The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

  “We’ve got him—cold,” the saloon-keeper exulted. “This town will stand up on its hind legs an’ howl when it learns how he’s razzle-dazzled it, an’ it’ll howl for blood too!”

  “One thing, he couldn’t ’a’ done the bank job,” Pardoe said.

  Raven laughed aloud. “He could, an’, by God! I believe he did,” he cried. “If not, why didn’t he stay with the rest of ’em at the Box B that night?”

  “It’ll be a shock for Strade.”

  “Yo’re shoutin’—an’ for some others. I reckon Lawless will take notice when I speak, after this.”

  “You’ll be a big man, Seth,” the gambler offered, a shade of envy in his tone.

  “You betcha,” the saloon-keeper agreed. “Things is comin’ my way, Pardoe, an’ I shan’t forget anyone what helped me. Now you keep this strictly behind yore teeth for now. We’re holdin’ a winnin’ hand; I gotta think out the best way to play it.”

  The Parson nodded and went out. When the door had closed-behind him the saloon-keeper gave free rein to his exultation.

  “You were the one card I wanted to fill my hand, Mister Sudden, or Green, or whatever yore damn name is,” he cried. “With you cinched, I’ve got the rest of ’em like this.” He spread out his hand, closing the talon-like fingers slowly. “The boss o’ Lawless, that poor fool said. Might satisfy him, but—” He broke off and flung himself into his chair. “Gotta get busy,” he went on. “To start with, we’ll send for Strade; I’ll enjoy givin’ him a jolt.” He scribbled a note to the sheriff and went in search of a messenger.

  * * * *

  In the middle of the night the marshal and his deputy were suddenly awakened to find the room full of men. By the light of a lantern someone was holding aloft, they could see that the intruders were Raven, the Parson, and a number of the “hardest” denizens of the town. Every man of them, save the saloon-keeper, had his gun out, and the expressions on the scowling faces showed that the threat was no vain one. Green sat up, making no attempt to reach his weapons:

  “What’s the trouble, Raven? You wantin’ me?” he asked coolly.

  “Not now—we got you,” the half-breed jeered. “Reach for the roof, both o’ you, an’ keep on doin’ it.”

  Realizing that they had no choice, the two men obeyed. The marshal had no idea what it all meant, but he saw that, for the moment, he was powerless; Seth Raven held the cards. “If this is a joke—” he began.

  The harsh merriment of the other stopped him. “You got it,” Raven said. “Just a little joke to square off for the one you plastered on this town; on’y the last laugh is the best, an’ we’re goin’ to have that. Git their guns an’ search out that damn redskin.” This to his followers.

  Two of the men searched the place and returned with the news that the Indian was not to be found. Raven turned savagely on Pete.

  “Where is he?”

  The plump little puncher grinned cheerfully as he replied, “Yore guess is as good as mine, brother; he was in the shack when we turned in, so he musta lit out when you come.”

  “Watch the place all round, an’ if they try to git out shoot ’em down,” Raven ordered.

  When they were alone again, Pete rolled and lighted a smoke. “What’s at the back o’ this caper, Jim?” he asked.

  “Haven’t a notion,” the marshal replied.

  “We’ll make the grade,” Barsay said. “We got some good friends in this town who’ll have a word to say to that gang o’ bar-scourin’s Raven rounded up for tonight’s job.”

  “He must be mighty sore,” the marshal reflected. “Wonder if they’re watchin’ like he told ’em? Stick yore head outa the door an’ see.”

  “An’ git it blowed off, huh?” Pete retorted. “That’s one o’ the kinds o’ fools I ain’t. I’d look funny without a head, wouldn’t I?”

  “You look funny with one,” his friend flashed; and then his sardonic humor took charge. “Come to think of it, wantin’ a head they couldn’t hang you—thataway you’d razzle-dazzle ’em.”

  “You’d be a comfort in a sick room,” Pete said sarcastically. “You reckon they’re goin’ to hang us?”

  “Well, Raven’s natural instincts would suggest somethin’ more lingerin’, but I doubt if even the roughnecks o’ Lawless would stand for torture,” Green said, and added laconically, “Well, I’m a-goin’ to hit the hay; looks like we’re in for a busy day.”

