Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (14 page)

 
          
“That’s
a ‘Pache war-cry; what the hell’s doin’?” Barsay shouted.

 
          
Before
anyone could answer, the blood-curdling screech was repeated, to be followed by
pistol shots and the drumming beat of thousands of frenzied feet.

 
          
“By God!
they’re
off, boys, an’
comin’ this way,” Bordene yelled. “Line out an’ drop the leaders; if that don’t
stop ‘em, get outa the way or keep ahead.”

 
          
The
sky was clearing, the rain had ceased, and by the murky light of a few stars
they could see the herd, like a great black wave, sweeping down upon them. The
sharp crack of rifles and revolvers mingled with the bawling of the terrified
brutes and the clash of their great horns as they strove with one another in
the mad rush. Many of the front
line
went down, but
this did not stop the others, and the cowmen were forced to spur desperately
for the side of the valley to avoid being trampled to death. Green and Andy,
who were in the centre of the line, adopted the only alternative and swinging
their horses round, raced ahead of the herd.

 
          
They
reached the exit from the valley with but a few scant yards to spare, just in
time; another few seconds and they would have been under the avalanche of
death-dealing hoofs.

 
          
Dismounting
at the top of a little knoll, they watched the stream of terror-besotted
brutes,
heads down and running blindly, vanish in the gloom.
They had done all that was possible; there was no longer any hope of saving the
herd.

 
          
“We
can’t do a thing till daylight,” Andy said moodily. “Better go an’ see how the
boys are makin’ it.”

 
          
Riding
double, they made their way back to the chuck-wagon. The rain had abolished the
fire, but the cook had got it going again and was boiling coffee for the group
of fagged, disgruntled riders who stood around. Rusty’s raised voice came to
them as they approached.

 
          
“It
warn’t the storm,” he said. “We was holdin’ ‘em, even after that gran’daddy of
a crash; the Injun whoop touched ‘em off an’ a stone wall wouldn’t ‘a’ stopped
‘em then.”

 
          
“‘Lo,
boys,” Andy said.
“All here?”

 
          
“Tod’s
missin’; we thought he was with yu,” Rusty replied.

 
          
“He
was, but I ain’t seen him since the herd took charge. Get busy an’ look
around.”

 
          
Gulping
down their coffee, the men swung to their saddles and spread out. They soon
found and brought him in, limp, battered almost beyond recognition. All knew
how the tragedy had happened. Racing, like Andy and the marshal, to keep ahead
of the herd, his pony had made a false step, and that was the end. Reverently
they covered the still form of the boy—for he was no more—with a blanket, and
turned in to snatch a few hours’ needed rest.

 
          
At
sunrise they were in the saddle again, seeking in all directions for survivors
of the stampede. They rode in couples, Andy and the marshal again pairing up.
The former’s face was grey and drawn; the loss of the young puncher had hit him
hard. The place from which the shot had been fired was easily found—a little
group of scrub-oaks, with sufficient undergrowth to conceal a horseman. The
trampled ground showed shod hoofprints, and the ends of several cigarettes
indicated that the watcher had waited there for some time.

 
          
“Don’t
tell us much, ‘cept that he wasn’t a redskin,” Green grumbled. “We better go
an’ look for yore beef, Andy.”

 
          
The
tracks showed that on leaving the valley the herd had spread widely out. Green
was heading his horse to the left when Bordene stopped him.

 
          
“Shiverin’
Sands
lays
over there,” he said. “Any cows what have
gone that way would have to be dug out.”

 
          
The
country to the right of the trail was open range broken only by thickets and
brush-filled arroyos. Emerging from one of the latter, they came upon a rider
driving twenty Box B steers. The man turned at their hail, and they saw that it
was Leeson. The marshal did not miss the start of alarm as he pulled up his
mount and waited for them.

 
          
“Say,
Bordene,” he greeted, “what the hell’s yore
cows
doin’
around here? I just happened on this bunch an’ was takin’ ‘em to the 88 ‘fore
they rambled farther.”

 
          
The
explanation was plausible enough, but the marshal did not like the haste with
which it was made,
nor
the accompanying half-grin.
Andy, however, seemed to have no suspicion.

 
          
“Much
obliged to yu, Leeson, for collectin’ ‘em,” he replied. “My herd stampeded outa
The Pocket in the storm last night. I reckon mebbe you’ll find some more.”

 
          
“Tough
luck,” Leeson commiserated.
“Didn’t know yu was drivin’.
That storm was shore a cracker-jack.”

 
          
“Seen
any Injuns about here lately?” Green asked, and watched the man closely.

 
          
“Why,
no,” was the reply, and then, after a pause, “that is, I ain’t actually seen
any, but I come upon a fresh sign ‘bout a mile or so north o’ here yestiddy.”

 
          
Green
suspected the statement was an afterthought, concocted for the occasion, but he
affected to accept it. Bordene pointed to the cattle.

 
          
“We’ll
take these off yore hands, Leeson,” he said. “If yu get any more tell Saul to
let me know an’ I’ll send for ‘em.”

 
          
The
sullen eyes of the 88 man followed them as they drove the little herd away.

 
          
He
jabbed his heels into the flanks of his horse, and rocketed away over the plain
in the direction of Raven’s ranch.

 
          
Dusk
found Bordene and his men back in the valley. The day’s hard riding had
resulted in the recovery of about five hundred of the scattered cows.

