Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (11 page)

 
          
“S’pose
he’ll show yu tomorrow,” the deputy said. “Yu want me along?”

 
          
“No
use both goin’,” Green replied. “Yu better stay here to see that no festive
cow-person ropes the office an’ drags it into the desert.”

 
          
The
sun was not yet up and there was a keen bite in the air when the marshal and
the Mohave set out. Once clear of the town, the redskin turned his horse’s head
to the north-west, in the direction of Tepee Mountain, and for an hour they
loped over miles of level range, sandy soil thickly dotted with bunch-grass,
creosote, and mesquite. Green guessed that his guide was taking him direct to
the finish of his trailing; evidently the murderer had, as he suspected,
doubled back after crossing the Border. Deep gorges, masked by black pine
forests, slashed the lower slopes of the range, and above them towered the
great grey granite peak.

 
          
Into
one of these ravines the Indian led the way, his mount splashing along a small
stream which swept smoothly over its stony bed. For about a quarter of a mile
they rode in the water, and then the leader turned sharply to the left and
vanished in the bordering bushes. The marshal followed, to find an unexpected
break in the wall of the gorge, an opening only a few yards wide, guarded by a
rough pole gate. On the other side was a tiny pocket of not more than a dozen
acres, covered with rich grass and walled in by cliff. At the far end a black
horse was grazing. On a bare patch of ground near the entrance, which his guide
carefully avoided, were several hoofmarks, some of which Green recognized; the
others had been made by a smaller horse.

 
          
“Good
work,” he said approvingly, and the Indian’s expressive eyes gleamed at the
praise.

 
          
“I
reckon there ain’t much doubt, but we’ll make shore.”

 
          
They
rode slowly into the valley, keeping away from the strange horse until they
were level with it, and then Green suddenly whirled his mount and jumped it at
the grazing animal, round the neck of which the noose dropped before the victim
could dodge. Slipping from his saddle, the marshal walked up the rope, coiling
it as he approached, but ready for a breakaway.

 
          
The
black, however, proved ropewise and docile; it allowed him to pull its head
down and discover, at the roots of the hair, little flakes of white. Lifting
the near foreleg, he found the same singularity.

 
          
“She’s
the hoss, shore enough,” he muttered. “All we gotta do now is
find
the owner.”

 
          
“Nothin’
here—me look,” Black Feather said.

 
          
“Huh!
Just uses it as a private corral. Rides here, changes mounts to do his dirty
work, an’ has the other hoss waitin’ to get away on,”
mused
the marshal. “That means he ain’t too far from here.”

 
          
Leaving
the gate exactly as they found it, they made their way back to the open range,
and then, having warned him not to talk—Pete would have deemed this
unnecessary—the marshal sent his companion back to town. He himself headed
east, following the line of the mountain.

 
          
Presently
he began to come on scattered groups of cattle. He had drawn near to one of
these and was endeavouring to decipher the brand when a bullet droned through
the air, followed by the flat report, and a hoarse shout of “Put ‘em up; the
next one drills yu.”

 
          
The
marshal did not comply—his hands were too busy subduing the evolutions of
Nigger, who, having decided objections to bullets whistling past his ears,
never failed to register a protest. When the rider had succeeded in calming the
black, he looked up into the gun of the man who had given the order. It was
Leeson. Despite the threatening weapon, the marshal laughed.

 
          
“Why,
if it ain’t Mister Wild Bill ‘Hiccup,’” he said.
“Playin’
with firearms, too.
What yu mean, scaring my hoss thataway?”

 
          
The
man glared at him, his finger itching to pull the trigger. But the marshal had
been appointed by Raven, and besides, although his own gun was already out, he
had an uneasy feeling that this jeering, confident devil would somehow get the
better of him. So he holstered his pistol and said sullenly:

 
          
“Didn’t know yu.
Wondered what yore interest was in our
cows, that’s all.”

 
          
“Yore
cows?” the marshal repeated.

 
          
“Yeah,
I’m ridin’ for the 88,” the man explained.

 
          
“Raven’s
ranch, huh? How far away is it?”

 
          
Leeson
pointed east and said it was some three miles to the ranch-house.

 
          
“Who
put yu up to that fool play the other night?” Green asked.

 
          
The
man flushed. “Some o’ the boys,” he growled. “It was on’y a joke.”

 
          
“Well,
I hope yu laughed hearty,” the marshal said.
“So long.”

 
          
He
turned his horse and rode in the direction indicated.

 
          
The
88 ranch-house was an unpretentious log building of no great size and somewhat
slovenly appearance. The bunk-house and corrals were rough, and conveyed the
impression of being temporary structures. The rear of the ranch was protected
by the lower slopes of the mountain, a jumbled, precipitous piece of country
which made the open range in front the only means of approach. The place
appeared to be deserted, but Green’s shout of “Hello, the house,” brought
Jevons to the door. His eyes narrowed when he saw who the visitor was, but he
forced an unwilling grin to his lips.

 
          
“‘Lo,
marshal,” he said. “What’s brung yu out so far?”

 
          
“Just
havin’ a look round,” Green said easily. “New territory to me, you see.”