  In a little while his steady breathing showed that he was asleep. Pete was not so fortunate; for an hour he lay staring into the darkness, thinking of what was to come.

  He stole to the window and peered out. In the faint, diffused light of the stars he could see the blurred form of a man, carrying a rifle, pacing slowly to and fro. Presently another joined him. Pete knew the men: toughs, both of them, belonging to that mysterious portion of the community the members of which never appeared to work but always had money for drink and cards.

  “Pete,” came a whisper.

  The deputy spun around to find Green sitting up, and standing near was the familiar form of Black Feather. The Indian, it appeared, divining that Raven and his men spelt trouble, had slipped out of the window of the kitchen, and, finding the place surrounded, climbed to the flat roof of the shack. As soon as the coast was comparatively clear he had dropped on one of the guards, knocked him senseless with his gun-butt, and reentered the building.

  “Good work. Black Feather heap big chief,” Pete commented. “What do we do now, Jim?”

  “Go out the way he come in, get our hosses, an’ head for the Box B,” the marshal decided.

  According to the redskin, there were only four guards. The one on the kitchen side had already been disposed of; the man at the back was their danger. The marshal devised a plan. Cautioning the others to await his signal, he climbed out and helped himself to the revolver of the still form lying in the shadow of the wall. Then he walked towards the rear of the building. In a few moments a man appeared dimly in the gloom, approaching him.

  “All quiet, yore side?” the stranger queried.

  The voice told the marshal who it was. “Shore, Parson,” he mumbled. “There’s only one thing—”

  “What’s that?” asked the other, and came closer.

  The moment he was near enough the marshal leapt, his fingers closing round the man’s throat and choking the cry of alarm before it was born. A tap from the marshal’s pistol-barrel tumbled him, a limp heap, to the ground. Collecting the fallen man’s belt, which to his great content the marshal found to be his own, he gave the signal. Silently they stole to the Red Ace corral, secured their horses, and started for the Box B. When they were safely on their way Pete emitted a chuckle.

  “I’m bettin’ that Raven person will be a good one to steer clear of today,” he opined.

  In the pale light of the dawn Green looked at the little man and laughed. “Sorry you feel like that, Tubby,” he said, “We’re goin’ to see him.” Then, noting the other’s bewilderment, he added, “Did you allow I’d run away?”

  “Huh!” Pete snorted. “I claim to be as plucky as the next fella, but I’d run from a rope every time.”

  “Mebbe Raven’ll reconsider them projects if we go back with the Box B an’ Double S outfits behind us,” Green suggested.

  “Make a difference, o’ course,” Pete admitted. “But there’s a jag o’ men in that town.”

  “Some of ’em friends of ours,” the marshal reminded. The deputy subsided, but he was not satisfied; it seemed to him nothing short of madness to go back to Lawless, and when they reached the Box B he again protested, only to find Andy on the marshal’s side.

  “Shore we’ll go with you,” the rancher cried. “That bird is flyin’ too high an’ it’s time his pin-feathers was trimmed. Hey, Rusty, round up some o’ the boys, an’ tell ’em to come loaded for trouble.”

  During the breakfast Andy got the whole story of the previous day’s happenings and his face grew stormy when he heard of the hold Raven claimed to ha
ve on the Double S.

  “Throw Tonia out, will he, the dirty hound? Not while I can pull a trigger,” he growled. “I’m obliged to you again, Marshal, but I wish you’d broken his damned neck.”

  Accompanied by Rusty and half a dozen well-armed riders, they made for the Double S, and since they wasted no time on the trip, they arrived before the men had dispersed to their different duties.

  The foreman made no comment when he heard the story, but his lips clamped in a hard line as he turned away, and when he reappeared six riders followed him.

  “Gotta leave the rest to look after things an’ Miss Tonia,” he explained. “Reckon these’ll be enough.”

  “You needn’t worry about Miss Tonia—she’s going too,” his mistress announced calmly, and shook a pretty but obstinate head to all their protests. “It is partly on my account that you are going,” she pointed out. “Some of you may get hurt and then I’ll be of use.”

