by Matt Rand
“Hold on, Sheriff, in case you say somethin’ you might be sorry for,” he called out. “I got one more card to play. This fella calls hisself Green, but in Texas he’s better known as Sudden, an’ he can’t deny it.”
Oaths and gasps of astonishment greeted the announcement, and all eyes were turned on the man whose reckless courage and deadly gun-play had already made his name known throughout the Southwest. Necks were craned to see one who had been a familiar figure to most of them for many weeks. Somehow this long-limbed, lean-faced, confident young man did not suggest a noted desperado, and they waited breathlessly for his reply.
“I ain’t denyin’ it,” he said quietly.
Raven looked round triumphantly. “I reckon that settles it,” he said. “Yo’re a cool cuss, Sudden; most fellas, after wipin’ out Tony Sarel, lootin’ the Sweetwater bank, an’ holdin’ up Sands would ’a’ scratched gravel, but yo’re a hawg. A right smart play gettin’ yoreself made marshal—I gotta hand it to you; it was a good joke on the town an’”—his voice was acrid—“we’re all laughin’ at it.”
“Like hell we are,” came a surly growl from one of the listeners.
“Well, if Lawless don’t feel amused, Sweetwater will,” the half-breed went on. “’Specially when it learns that its respected sheriff has been hobnobbin’ with the very man he’s been scourin’ the country for.”
Strade sprang to his feet. “Hold yore hosses, Raven,” he cried. “Yo’re travelin’ wide o’ the trail.” He waved a hand towards Green. “I’ve knowed who this man is pretty nigh since you appointed him as marshal.”
This admission provided almost as big a sensation as the announcement of Green’s identity. Strade waited calmly until the incredulous chorus of curses and ejaculations had died down. Raven was the first to speak.
“You knew?” he shouted. “Why in hell didn’t you arrest him?”
“When I want you to tell me my business I’ll shore ask you, Raven,” the sheriff replied tersely. “Green come to me an’ explained who he was an’ why he happened to be in these parts. Afterwards I checked up on what he told me an’ found it was correct. I’m admittin’ he has a hard reputation, but he got some of it as a deputy sheriff in the service o’ Governor Blake, an’ more was plastered on him like it has been here, which is what brought him. He warn’t around when the Streetwater plays was pulled off.”
“You mean he didn’t show up till after,” Raven sneered. “What about his pardner, Barsay? You checked up on him, too?”
“No, I ain’t,” Strafe had to confess. “Green told me he only met him the day he was made marshal.”
Ironic cheers greeted the remark, and it was easy to see that the sheriff’s defense had produced little effect. Green realized that his reputation was likely to cost him his life. Some of the better type of citizen were now regarding him dubiously, and a whispered argument was going on among the cowboys from the two ranches.
Then the voice of Rusty rang out with startling distinctness. “I don’t care if he’s the Devil hisself, he’s a man, an’ I’m backin’ his play agin that squaw’s pup on the platform.”
A yelp of delight from the group of punchers followed this outspoken opinion. Raven scowled blackly.
“I’ll remember that when I take over the Box B, Rusty,” he said.
“Huh! You don’t reckon any of us’ll ride for you?” retorted the unabashed cowboy. “Me, I’d sooner work for a Digger Injun—he’d be pure strain anyways.”
The saloon-keeper’s cruel lips tightened at the insult and his voice was thick with passion when he replied: “Yappin’ curs never did bother me. Well, boys, you’ve heard my side an’ Strade’s. What you goin’ to do about it?”
“Hang the bushwhackin’ thief an’ send his pardner along for company,” came from Leeson’s direction. “Where’s the sense in all this chatter?”
Raven’s lips twisted in a Satanic smile. “We gotta be fair,” he purred. “All in favor o’ swingin’ Sudden an’ his accomplice hold up the left hand”
The result was what he expected, fully three-quarters of those present hoisting their hands.
“Reckon that fixes it,” the half-breed said. “Sudden, you ain’t as popular as I thought you was.” He turned to the new officer and said: “Marshal, do yore duty.”
