The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

  Rejoining his men, Moraga found something else to occupy his attention. The vicious spate of lead had heralded a new move. The marshal, surveying the cabin from behind the nearest shack, conceived a plan. It was a desperate chance but—

  “It’s less’n forty yards an’ that door ain’t loopholed,” he mused aloud. “If a man could get there—”

  “He could sit down on that chunk o’ lava an’ wait till they opened up,” Pete said sarcastically.

  Green grinned at him. “That bit o’ rock is the key to the situation—an’ the door,” he replied. “Mosey round to the boys an’ tell ’em to fling lead regardless when I whistle.” The marshal stood his rifle against the wall, and made sure that his pistols came freely from their holsters. Pete watched these preparations disapprovingly.

  “Aimin’ to take ’em single-handed?” he inquired.

  “I’m goin’ to open that door,” the marshal said, and when Pete laid down his rifle he added, “You stay here. When the door’s down you an’ the boys’ll be right welcome.”

  The deputy subsided, grumbling, and Green gave the signal. The moment the firing began, he jumped from his shelter, and crouching low, ran for the cabin. Bullets whined past his ears and spat up the sand on all sides of him, but he reached his goal unhurt. Pausing to get some air into his lungs, he stooped to the lump of lava which lay by the cabin entrance. With an effort he raised and flung it at the door, which cracked and shook under the impact. Immediately a hand holding a pistol pointing sidewise projected from the nearest loophole. Green drove a bullet into it, saw the weapon fall, and heard the curse of the owner as he withdrew his shattered fingers. Twice he hurled the stone and the door began to sag. Resting again, he wiped the perspiration from his brow and, with a wary eye on the loopholes surveyed the damage.

  “One more an’ I reckon she’ll cave,” he muttered. “Better call the boys.”

  Uttering a shrill whistle, he lifted the missile once again and drove it at the obstacle. A sound of rending wood was drowned by the yell of the cowboys as they broke from cover and raced for the cabin. With both guns spurting lead, Green sprang through the breach he had made. Flashes lit up the dark interior, a bullet scorched his cheek, another tore off his hat, and then, clubbing his own empty guns he leapt on the bandits, striking right and left. His men were close on his heels, swarming eagerly through the broken door and plunging into the combat. Driven back by the rush of the invaders, the Mexicans fought desperately, shooting, stabbing, and yelling out wild Spanish oaths and supplications. But they were no match for these hard riders of the plains who fought with a laugh on their lips and struck with an earnestness utterly out of keeping with it. Presently Green, in the medley of the fight, found himself beside Bordene.

  “Where’s that damn coyote, Moraga?” panted the rancher, jamming the butt of his rifle into the face of a guerrilla who was about to hurl a knife. The fellow went down with a squeal under the furious feet of the fighters.

  “Ain’t seen hide nor hair of him,” the marshal replied. “We’ll get on his trail; the boys can clean up here.”

  A search of the rest of the cabin revealed no trace of the girl or the bandit chief. Then Andy flung open a door at the rear of the building, and a bitter curse escaped his lips. Instantly the marshal saw the reason. Halfway up the little track which scored the face of the cliff was the man they sought, and hanging limply like a sack over his shoulder was Tonia. Andy lifted his rifle only to lower it again with a groan; he dared not risk a shot. Green sprang forward.

  “C’mon, he can’t get far,” he cried, and began to climb. After the first dozen yards the ascent became almost vertical, and the pathway—if such it could be called—was a mere indication that others had gone that way. Slipping on the precarious foothold, jumping at times from one projection to another, hauling themselves up by the stunted vegetation, they struggled on. Slow as their progress was, they gained on the fugitive, who was hampered by his burden. They had left their rifles at the foot of the cliff, realizing that they would be an encumbrance.

  “Huh! You want hooks on yore eyebrows for this blame’ job,” Andy grunted, as they paused for a moment’s rest. “Where’d you guess he’s makin’ for?”

  “Mebbe there’s a way out to the other side from that ledge,” the marshal suggested. “Or he figures he can hold us off from there till some o’ his friends show up.”

  Andy swore explosively as his foot slipped and he had to grab frantically at a mesquite root to save himself. “I hope to Gawd he makes it,” he said, “I’m scared to look up.”