  They set out at once, the buckboard leading, with Green beside it, followed by Andy and Tonia, with the rest of the party strung out behind. The cowboys had not the whole of the story, but they knew that Raven was trying to get their respective ranches, and that was enough; whether he had any claim to them was beside the question; they were loyal to their owners, and they did not like the saloon-keeper. Therefore they rode gaily on an errand which might mean death for any one of them, but beneath their banter was a note of stern purpose.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  They arrived at Lawless to find the street empty save for a few loafers outside the Red Ace. One of these dived headlong into the saloon at the sight of them, and the marshal smiled.

  “Bright fella, Watty,” he said. “His news will win him a free drink.”

  Andy, the girl, and Green rode on to Durley’s and met the proprietor of the Rest House at the door. His eyebrows rose at the sight of them.

  “The old girl’ll be pleased to death to see you, miss,” he said to Tonia, and when she had gone into the house, “Ain’t tired o’ life, are you, Marshal?”

  “Not that you’d notice,” the officer replied carelessly. “Why?”

  Durley spat in disgust. “You must be—to come back,” he retorted. “Raven’s as mad as a teased tarantula, an’ he’s turned most o’ the town again you. Claims to have got the goods on you for fair, though I dunno how. There’s a meetin’ at the Red Ace right now to elect Pardoe marshal, and show you up.”

  “We ain’t been invited, but I think we oughta attend, Andy,” the marshal said gravely. “Our friends will shore expect it.”

  “You won’t meet many there. Raven’s got the riff-raff o’ the place; the decent men are stayin’ away,” Durley told him.

  “I’m takin’ friends with me,” the marshal said, nodding to the waiting group of riders. “Round up some o’ them decent men an’ fetch em’ along, ol’-timer.”

  The loungers outside the Red Ace watched curiously as the marshal and his followers tied their mounts and entered. The bar was deserted save for its custodian, whose surly look smoothed out into a kind of half-grin when he saw that Green was not alone. A bright idea occurred to him.

  “Meetin’s in the dance hall, gents,” he said. “You gotta leave yore hardware with me.”

  “Like hell we will,” Renton said grimly. “You got the guns o’ the other fellas in there?”

  “The boss said for—” the bartender began.

  “You can tell him to go to blazes,” the Double S foreman cut in. “If you wants my gun, come an’ take it.”

  “Which goes for all of us,” Rusty added. “I’d admire for you to try, Jude.”

  The dispenser of drinks had no intention of accepting the invitation; he had made the demand fearing that it was a forlorn hope, and he knew better than to carry it further. So with a sour sneer he watched them file through the opening into the other room.

  Between forty and fifty men were congregated in the dance hall, lounging on the benches which lined the walls, and the marshal saw at a glance that the better element in the town was not represented. Freighters, prospectors, gamblers, owners or workers in smaller saloons, with a sprinkling of Mexicans, most of them had little to lose and would be ready for anything which promised excitement and possible gain. There were several he failed to recognize, tough-looking fellows whose presence he did not understand until he saw the leering countenance of Leeson; no doubt the rustler had recruited and brought them in, probably from Tepee Mountain. On the little platform facing the door, with its worn-out piano and chairs for any other musicians who might be available, Raven was sitting. By his side was Pardoe, and grouped near were half a dozen of the 88 riders. To the left of the door was an unoccupied space which the newcomers promptly took possession of. The marshal nodded nonchalantly to the gathering.

  “Sorry I’m late, gents,” he said. “Only just heard o’ the meetin’. Hope I ain’t missed much?”

  “Not a thing, ’cept the election of an honest man to take yore place,” Raven told him.

  Green looked round the room. “An honest man,” he said wonderingly. “Leeson, I’m congratulatin’ you on—yore reformation.”

  This produced a laugh from some and a scowl from the saloon-keeper. “I’m meanin’ Mister Pardoe,” he said.

  “What, the Parson?” Green smiled. “Converted hisself, has he? You’ll shorely have to watch out, Raven, or he’ll have you at the mourner’s bench afore you know it.” Durley and several of the tradesmen came in at that moment and joined heartily in the mirth the remark evoked. Raven’s contribution was a savage snarl: “He’ll have you at the Seat o’ Judgment afore then, an’ you’ll go there through the loop of a rope.” He looked at the cowpuncher curiously. “Why didn’t you keep a-travelin’?”