The order fell upon Pardoe like a thunderbolt, and his puny soul shriveled within him as he realized what it meant. He was to arrest and hang Sudden, and there he was, only a few yards away, his thumbs hooked in his belt in close proximity to the smooth butts of the guns he could use with such speed and accuracy. Despite the danger he was in, the gunman’s narrowed eyes twinkled with mischievous mirth at the new marshal’s predicament, and Pardoe inwardly cursed his own ambition. To fall down on his first job would be fatal to his prospects, but—he wanted to live. His appealing look at Raven proved abortive, for the half-breed was enjoying himself in his peculiar fashion—he had put a white man in an awkward position. Succor came from an unexpected quarter; it was Green who broke the silence.
“Before the Parson officiates at his own funeral, I’ve got somethin’ to say,” he began.
A murmur of impatience ran round the room. The eyes of the condemned man were chilled steel, his jaw firmed, and his lounging figure became instilled with purpose. Although they saw no movement, a gun seemed to leap into his right hand; before its menacing muzzle the murmurs died down.
“You listened to Raven pretty patient, an’ I’m aimin’ to say my piece without interruption,” the wielder of the weapon said sardonically. “What Strade told you about me is true. I’m Sudden, but I ain’t the man who’s been operatin’ round here. I came to search out that fella an’—I think I’ve found him.”
He paused for a moment, his gaze traveling over the faces before him. Most of them expressed an amused incredulity, but not one ventured to voice it. The keen, alert glance and leveled gun kept them silent and still. By concerted action they could overwhelm him, but it would mean death to many, and no man of them was prepared to die for the half-breed. Raven knew this, and conscious too that the threatening gun never moved far from his own breast, he sat down.
“We’ll hear you,” he said.
Green’s smile had no mirth in it. “Eames an’ Sands both say the hold-up’s hoss had a white stocking on the near fore,” he began. “How’d you know Sudden’s mount was marked like that?”
“I sent to Texas to find out,” Raven returned.
“Painstakin’ fella,” commented the other. “Sudden’s hoss is outside now, an’ if you wash away the dye you’ll find the white stockin’ on the off fore. Pete wouldn’t ’a’ made that mistake, an’ it’s shore odd that both you an’ the hold-up should ’a’ got the wrong information.”
For an instant the half-breed looked disconcerted, and then he shrugged his shoulders. “Had it from the same source, I s’pose,” he said. “You suggestin’ I robbed the stage?”
“Why not?” came the cool retort. “You weren’t in Lawless then, nor when Bordene was shot.”
“I was at the 88 with my foreman both times.”
“Huh! Kinda pity you wiped out Jevons, ain’t it?”
“I saw the boss there each o’ them days,” Leeson called out.
Green flashed round on him. “Shore o’ that?” he asked, and when Leeson—who had not seen the black look Raven shot at him—replied that he was, Green went on, “Raven told us a while back that you were near the Old Mine when Bordene was killed; you say you were at the 88; you ain’t twins, are you?”
A loud guffaw greeted the statement, and was not lessened by the man’s stammering attempt to explain. The late marshal cut him short.
“A liar should have a long memory, Leeson,” he said curtly, and turned to the rest of the company. “The mornin’ he was murdered Bordene drew five thousand from the bank an’ went to the Red Ace to pay the money to Raven. Not findin’ him there he set out for the Box B, an’ you know what happened. Later on, Raven claims fifteen thousand fr
om young Andy.”
“The note I held was for that amount,” the saloon-keeper interposed.
“It was an easy document to alter,” Green said. “Andy didn’t dispute it, but he couldn’t pay till he’d sold his cattle. He don’t get no chance to do this—his herd is stampeded, not far from the 88—an’ a few days on I find four o’ Raven’s men shepherdin’ about four hundred Box B steers towards the Border. They claim they’s takin’ ’em back to Andy, but the trail’s as crooked as the story.”
“I had no knowledge o’ that; I left the runnin’ o’ the ranch to my foreman,” Raven snapped.
“Who bein’ conveniently dead can take all the blame you put on him,” Green pointed out. “Well, Andy still ain’t got the coin; at Raven’s suggestion he mortgages his ranch with the bank. Then he puts a herd through an’ brings back the cash to clear hisself. He has to leave on the jump after Moraga, havin’ handed the dinero to Potter.”
“Of which there was no record in the bank books,” the half-breed sneered.
