Sudden The Marshal of Lawless (1933) s-8

by Oliver Strange

  The marshal's reply put them back on their old easy footing. "Awright, just listen to me. What I've told yu has gotta be kept tight behind yore teeth. If Lawless gets to know there'll be a necktie party an' we'll be the guests. Now, I'm goin' to trail Mister Bushwhacker. Yu go back with the body an' see if yu can learn anythin' in town."

  This arrangement was not to Barsay's liking, but his chief smiled away all his objections and forthwith departed. He left the little man with plenty to occupy his mind. Remarkable as was the revelation to which he had listened, doubt of it never occurred to him.

  "I just knowed he warn't no ordinary puncher," he muttered. "Sudden, huh? He's all o' that, I reckon."

  CHAPTER VI

  For a mile or more the marshal was able to maintain a fair pace, the tracks of the horse which had been tied behind the shack being plain. Presently, however, they turned off the beaten trail to the Box B, following a mere pathway which twisted tortuously through the brush. Green noted that the fugitive was heading south and making no effort to hide the fact. Pausing at the top of a slight ridge, he scanned the surrounding country.

  There was no sign of his quarry, and, indeed, he had not expected there would be; in such country, the man might have been but a few hundred yards distant and still unseen. The marshal moved down the slope of the ridge, threaded a narrow arroyo, and pulled up again. In front lay an expanse of semi-desert, a broad stretch of sand relieved only by clumps of bunch-grass, cactus, and mesquite. The trail led straight on to this and abruptly vanished. For a moment the trailer was at a loss, and then he noticed that his hoof prints had also gone, the fine granular sand trickling back and filling up the depressions almost as soon as they were made.

  "This fella ain't no stranger," the marshal muttered. "Well, Nig, if he's headin' for the Border we gotta go on."

  Holding a straight line, he crossed the little desert, and after a short search picked up the trail again on the other side. Two miles brought him to a wide-banked, slow-moving river which he guessed must be Lazy Creek; the opposite bank was Mexico. At this time of the year the stream was shrunk to half its winter width and he had no difficulty in crossing. He found the familiar hoofprints on the other side only to lose them soon afterwards in a long narrow cleft, the floor of which consisted of weathered rock, detritus from the bare walls on either side.

  He rode through the gully, emerging into a strip of park-like country interspersed with wooded knolls. Passing one of these, he heard a voice, harsh, speaking in Spanish.

  "See if you can loosen his tongue, Lopez," it said.

  Trailing his reins, the marshal crept cautiously up under cover of the chaparral. The sight was a singular one. At the side of a little glade an Indian was standing, his wrists tied behind him to a sapling. He was a tall fellow, of indeterminate age, his body emaciated by illness or starvation. He was naked save for a ragged pair of deerskin trousers. But for the fierce eyes he might have been a statue of bronze. Facing him was a yellow-skinned Mexican of the lowest type, in a huge sombrero, dirty blue shirt, and tattered overalls. He was holding a wicked-looking quirt, passing the lash through his fingers and eyeing the Indian gloatingly.

  A few yards distant was the man who had spoken, a dark, swarthy fellow of middle age and stature, whose straight black hair framed one of the cruellest faces Green had ever seen. The nose was almost flat, the eyes narrow and near, and the thick, sensual lips were drawn back in a snarl, disclosing big, stained teeth. His attire was a parody of a uniform; a slouched hat pinned up at one side with a silver brooch; a flaming red tunic loaded with gold braid; faded blue pants tucked into high boots garnished with huge wheel spurs. From the gaudy sash round his middle peeped the butts of two pistols and the haft of a dagger.

  At a nod from this man, and before the marshal could interfere, the peon swung his quirt and lashed the Indian savagely across the chest, the thong, knotted at the end, cutting an open weal from which the blood flew. Before the force of the blow the victim staggered, but instantly drew himself up and became again an inanimate thing. Only the clamped lips and bunched jaw-muscles betrayed his agony.

  "Speak, dog, where is the gold?" thundered the man in uniform.

  The Indian remained silent, his face a mask of pride, hatred, and contempt. The man in uniform read the expression aright, and it goaded him to fury.

  "Continue, Lopez," he hissed. "I'll find his tongue if I have to strip the flesh off his bones to do it."

  With an eager grin the peon swished his bloodstained lash round his shoulder, but ere he could bring it down Green's gun crashed and he dropped in a huddled heap; his torturing days were ended. At the sound of the shot, the other man's hand went to his belt but came away empty at the sight of the newcomer's blazing eyes and levelled weapon.

  "Reach, yu yellow skunk," came the terse order.

  The man complied, but his expression was poisonous. "May I point out, senor, that you are on the wrong side of the line?" he observed.

  "I'm on the right side o' this gun," Green grimly retorted. "What are yu up to? "

  The Mexican shrugged his shoulders. "Bah! Only an Indian," he sneered. "He knows where there ees much gold, senor, but the dog ees obstinate."

  The marshal did not reply. Stepping up to the man he drew the pistols from his sash and flung them, one after the other, into the brush. The dagger he used to free the captive and then turned again to the Mexican.

  "Take off yore coat," he ordered.

  An expression of surprise showed in the sallow face. It was not like an Americano to rob a man of his clothes, though, of course, the garment was a desirable one, and as he did not wish to lose it, the wearer ventured a protest.

  "It may interest the senor to learn that I am El Diablo," he said softly. "He weel have heard of me?"

  If the marshal was interested he did not show it; his narrowed eyes continued to regard the ridiculous figure with cold contempt. So this was the guerrilla leader whose reputation for savage cruelty was unequalled in Northern Mexico, and who, at the head of his band of so-called revolutionaries, robbed, murdered, and ravaged along the Border, even crossing it at times to raid the ranches for cattle and horses. Though Green inwardly cursed the luck that had thrown the man in his way, he was determined to punish him.

