Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (21 page)

 
          
To
the desperately worn man plodding through it, the sand seemed a malignant devil
which clutched his ankles and held them. Each step was now an achievement, for
his strength was gone.

 
          
During
twelve hours he had drunk less than half a pint of
cactus-juice,
and this in a land where a man needed two gallons of water per day. Moreover,
for a great part of that time he had taxed his body to the uttermost. Weaving
blindly onwards he fell again, made a last attempt to rise, and then lay
supine…

 
          
The
marshal awoke to a pleasant feeling of warmth and found that he was covered
with a blanket and lying beside a fire of dead mesquite branches. Pete, with an
anxious face, was kneeling over him, a canteen in his hands. Green made a
feeble grab at it.

 
          
“No,
yu don’t,” the deputy grinned. “That stuff’s wuss’n whisky for yu just
now,
an’ a damn sight more precious in this corner o’ hell.
Yu gotta be spoon-fed, fella, yet awhile.”

 
          
Though
he would have sold his soul for one deep drink, the sufferer submitted, knowing
that the other was right. At the end of an hour he could sit up and use his
tongue again, but he was still utterly played out. From behind a hummock of
sand Black Feather now appeared and flung an armful of twigs on the fire.

 
          
“How’d
yu find me?” the invalid enquired.

 
          
“Yu
gotta thank the Injun for that,” Pete told him. “Fact is, we didn’t do no
searchin’ for rustled cattle; I played a hunch an’ we followed yu ‘bout an hour
after; when we met yore hoss I knowed somethin’ was wrong. We picked up the
trail at the Old Mine. How the hell that copper-coloured cuss followed it I
dunno, but he did, an’ I’m bettin’ we come just in time.”

 
          
“That’s
whatever,” the marshal agreed, and held out his hand to the redskin. “I’m
mighty obliged to yu,” he added.

 
          
Black
Feather took the hand timidly. “White
man
my brother,”
he said in his low, husky tone.
“My fault he here.”

 
          
“Shucks!”
Green said disgustedly.
“My own damn stupidity.
They
played me for a sucker an’ won—this time.
Black Feather big
chief; he trail bird in the air an’ fish in river, huh?”

 
          
The
Indian smiled at this extravagant tribute to his powers.

 
          
Water,
warmth, and food gradually restored the marshal’s strength, but the red rim of
the sun was rising above the horizon before he was able to stand. Helped by the
others, he mounted the Indian’s horse, its owner electing to walk, and they set
out. By this time he had managed to tell the full story; on the redskin it
produced no visible effect, but the deputy was furious.

 
          
“By
God!” he said. “If I find the fella that wrote that invite I’ll make him curse
his mother for bringin’ him into the world. Who
d’yu reckon
it might be?”

 
          
“Ain’t
a notion,” the marshal admitted. “Moraga sprung the trap, but I’m figurin’ he
didn’t bait it. He speaks our lingo pretty good, but that don’t mean he can
write it.”

 
          
“Leeson?”
Barsay suggested.

 
          
Green
shook his head. “
Them mistakes was
made a-purpose,” he
said. “Good writin’ an’ bad spellin’ don’t usually go together.”

 
          
After
a short silence, Barsay spoke again: “See here, Jim, I got an idea. I’ll get
back to town an’ not let on yu’ve been found. Mebbe somebody’ll give us a
pointer.”

 
          
“It’s
certainly a chance,” Green allowed. “Yu see, nobody in town oughta know what’s
become o’ me.”

 
          
So
when they had got clear of the desert and over the Border, the marshal and
Black Feather struck out for the Box B ranch, and the deputy took the trail for
Lawless. The evening found him in the bar of the Red Ace. He had already
decided on his plan of action. Remembering his friend’s dictum that a man in
liquor may learn more than a sober one, he had resolved to try it out. Draping
himself against the bar, he swallowed several drinks in rapid succession and
then turned a scowling face on the company.

 
          
“‘Lo,
Pete, how they treatin’ yu?” asked the store-keeper jovially.

 
          
“Mighty
seldom—yu’ll never have a better chanct,” the deputy told him.

 
          
Loder
laughed and ordered liquor. “What’s come o’ the marshal—ain’t seen him all
day?” he went on.

 
          
In
a voice that could be heard all over the room Barsay related his own version of
the mysterious missive, adding that, becoming uneasy, he had followed the
marshal to the appointed spot only to discover the ample evidence of an ambush.
The story gained him the attention of most present. Suddenly he darted a finger
at Leeson.

 
          
“Ask
that fella,” he said. “Mebbe he can tell yu somethin’.”

 
          
He
watched the man closely as he spoke and noted the look of blank amazement.
“What yu gittin’ at?” Leeson protested. “How should I know anythin’ of it?”

 
          
Pete,
in fact, saw that he did not, but he had to justify his charge. “Huh! Yu tried
to bump him off two-three days ago,” he growled.

 
          
“I
told yu it was a mistake,” the 88 man explained quickly, for the statement
produced a murmur from several.

 
          
“Shore
was, an’ one more o’ the same’ll be yore last,” Pete threatened.

 
          
He
poured himself another drink, took a mouthful, spat it out and turned
wrathfully on the bartender: “Ain’t yu never goin’ to get some decent liquor?”
he asked belligerently. “That stuff would poison a hawg.”