“Mebbe not, after you’d handled ’em,” Green said bluntly. “When Andy comes back he finds his money gone an’ his mortgage in the possession of Mister Raven.”
“Who paid for it,” that worthy added.
‘Talkin’ ’o mortgages,” Green went on imperturbably, “Raven holds one on the Double S which he didn’t mention when the man who signed it, Anthony Sarel, was shot, an’ he’s threatenin’ to turn Miss Tonia out unless—she marries him.”
This revelation met with a mixed reception, coarse mirth from the rougher element and growls of resentment from the better class of the audience. Raven saw he must temporize.
“Bah, she got uppity; I had to put a scare into her,” he said carelessly.
“You were about to strike her when I happened along,” Green reminded. “Miss Sarel ain’t no squaw, Raven.”
The oblique reference to his origin, as always, infuriated the half-breed. “Damn you, what have my private affairs to do with it?” he screamed. “Look here—”
But the object of his wrath was looking at Leeson, watching the fellow’s stealthy attempt to draw his gun behind the back of another. He waited until the weapon was out and then fired. Leeson’s pistol bumped on the board floor, while its owner stared dazedly at his perforated wrist, the throbbing agony of which brought a stream of curses to his trembling lips. The gunman, blue smoke eddying round him, swept the room with a glance, and every man grew rigid under the menacing, cold eyes.
“Another trick like that an’ you take the long hop to hell, Raven,” he warned.
“I didn’t tell the fool to fire. Yo’re takin’ high hand, but yore neck ain’t outa the noose yet. We’re four to one, I reckon, an’ if it comes to a showdown—”
“This town’ll need a nice new graveyard.”
The saloon-keeper gave a gesture of impatience. “You’ve told us a lot we knew afore,” he said. “What’s yore point?”
“Just this, Raven,” Green said meaningly. “You an’ this fella I’ll call Sudden the Second both had the same wrong description o’ my hoss, an’ every crime he committed around here has been to yore benefit.”
“Then I oughta be mighty obliged to you—Sudden,” the saloon-keeper sneered.
There was laughter at this, but it was by no means general and Raven began to realize that he was losing ground. He stood up.
“All these hints an’ suspicions don’t prove anythin’,” he said. “Yo’re just tryin’ to bind yore own trail. If Potter could only speak—”
“Potter won’t ever speak again,” interrupted a new voice, that of the little doctor, who had just come in.
Green turned quickly. “Shore o’ that?” he asked.
“I think I know a corpse when I see one, seh,” Pills returned stiffly. “Potter’s as dead as Pharaoh.”
“Sorry, Doc, I warn’t doubtin’ yore ability, but it may make a difference,” the late marshal smiled. “I’m hopin’ you’ll do me a favor.”
The medico, who was already busy bandaging Leeson’s wound, looked up with a whimsical grin. “So long as you make work for me instead of the undertaker I can’t very well refuse,” he said.
The job finished, he listened to Green’s whispered instructions, nodded his head, and went out.
CHAPTER XXIV
In the dance hall men waited, wondering what new development the doctor’s errand portended. Muttering voices, shuffling feet, and an occasional hoarse laugh accentuated the silence. Curious eyes traveled from one to the other of the principal actors.
“What’s his game?” Strade asked of Andy, but that young man shook his head in despair.
“Blamed if I know—he’s as deep as a well,” was the answer. “’Pears he ain’t worryin’ neither.”
‘That sort doesn’t,” the sheriff said.
He looked at Green, lounging easily against the wall, gun dangling from his right hand. Certainly he appeared the least concerned of any; but for all this seeming indifference he was on the alert—not a movement escaping him. He knew perfectly well that most of those present were still hostile, that in their eyes he was an outlaw; only the production of the real criminal would exonerate him, and he was taking no chances of another treacherous attempt to shoot him down. What secret the dead banker had left behind he did not know, but he was gambling that it referred to Raven. If it did not, he lost, and—above the hum of voices that of Renton reached him.
“My guess is the hold-up fella was Jevons, actin’ on Raven’s orders, an’ that’s why he snuffed him out.”
“Mebbe, he was about the build an’ had a black hoss handy,” Barsay said, and told of the hidden animal.