  “He knows the ground,” his friend comforted. “We’re coverin’ two feet to his one; we’ll get him.”

  He swung himself round a jutting knob of rock and a bullet hummed past his ear, missing by a bare inch. Hurriedly he flattened out. Sixty feet above him the guerrilla chief was standing on the ledge, pistol poised, and a Satanic sneer of triumph on his evil face. He was still holding the girl, who appeared to be unconscious.

  “He’s got us out on a limb, Andy,” the marshal said. The Mexican, of course, could not hear the words, but he evidently divined what their thoughts must be, for a jeering laugh floated down. The rancher gritted his teeth as he heard it. Moraga held all the cards, and knew it. He had recognized the marshal when he made his dash for the door and was amazed that he should have escaped death in the desert. It was then that he decided upon flight. His taunting tones reached them again.

  “El Diablo has more than one home, señor the-so clever marshal. He weel take the senorita where you weel never find her.”

  “Can’t we do nothin’?” Bordene growled.

  “We can poke our heads out an’ get shot,” Green told him, and then, “Hell! Look at the cliff above the ledge. Ain’t somethin’ movin’ there?”

  At the risk of being bored by a bullet, the rancher wriggled round a bush which obstructed his view. Behind the ledge the crater rim appeared to rise almost perpendicularly and through the sparse growth of cactus, mesquite, and coarse grass he caught a shifting gleam of copper.

  “It’s Black Feather,” the marshal said. ‘I was wonderin’ where he’d drifted. Musta knowed this place plenty well an’ gone there a-purpose to stop any get-away.”

  Eagerly they watched the Indian swing noiselessly down behind the unsuspecting Mexican. They could see him plainly now. Stripped to the breech-clout, he carried only a knife between his teeth, and his bronze body shone in the rays of the westering sun. Lithe as a mountain lion, he crept nearer and nearer to the ledge and the man standing on it, who had no eyes for anything save those below. With a few yards to go, the redskin slipped and must have made some noise, for the white men saw Moraga whirl round. In a single bound, the Indian landed on the ledge, and the bandit, dropping the girl, raised his pistol. Instead of pulling the trigger, however, he flung the weapon at the intruder’s head. Green rapped out an oath.

  “Damn the luck. That musta been his last pill he fired at me,” he lamented.

  Black Feather dodged the missile and began to creep in on the other, knife in hand, crouching, deliberate, implacable as death itself. Moraga, realizing that he was trapped and that his only hope lay in killing the redskin before the cow-punchers could reach the ledge, drew his own knife, with a muttered malediction on the stupidity which had left him without ammunition for his pistol. He could hear the shuffling feet of the climbers as they frantically fought their way up, and with the knowledge that every moment was vital he stepped towards the Indian. Only a couple of yards separated them when Moraga’s right hand went up as though preparing to stab, and then—he threw the weapon. Like a flash of light the keen-bladed, heavy-hafted knife leapt at the bared chest. Black Feather was not asleep. There was no time to dodge, and with a sudden upward thrust of his own blade he swept the oncoming missile aside, the force of the contact shivering both blades.

  Dropping the useless handle, the Indian resumed his slow, relentless advance. But the bandit dared not wait; one desperate chance had
failed; he must try again. Gathering himself for the effort, he rushed in, hoping by the suddenness of the onslaught to hurl his foe from the ledge. But the claw-like brown fingers gripped like steel, and powerful as was his short, stocky form, Moraga found himself swung round with his back to the abyss. Savagely he struck at the fierce bronze mask with its bared teeth and triumphant flaming eyes which bored into his own. Inch by inch he was forced nearer the edge; desperately he tried to clutch his enemy that both might die, but his fingers could get no purchase on the smooth, pigmented skin. His breath came in gulps, his face grew grey as he realized that the end was near, yet he fought on; he was a strong man, and he did not want to die.

  “I weel give you gold—much gold,” he gasped.

  The Indian’s face twisted into a hateful grin. “Yellow dog’s heart turn to water, huh?” he sneered. “Die all same.”