 
          
Jevons
suddenly remembered his duties as host, “Light an’ rest yore saddle,” he
invited, adding, “That’s a good hoss yu got; had him long?”

 
          
“Coupla
years,” Green told him carelessly. “Some folks don’t like blacks—claim they’re
unlucky; me, I ain’t fussy.”

 
          
“Don’t
care for ‘em myself,” the foreman said, “Wouldn’t own one as a gift.”

 
          
The
room they entered was rudely furnished with the barest necessities and littered
with a medley of saddles, bridles, guns, and the various paraphernalia of ranch
equipment. Jevons produced a bottle and glasses.

 
          
“Yu
‘pear to be pretty well fixed here,” the guest offered, meaning exactly the
opposite.

 
          
“Raven
come
out much?”

 
          
“The
place serves its purpose,” the foreman said: and, boastfully, “Seth leaves
things to me—must be a’most a month since he drifted over; reckon he finds the
Red Ace more comfortable.”

 
          
“Can’t
blame him,” the marshal agreed. “Yu got some fierce scenery back o’ yu; I ain’t
surprised yo’re losin’ cows.”

 
          
“We
ain’t shy many, an’ if
folks warn’t
so soft over
warpaints we wouldn’t be losin’ them,”

 
          
Jevons
said pointedly. “My men has orders to shoot any brave pirootin’ round this
range.”

 
          
The
marshal made a mental note to warn Black Feather, declined a second drink, and
asked the nearest way back to Lawless.

 
          
“Bear
off east an’ three-four miles’ll bring yu to the drive trail north,” Jevons
told him.

 
          
Until
the visitor had become a mere speak on the plain the foreman watched him, his
lips twisted into an ugly sneer. “Wonder what yu were after, Mister Man?” he
muttered. “I’ve a hunch yu ain’t exactly mother’s little helper so far as Seth
is concerned, an’ that it’s goin’ to be worthwhile to keep cases on yu.”

 
          
Meanwhile
the subject of this speculation was proceeding leisurely homewards, his mind
busy with the problem he had to solve. That the man masquerading as “Sudden”
was one of the refugees in Tepee Mountain he did not believe. The fact that the
crimes had been perpetrated at propitious times could not be mere
coincidence,
the miscreant must have bad inside knowledge.

 
          
The
location of the hidden horse so far from Sweetwater made Lawless the most
likely place to look for the owner. He thought of Leeson, who had already
adopted one famous alias.

 
          
“It
don’t
need much nerve to shoot a fella from cover,” he
reflected. “If he thought I’d found an’ collared the black it might explain his
cuttin’ loose on me so prompt, an’ that shot was meant to hit—he warn’t funnin’.”

 
          
It
was late in the afternoon when he reached the town, and putting his horse in
the corral, joined his deputy in the little front room of their quarters.

 
          
Pete
answered the marshal’s question as to whether the Indian had returned.

 
          
“Sifted
in two-three hours back,” he said.
“Couldn’t git a word outa
him.
Gripes!
a
clam is one big chatterbox
alongside that redskin.”

 
          
“He’s
obeyin’ orders,” Green said, and told of the finding of the black horse and
what followed.

 
          
“Leeson
ain’t got the brains,” the deputy decided.

 
          
“Somebody
else may be doin’ the plannin’,” Green argued.

 
          
“Who?”
Pete asked unthinkingly, and instantly wanted to kick
himself.

 
          
The
marshal looked at him commiseratingly, “That’s the worst o’ them hair-trigger
tongues,” he said. “Fella’s gotta say somethin’ even when he’s got nothin’ to
say.”

 
          
This
reasoning was too much for the deputy; with a snort of disgust he stamped out
of the room. The marshal’s smiling glance followed him.

 
          
“Tubby,
yo’re one good little man, white clean through,” he apostrophized. “I’m shore
glad I met up with yu.”

 
          
But
not for worlds would he have had his friend hear this eulogy.

 
          
Unwonted
tranquillity reigned in Lawless, and the popularity of the new marshal with the
better type of citizen increased daily. Such realized that this steady-eyed,
good-humoured young man knew his job and was a very different proposition to
the hard-drinking, swaggering ruffians who had previously held the position.
The rougher element, though it did not like the officer, feared him, sensing
the possibilities of violence beneath the quiet exterior. Naturally there was a
good deal of curiosity respecting him. Durley, chatting at his door with Timms,
the blacksmith, stated his own opinion.

 
          
“He’s
a man. Give him a square deal an’ yu’ll get the same. Hello, there’s Tonia
Sarel; ain’t she the prettiest thing that ever happened?”

 
          
The
girl, who had just emerged from the store on the other side of the street, had
stopped to speak with Andy Bordene. Lawless had seen little of the young owner
of the Box B since his father had been laid to rest in the little cemetery by
the creek, for there had been much to do at the ranch. Tonia’s quick eye saw at
once the change in him; grief and responsibility had brought manhood. There were
lines about the mouth and eyes that she had never seen and
a
gravity
she had not yet known. But it was Andy’s old smile that greeted
her.