  “Never was scared of a dawg yet—’specially a yellow one—so I came back,” the marshal drawled, and then the humor died out of his face and he said sternly, “Put yore cards on the table, Raven; I’m seem’ you.”

  The half-breed grew livid at the taunt, but he did not reply at once; he was watching the door. Soon came a scurry of hoofs outside, and a moment later Strade walked in. As though he had waited for this, Raven rose.

  “Glad to see you, Sheriff; come right up,” he called, and pointed to a seat on the platform.

  Strade cast an appraising look at the audience and dropped on a bench beside Andy. “I’ll do very well here,” he said.

  “Please yoreself,” the saloon-keeper replied. “I got news for you.” He turned to Green. “Where was you the day the stage was held up?”

  “In yore bar, drinkin’ the rotgut you call whisky.”

  “An where was yore side-kicker, Barsay?”

  “Can’t tell you. I met him for the first time the day after.” Pete spoke for himself. “I was in Lawless too, swallerin’ hocussed hooch at Miguel’s,” he explained.

  Raven’s face took on a heavy sneer. “Miguel says he never seen you till the time you demanded money an’ Green blew in with a gun an’ forced him to pay it.”

  “Then Miguel’s as big a liar as he looks,” Pete retorted. “If yo’re aimin’ to pin that hold-up onto me, I gotta remind you that I ain’t a bit like the fella the driver described.”

  “Huh! A mask an’ hoss make a lot o’ difference, an’ I reckon Eames was some flustered. Pardoe here was one o’ the passengers an’ he says it might ’a bin you—in fact, he thinks it was.”

  “An’ Pardoe might be a truthful man, but in fact I don’t think he is,” Pete parodied, and was rewarded by an applauding snigger from some of the spectators.

  “Well, we’ll let that ride for a spell,” the half-breed resumed. “Where was you when Bordene was shot, Green?”

  “Ridin’ in from the direction o’ yore ranch.”

  “What were you doin’ out there?”

  “Lookin’ for steers I suspected you o’ stealin’,” came the instant retort.

  Someone laughed; all the men present had not benefited by the saloon-keeper’s generosity over the bank’s de
bts. Raven’s face was wooden.

  “An’ you knew Bordene was carryin’ cash—you saw him come outa the bank.”

  “I mighta been payin’ in,” Andy pointed out.

  “You shut yore yap,” the saloon-keeper snapped. “You can talk later. I’m doin’ this.”

  “I’ll speak when I please. I ain’t takin’ orders from you, Raven, an’ that’s whatever,” the rancher replied.

  “You’ll take ’em when you step off the Box B,” the half-breed reminded him, and then, to Green, “Leeson saw a rider on a black hoss near the Old Mine ’bout the hour the killin’ musta took place.”

  “Useful fella, Leeson,” the marshal said. “Has he just remembered it?”

  “He told me at the time. I kept it quiet—for reasons o’ my own.”

  “I can guess ’em. Well, there’s the hold-up an’ the bumpin’ off o’ Bordene all nicely doped out. You goin’ to saddle me with the bank robbery too?”

  The saloon-keeper laughed hoarsely as he replied, “You’ve said it. What was you doin’ that night?”

  “Watchin’ yore men steal Double S steers,” came the cool response.

  The smiles the answer brought deepened the scowl on the questioner’s face. “Likely story that, when I saw you sneakin’ outa Lawless after midnight,” he sneered. “That black o’ yores is plenty outstandin’.”

  It was Green’s turn to laugh. “Shore is, if you saw him that night,” he said. “My horse was in the Box B corral; I rode a paint hoss I borrowed from Andy.”

  If Raven was disconcerted he did not show it. “Mebbe I was mistook about the hoss—there warn’t much light—but it was you right enough, I’ll swear to that,” he said.

  “Which, of course, convinces everybody,” Green said satirically, but conscious that he spoke little more than the truth. For he knew that, up to now, Raven was winning.

  Raven, studying his audience with cunning eyes, decided that the moment had come for his final blow. He saw Strade stand up, and raised a warning hand.