  Inexorably he forced the now exhausted man back and a cold sweat broke out on Moraga’s brow as one of his feet left the ledge. Despairingly he tried to twist, clawing frenziedly, and then the end came. The marshal and his companion, still toiling upwards, saw the bandit topple over the brink of the precipice and drop like a stone. They watched the body hurtling downwards and vanish. Above their heads rang out a vengeful cry—the scalp yell of the Mohaves.

  When at last they reached the ledge Tonia was free of her bonds and Black Feather again an impassive figure of bronze, but he bore himself like a man who has got rid of a burden. It might well be that the slaying of Moraga had wiped away his shame and put him right with himself, his people, and his gods. He would not listen to thanks.

  “No good stay here,” he said. “Some fella get away—bring more.”

  “He’s dead right,” the marshal said. “We’ve done what we came to do, an’ the sooner we punch the breeze the healthier it’ll be for us; we can’t lick all Mexico.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The journey back to Lawless was uneventful.

  The following morning found Andy, Pete, and the Indian on the way to conclude his business with the banker.

  Their arrival brought Seth Raven quickfoot to the marshal’s office. He halted at the door for an instant when he saw Andy, and then came in. His face appeared strained, and there was an eagerness in his tone.

  “You got the girl—an’ Moraga?” he blurted out.

  “Miss Sarel is on her way to the Double S an’ the Mexican won’t trouble us again,” the marshal replied, and gave a bald recital of the rescue.

  “You done a good job,” Seth said. “What I promised holds good, Marshal.”

  “Forget it,” Green replied. “All in the day’s work, Raven. Town behaved itself while we been away?”

  “Middlin’, till last night, an’ then”—he looked at Andy—“the bank was robbed. First we know of it the clerk can’t get in this Mornin’. We busts the door an’ find Potter on the floor of his office an’ the place cleaned to a fare-you-well. Potter has been shot in the head, an’ is as near dead as don’t matter. Looks like Mister Sudden has turned another trick.”

  “Anythin’ to show that?” Green asked.

  “No, ’cept that I saw a fella on a black hoss tricklin’ outa town mighty early this Mornin’,” the saloon-keeper said. “There warn’t much light, an’ I took it you were back again, Marshal. It’s shore tough luck for you, Andy.”

  The young rancher shook himself like a dog. Fate had dealt him another bitter blow, but he was not yet beaten. Nevertheless, there was a tremor in his voice as he said, “It’s tougher still on Potter. S’pose the thief didn’t take my mortgage, huh?”

  “It warn’t there, Andy,” Raven said slowly. “As a matter o’ fact, Potter came to me for money an’ made over yore mortgage as security, askin’ me not to say anythin’ till he’d explained to you. O’ course, I ain’t pressin’ you, though the bank robbery has hit me considerable.”

  The words did not ring true; try as he might, he could not keep the note of exultation out of his voice. The half-breed turned to Green. “You bein’ away, I sent to Strade, an’ I hear he’s just come. Reckon you’ll find him at the bank. ‘Pills’ is lookin’ after Potter.”

  “Pills”—known by no other name—was the local medico. What offence against society had driven this qualified man to such a place no one troubled to ask. Drunk or sober—he was as frequently one as the other—he knew his job, and the West asked no more of any man. When the saloonkeeper had gone, the marshal turned to Bordene.

  “Keep a stiff upper-lip, Andy,” he said. “I’m a-goin’ down to see Strade.”

  The Sweetwater sheriff opened the bank door himself. “Come right in, Marshal,” he invited. “I hear you got that Mexican.”

  “Yeah. What do you make o’ this?”

  “Just nothin’. It’s like when the Sweetwater bank was looted four-five months ago, only no one was hurt then, the premises bein’ unoccupied. You heard of it?”

  “It fetched me here, bein’ put to my account, though I dunno why.”

  “Stranger on a black hoss with a white face was seen sneakin’ outa town, that’s why.”

  “Huh! Raven says he saw the same thing this Mornin’—heard the hoof-beats an’ got up to look: he figured it was me.”

  “Sorta suggests our friend is still busy, don’t it?” Strade mused. “’Lo, Doc, how’s yore patient?”

  “Couldn’t be worse, and live,” said the doctor, who had just come from the bedroom at the back to which the injured man had been removed.

