once. Moraga was known to control a numerous force, and more of his men might arrive at any moment. The marshal outlined a plan for the advance.

  “We’ll spread out in a half-circle, Injun up an’ drive ’em into the big cabin; that’ll give us the shacks for shelter. Leave the broncs here, split up into pairs, an’ keep under cover all you can. Rusty, you an’ Yates make for their corral an’ turn the hosses loose. Shoot any fella that tries to get away—they may have help near.”

  Silently the men slipped away to their posts, with a final order not to shoot until they had a target. The marshal and his deputy returned to the point they had already visited, aiming from there to work up to Moraga’s headquarters. It seemed very peaceful and apparently the guerrillas had no suspicion that an invading force was watching their every movement. Several times men came out of the main hut and entered one or other of the shacks, but no shot shattered the silence; the marshal had warned his men to allow time for all to get into position.

  Suddenly came a wild yell and a Mexican dashed from one of the dug-outs towards the cabin. Ere he had got halfway however, a rifle crashed and he went down, sprawling grotesquely in the dust. Instantly the place came to life. Men popped out of the sordid dwellings and raced for the more solid haven of the log house. Their appearance drew a volley from the invaders; several dropped, but the rest gained their objective. The marshal smiled grimly.

  “Suits us to have ’em corralled in one spot,” he said. “That hut’s plenty substantial though; she won’t be an easy nut to crack.”

  They had been gradually advancing, crawling on their bellies and taking advantage of every stone or bush which offered protection. Reaching one of the sod-roofed hovels, Pete sneaked round to peer into the opening which provided light and air, and had just satisfied himself that the place was untenanted when smoke and flame jetted from the big cabin and a heavy slug tore his hat from his head.

  “Hell’s blisters!” he swore, dropping on all fours and scuttling crabwise round the corner, where he sadly surveyed his damaged headgear. “They’ve plumb ruined that lid, burn ’em.”

  “Coupla inches lower an’ you’d ’a’ got a halo instead,” the marshal told him.

  Pete grunted, and settling himself full length in the sand began to systematically pump lead at the loopholes in the log house, from which incessant spits of fire were now issuing. Foot by foot the attacking force advanced, closing in on the cabin, but still the problem of the open space in front of it had to be solved. Once the cowpunchers left the shelter of the shacks they would be at the mercy of Moraga’s marksmen. Anxiously Green scanned the cliff, but it appeared to be unscalable save for the little path directly behind the cabin. They would have to rush the place, he decided, and in broad daylight, for it was hours yet to darkness and he dared not wait.

  The firing now became spasmodic; a defender
, fancying he saw a movement, would send a questing leaden messenger, and an attacker would instantly reply, aiming at the other’s smoke. Overhead the sun blazed, and in the rutted, untidy space between the dwellings lay four tumbled bodies, done with the world and its puny differences.

  Inside the cabin, Moraga and his men waited for the assault which they knew must come. Two had been killed at the loopholes and several nicked, but the defense still outnumbered the Americans, and although the guerrilla leader did not know this, he was unperturbed. Though the dispersal of the horses—for Rusty and Yates had done their work—prevented him sending for assistance, he was hourly expecting another of his raiding bands. That the invaders were Gringo punchers comprised his information of them, but he surmised that the abduction of the girl had brought them. With a smirk of satisfaction he opened a door at the back of the main room of the building. On the right of the passage outside was a smaller room, which he entered. Seated on a chair to which her arms were bound was Tonia Sarel. The bandit’s eyes rested upon her gloatingly, possessively.

  “I come to tell you not to be alarmed,” he said. “The shooting is jus’ a leetle argument with some foolish folk who not like me. There are many such,” he went on. “El Diablo is feared, not loved; he desire only to be loved by one.” He swept off his hat in a low bow, and though his keen little eyes must have seen the contempt in her face, his voice did not betray the fact. “I have sent for a padre.”

  “I would rather be dead than married to you,” the girl said stormily.

  “There are worse things than death, or marriage to a Spanish caballero,” he retorted.

  “A Spanish caballero!” Tonia repeated. “A Mexican peon—a leader of ladrones—a yellow dog from whom my riders will strip the hide with their quirts when they catch him.”

  “We weel speak of eet again,” he said, and there was a threat which chilled her blood.