“That cinches it,” the Double S foreman cried. “Why didn’t—”
The return of the doctor stilled all tongues. Green took the envelope the little man handed to him and held it up.
“A while ago,” he said, “Potter asked me to take charge o’ this, makin’ me promise that nobody should see or hear of it till he was dead. That’s all I know about it. I’m askin’ the doc to open it.”
Utter silence reigned as Pills tore off the outer cover, disclosing another. “It says, ‘Not to be opened until I am dead,’ and is signed and dated,” he informed them. “Come here, Inky.”
The bank-clerk shuffled forward. “That’s old Potter’s fist shore ’nuff,” he pronounced. ‘An’ that’s his private seal.”
Pills nodded his satisfaction. “Having proved the authenticity of the document, is it the wish of the meeting that I make known the contents?” he inquired.
“Doc’s dead sober,” Durley whispered. “You can allus tell by the way he talks; big words don’t scare him none then.”
Cries of “Let her rip, Doc,” and “Spill the beans,” came from all parts of the room; curiosity had the men by the ears. Raven alone appeared not to share it, a sneer of indifference masking his real feelings. Carefully Pills split the second envelope, drew out a folded paper, and began to read:
I, Lemuel Potter, write this statement in order that, should I die, the designs of a scoundrel may be frustrated. I have deposited it with Marshal Green, believing him to be an honest man.
Several of the audience laughed at this, and even Green himself could not repress a clipped smile. A sharp word from the doctor restored the quiet.
Years ago I was head cashier in an Eastern city bank. Bitten with the get-rich-quick mania, I speculated and got into difficulties. To meet my losses I forged checks—I was always clever with my pen—hoping, as many a poor fool has done, that the luck would change. I got deeper in the mire. When discovery became imminent I determined to rob the bank and fly. The night watchman caught me rifting the safe; I struck harder than I intended and—killed him. For many months I dodged from place to place, a hunted fugitive, and eventually I came to Lawless and began my life anew. I thought I had escaped punishment, but alas! It was only about to commence. An old news sheet, containing an account of the crime and a portrait put one man here in
possession of my secret, and from that moment existence became a hell. This soulless devil forced me to participate in the crimes prompted by his lust for power. To commit these with impunity, he hit upon the idea of masquerading as a notorious outlaw and made me obtain a description of this fellow’s horse. In the hope of tripping him I altered one detail. He did the deeds of violence attributed to Sudden, and shot Anthony Sarel. Secure in his knowledge that I dare not betray him, he boasted to me of his acts. His manner lately has been sinister, threatening, and I know that he will kill me when I have served my purpose. The mortgage on the Double S ranch is a forgery he compelled me to fabricate. The name of this fiend is Seth Raven, and may the curse of a wretch he has driven to despair follow him to hell—and after.
Lemuel Potter.
A long breathless pause followed as the doctor’s voice died out, and all eyes turned to the man sitting on the platform. Hunched in his seat, Raven had listened to the terrible indictment with the face of a stone image, cold, impassive. Now he stood up and—laughed.
“Well, boys, afore you string me up let me give you a word of advice—never do another fella a good turn,” he said, and his voice was easy, confident. “What you’ve heard is a pretty good specimen o’ gratitude—white man’s gratitude—an Injun wouldn’t ’a’ done it.” He paused for a moment on the sneer. “I never knew Potter was a murderer, but when he come here he told me a hard luck story, an’ feelin’ sorry for him, I gave him a hand. Without it, he’d ’a’ been—nothin’. Of late he’s been puttin’ on frills, dunno why, but I can guess.” He looked meaningly at Green. “I had to call him down once or twice. He took it bad an’ here’s the result—that pack o’ lies.”
“You suggestin’ Potter got hisself killed a-purpose to spite you?” Renton asked sarcastically.
“No, Renton, I ain’t,” was the quiet reply. “Here’s how I figure it: Potter an’ Green put their heads together an’ dope out that precious confession. Then, one fine night, Potter slides out with the bank funds. When he’s clear away, the marshal produces this paper, which ruins me an’ clears him. Later, they meet somewheres an’ divvy up. It’s a good scheme, but the banker overlooks a bet; he don’t see that with him dead it’s twice as safe an’ profitable for his pardner. Think it over; why, it’s ‘money from home’ for—Mister Sudden.”