  “No chance o’ gettin’ a word out of him, I s’pose?”

  “Don’t talk like a fool, Strade,” Pills snapped. “It will be a miracle if he opens his eyes again, much less his mouth. If you are looking to him for help you’d better forget it.”

  He bustled away, and the sheriff’s eyes followed him. “Peppery little beggar, but he knows what he’s talkin’ about,” he said, and added what few facts he had gleaned: Potter had been seen entering the bank soon after ten o’clock; the safe had been opened with the banker’s own keys; a few strangers had visited the town, but their movements were known; no one had noticed the shot, which was not unlikely in Lawless. “In fact, there ain’t a smidgin’ o’ evidence to go on,” Strade concluded.

  The marshal nodded; but his eyes were busy. Slowly they traveled from the ominous stain on the board floor to the books flung hastily from the rifled safe, and back to the desk in the center of the room. Stooping, he raked beneath this with a ruler, bringing to light a little brass cylinder; it was a used shell, a Colt’s .45, and along one side ran a horizontal scratch.

  “Only this,” Green said.

  The sheriff whistled. “That cinches it,” he said; “but don’t bring us no nearer; seems to me you gotta catch this hombre in the act; he’s too damn clever. Got a wad this time too; Raven reckons he’s shy ten thousand hisself. Well, seein’ yo’re in the saddle again, I’ll be gettin’ back to my lambs. Come over soon an’ have a pow-wow.”

  When the sheriff had gone, Green sat in the banker’s own chair pondering over this latest development. The robbery of the bank was another blow at Bordene, and again the saloonkeeper benefited if, as the marshal more than suspected, he was scheming to obtain the Box B. A big ledger lying on the floor gave him an idea. He turned up Raven’s account, only to find a credit balance of nearly ten thousand dollars. So that was true. His mind reverted to the envelope Potter had left with him. Had the man feared the visit of the mysterious outlaw who had laid him low, or—He wished he could open it, but Potter was still alive, and his word bound him.

  When he saw Raven later in the evening he made no mention of the empty cartridge he had found. “She’s a blind trail,” he said, “but me an’ Pete’ll have a scout round tomorrow an’ see if we can pick up anythin’.”

  He noted that the half-breed seemed to be in unusually good spirits for a man who had just lost a large sum of money, and the point puzzled him.

  The next day was but just born when the marshal, after giving certain instructions
to Black Feather, set out with Pete along the western trail. For a mile or so they followed the trail, and then the marshal swung off to the right, heading for Tepee Mountain. His deputy, who had not yet been told the object of the expedition, now put the question.

  “I want to ask the black hoss if he’s been rid lately,” the marshal informed him.

  They found the hidden valley as silent and undisturbed as on the day Green had first seen it. The black horse was there, wild and skittish, but after a short chase they got their ropes on it, permitting a close examination. Both of them noted the absence of saddle marks.

  “Fat as butter—ain’t been used for weeks,” was Pete’s comment. “What’s that mean?”

  “One o’ two things: either that murderin’ thief has another black horse cached somewheres, an’ that ain’t likely, or he didn’t need one for the bank play.”

  “Which last makes Raven a plain liar.”

  “Would that surprise you?”

  “No,” the deputy admitted. “I’d say lyin’ would come as easy to Seth as takin’ a drink, an’ he shorely does that without difficulty. But why—”

  “The damn business is all ‘whys’,” the marshal interrupted. “P’r’aps we’ll have an answer to one of ’em tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  The arrival of Andy Bordene at the marshal’s office next morning was followed by that of Renton and two of his men. With Green and his deputy they called at the Red Ace. Raven’s eyebrows went up when he saw them.

  “What you boys wantin’?” he asked.

  “Climb a cayuse an’ come along,” Green said. “Got somethin’ to show you.”

  The saloon-keeper hesitated for a moment, looking from one to the other. Then he shrugged his shoulders and went for his mount. Five minutes later he was riding beside Bordene, his glance resting speculatively on the leading couple, the marshal and his man. Into his mind a spasm of uneasiness obtruded.

  “Where we goin’, Andy?” he asked.

  “I know as much as you do,” the young man replied.