 
          
“What’s
the trouble, Jude?” The saloonkeeper’s spare, stooping figure injected itself
into the group.

 
          
“Barsay’s
on the prod ‘bout the nose-dye,” the bartender explained.

 
          
Raven’s
sneering gaze swept the deputy. “Too strong for him, seemin’ly,” he said.

 
          
The
deputy cackled. “That’s an insult to me an’ a compliment to the dope yu call
whisky,” he said, with a slight stagger. “What I wanna know is what yu done
with the marshal?”

 
          
The
saloonkeeper’s face was wooden. “Yo’re either drunk or loco,” he replied, and
appealed to one of the bystanders: “What: the hell’s he mean?” He heard the
story with apparent indifference, but Pete, lolling against the bar, saw an
expression in the narrowed eyes which might have been satisfaction.

 
          
“Looks
like he’s met up with Moraga,” he commented. “I warned him the Mexican was bad
medicine, but yu can’t tell the marshal anythin’. I guess we won’t see him no
more.”

 
          
Bar
say nodded his head stupidly and fumbled with his glass.

 
          
“How’d
yu know it was the Mexican?” he queried.

 
          
“I
don’t—I’m guessin’,” Raven replied. “Green has twisted his tail two-three
times, an’

 
          
Greasers
ain’t a forgivin’ sort.” His’ lips suddenly split in a feline grin: “Anyways,
what yu belly-achin’ about? Don’t yu want his job?”

 
          
Pete
blinked at him owlishly. “Hell’s bells! I hadn’t thought o’ that.”

 
          
So
ludicrous was his expression that the onlookers laughed aloud, and Raven was
quick to seize the opportunity. “Set ‘em up, Jude,” he cried. “We’ll drink to
the marshal.”

 
          
“The
new one?” someone questioned.

 
          
“There
ain’t a new one—yet,” Raven told him, and lifting his glass added, “The
marshal.”

 
          
Pete
grinned foolishly as he raised his glass with the rest, and said thickly,
“Here’s hopin’”—he paused a second and a man guffawed—“he comes back.”

 
          
“O’
course, we’re all wishin’ that,” the saloonkeeper agreed, and smiled
understandingly at the deputy.

 
          
The
smile confirmed the little man’s suspicions, and sent him back to his quarters
in an unusually thoughtful frame of mind.

 
          
The
marshal received an enthusiastic welcome at the Box B; in the eyes of its owner
nothing was too good for the man who had rescued Tonia and punished her
assailant. He had heard the details from the girl’s own lips, and only her
urgent entreaties had kept him from rounding up his outfit and going in search
of the offender. He listened with amazement and growing anger to the marshal’s
account of Moraga’s attempted vengeance.

 
          
“That
Greaser’s gettin’ too brash whatever,” he said. ” ‘Bout time he was abolished.
Yu got that paper with yu? Mebbe I know the writin’.”

 
          
When
the marshal produced it the young man stared in puzzled bewilderment.

 
          
“If
it didn’t seem ridic’lous I’d have said Potter wrote that,” he pronounced. “But
he wouldn’t be agin yu or for the Greaser.”

 
          
“It
ain’t Raven’s fist, I s’pose, or Leeson’s?”

 
          
“Dunno
‘bout Leeson—shouldn’t think he could write so
good
,
but it certainly ain’t Raven. What’s put them in yore mind?”

 
          
The
marshal told of the 88 rider’s attempt to bushwhack him, and the rancher’s eyes
widened.

 
          
“Yu
think Seth put him up to it?”

 
          
“I
dunno, Andy, an’ that’s a fact. I’m gropin’ in the dark. Leeson is one o’
Raven’s men, an’ unless he’s been told different, he’d figure me the same,
seein’ that Raven made me marshal.”

 
          
Both
were silent for a few moments, and then Green said, “Don’t think I’m hornin’
in, Andy, but did yore dad owe Raven money?”

 
          
“Fifteen
thousand, though I didn’t know of it till I saw the note,” Bordene replied. “I
paid it off. Why?”

 
          
“When
he drew out that five thousand the mornin’ he was—got, he told Potter it was to
square a debt, an’ he went to the Red Ace,” the marshal said quietly. “Raven
was out—at the 88.

 
          
Yu
have the note?”

 
          
He
studied the cancelled document carefully. “That figure one could ‘a’ been put
in after it was wrote,” he pointed out.

 
          
“Shore
could,” Andy agreed. “I reckon the Old Man was some careless, but yu got Seth
sized up wrong, marshal; he wouldn’t play it that low on me.”

 
          
Green
laughed. “Well, seein’ as yu’ve paid, I s’pose it don’t do no good to worry
about it,” he said. “Aimin’ to try another drive?”

 
          
“Yeah,
an’ it’s goin’ through this time, yu bet vu,” Bordene said.

 
          
“Don’t
camp too near Shiverin’ Sand,” Green warned.

 
          
“Seth
was tellin’ me the same thing yestiddy,” Andy smiled. “I said I hadn’t made
no
plans.”

 
          
“Let
it be known yu expect to bed down in The Pocket again, an’ then change yore
mind,” the marshal advised.