 
          
“An’
that’s all we’ll get,” the owner said gloomily. “The rustlers an’ that blasted
quicksand have got the rest, an’ we’ll never see hide
nor
hair of ‘em. No use makin’ the drive with this handful, boys; we’ll get back to
the ranch an’ gather another herd.”

 
          
The
night passed quietly but miserably, for the loss of a comrade and the disaster
of the stampede had been too much for the usually buoyant natures of the
outfit. In the early morning they started the depleted herd homewards, leaving
behind them, beneath a beautiful palo verde, an oblong pile of rocks. The
marshal and his deputy rode in the other direction, and, at the far end of the
valley, found what they were seeking—the spot where the stampeders had been
stationed. Behind a sharp ridge the soft ground was scored and trampled.

 
          
“Shod
hosses an’ men wearin’ boots,” Green commented. “I had a notion that Injun yell
warn’t just the genuine article.”

 
          
Beyond
a few spent shells there was nothing else, and though they tried to follow the
tracks, they soon lost them in the welter of the main trail. Giving up the task
as hopeless, they followed the herd. The marshal was very silent; he was
remembering that Leeson had used the Apache cry that night in the Red Ace.

 
          
Long
before the remnant of the trail herd had got back to the Box B the news of the
disaster had come to the Red Ace. On the afternoon following the stampede, a
Mexican rider, who had approached the town by devious ways, slipped into the
private office. Raven’s small black eyes gleamed maliciously as he listened to
the messenger’s tale.

 
          
When
the man had gone Raven sat thinking for a while, and then, taking his hat,
sauntered down the street. Lawless boasted only one bank. Built of ‘dobe
bricks, with walls three feet in thickness, it presented an appearance, at least,
of solidity. The manager, Lemuel Potter, who was commonly regarded as also the
owner, possessed one of those curious neuter personalities which caused him to
be neither liked nor disliked. He was a pompous person, fond of affecting a
superiority which imposed on some and amused others, but he was reputed to be
straight in his dealings. It was into this building that Raven turned, and,
with a nod to the clerk behind the counter, walked through the door marked
“Manager.” At the sight of his visitor, Potter stood up, and then as suddenly
sat down again.

 
          
“Afternoon,
Potter,” the saloonkeeper said, and, not troubling to remove his hat, took a
seat and lit a cigar. “How’s Andy Bordene’s account stand?”

 
          
The
manager’s fleshy, clean-shaven face flushed, and with some attempt at dignity
he replied: “It is against all rules, Mr. Raven, for a bank to disclose the
affairs of a customer.”

 
          
The
saloonkeeper looked at him with an expression of amused contempt.

 
          
“Come
down to earth, yu worm,” he said cuttingly. “It suits me that folk should think
yu own this place, but yu know better. Don’t put any frills on with me or I’ll
trim yu good an’ plenty, Mr. Rutson.” The man’s cheeks became deathly white and
his portly form seemed to shrink in his clothes at the name he hated to hear.
Raven chuckled at the effect he had produced. “I asked yu a question,
Mr.—Potter,” he added, and laughed again when the other winced at the pause.
Utterly cowed, Potter went into the outer office and consulted a ledger.

 
          
“Bordene
is overdrawn five thousand,” he announced. “I saw him a few days ago and I
understood that the sale of his herd would put him right.”

 
          
Raven
grinned sardonically. “Mebbe, but he’s lost most of the cows in a stampede,” he
said. “Now listen to me. Bordene is in a hole an’ he’ll be comin’ to yu. Let
him have thirty thousand on his ranch but tie him up tight. Yu understand?”

 
          
“Yes—sir,”
the manager replied.

 
          
The
title of respect only brought a sneer to the visitor’s lips. “See to it then,
an’ keep yore mouth shut or—I’ll open mine,” he growled, and went out.

 
          
Potter
paled again at the threat, but he said nothing; he knew he was hopelessly in
the power of this man. With trembling hands he lighted a cigarette, and, as he
had done so many times, sat there trying to find some means of escape.

 
          
Two
days later Bordene, having brought his salvaged herd safely back to the Box B,
was sitting in Raven’s office, telling the story of the ill-fated drive. The
elder man listened with a sympathetic expression.

 
          
“So
yu saved ‘bout a third of ‘em,” he commented. “Well, that’s somethin’. But yu
was shore playin’ in pore luck, an’ it hits us both. I told yu how I’m fixed,
an’ I was dependin’ on yu gettin’ that money. What yu aim to do?”

 
          
“Scratch
up another bunch—it won’t be such a good one—an’ try again. I’ve sent word to
my buyer.”

 
          
“That
means waitin’—which I can’t do. Why not see Potter? He’ll let yu have the ready
on yore ranch, an’ that’ll give yu time to turn round; yu can easy get clear
when yu sell yore cows. I don’t want to ride yu, Andy, but I’m bein’ rode
myself
.”

 
          
So
because it seemed the only way out, and to avoid letting down one whom he
deemed to be a friend, Andy went to the bank, and the man who had advised him
to do so grinned felinely when he was gone. Once he held the mortgage, he would
see that Bordene got deeper in the mire, and in the end the Box B would his.
Things had not quite come out as he had planned, but perhaps it was as well. It
meant some delay, but his Indian blood had endowed him with patience. Andy had
been profuse in his praise of his preserver, and presently the saloonkeeper
went in search of him. He found the marshal and his deputy lolling in the door
of their dwelling.