  "El Diablo, huh?" he sneered. "Well, if yu don't shuck that coat, I'll send yu home so fast yu'll get singed on the way."

  That the guerrilla leader understood the grim witticism is doubtful, but the menacing movement of the speaker's gun could not be mistaken and he obeyed the order. The marshal turned to the Indian, impassively waiting, and pointed to the quirt lying beside the body of Lopez. A gleam of fire shone in the black eyes as the redskin realized the white man's intention. El Diablo also understood, and his dark face grew first pale with fear and then red with shame. His voice shrilled out as the Indian picked up the whip and came towards him.

  "Senor, theenk what you do," he cried desperately. "I am a white man like yourself. I am not a peon, as he"--with a gesture towards Lopez--"but a caballero, a descendant of Old Spain."

  "If yu don't keep them paws up yu won't be a descendant a-tall, yu'll be an ancestor."

  Jocular as the voice was, no humour showed in the granite-hard features of the speaker, and the Mexican knew he might just as well hope for mercy from his late victim, who now stood before him, whip in hand, bitter hatred in his gaze. Reading that look, and recalling what he knew of a red man's ideas of revenge, the marshal was satisfied that the bandit was getting off somewhat lightly. He nodded to the redskin, the whip whistled through the air, and the Mexican shrieked as the knotted lash cut away the flimsy fabric of his shirt, leaving a bloody track from shoulder to hip. Again the marshal nodded, and again the whip fell, this time in the opposite direction, scoring the yellow flesh as though it had been slashed with a knife. Mad with agony, the stricken man clutched at his breast and rolled upon the ground, spitting out curses upon the man who had so shamed him. The marshal regarded him scornfully.

&
nbsp; "Yu may be of Old Spain an' this fella on'y an Injun, but he's got yu skinned when it comes to takin' medicine," he commented. "Shut yore rank mouth an' keep mighty still 'less yu want some more o' yore own treatment."

  He turned just in time to see the redskin take two stumbling steps and fall prone.

  "Agua," he whispered as Green bent over him.

  The marshal grabbed a canteen slung about the body of Lopez, marvelling at the enormous will-power which had enabled the Indian, though nearly dead with exhaustion, to stand' up and mete out terrible punishment to his foe.

  "Damn it, I ain't got no affection for war-whoops, but they're men," he muttered.

  The water proved effective, and in a few moments the Indian was able to stand up. The marshal pointed to the guerrilla leader's horse, which, elaborately saddled and bridled, was tied to a nearby bush.

  "Fork that cayuse an' we'll punch the breeze," he said. "This hombre will have friends not so far off, an' it'll be healthier for us if we ain't around when they arrive."

  The redskin climbed into the saddle, his set teeth showing what the effort cost him, and Green led the way to where he had left his own mount. From where he lay motionless on the ground the beady, venomous eyes of the Mexican followed them. Only when they had vanished in the thick foliage did he venture to rise and shake a vengeful fist in their direction.

  "We shall meet again," he grated. "And then it will be the turn of El Diablo. Dios! but you shall pay."

  Meanwhile the marshal and his companion were wasting no time in covering the ground to the Border. Not until they were on the far side of the river did Green attempt to learn anything of the man he had rescued. The redskin's eyes flashed as he answered the blunt question.

  "Me Black Feather--Mohave chief--one time," he said slowly in a deep, guttural tone.

  The marshal realized much of what lay behind the simple statement; he had lived with the red men. He knew that Black Feather was an outcast--willing or unwilling--from his tribe.

  He had been guilty of some offence, had lost his "medicine," or was, perhaps, satisfying a private vengeance. Whatever the reason, for the time being, he had no lodge, no people, he was a wanderer. Further enquiry elicited that he had fallen into the clutches of the bandit and his follower by evil chance; they had shot his pony and, in common belief that the Indian always knows "the home of the gold," had tortured him.

  Realizing that the trail of Bordene's murderer was now hopelessly lost, the marshal headed for home. They reached Lawless after dark, so that the citizens missed the rather amazing sight of their newly-appointed law-officer holding a drooping Indian in a silver-mounted saddle, on the back of a fine, Spanish-bred horse. When the pair arrived at the marshal's quarters, the sick man slumped to the ground in a dead faint. Pete, who was standing at the door, hurried forward.

  "Yu ain't goin' to tell me this fella bumped off Bordene?" he said incredulously.

  "I am not," the marshal said. "Push them broncs in the corral an' come help fix him up. He's all in."

  He hoisted the slack form to his shoulder and went inside. When Pete returned he found the patient stretched on his bed and the marshal bandaging his hurts.

  "This fella's pretty sick. See here, he's bin shot in the leg as well, an' never let out a chirp about that," Green said admiringly. "An' here's vu--a white man--yowlin' like a lost soul over a mangy bed."

  "It ain't a mangy bed--or it wasn't till yu put that doggone aborigine in it," Pete retorted. He looked at the still senseless form. "Reckon he'll make it?"

  "Shore thing. Injuns is hard to kill--as Uncle Sam knows," the marshal replied. "I've a hunch he'll pay for savin', an' anyways, I couldn't do nothin' else."

  He went on to tell the story of his trailing, and Pete whistled when he heard of the guerrilla leader.

  "El Diablo, huh?" he said. "Yu've stirred up a lively nest o' hornets there; he's rank pizen an' as vain as a peacock, they say. It's a safe bet he's got friends in Lawless too."

  "Yu'll have me scared to death in a minit," his chief smiled.

  Pete looked at him. "Fella can crowd his luck too close," he replied. "Wonder where that bushwhackin' coyote hid up?"

  "Doubled back, likely as hot," the marshal opined. "Wouldn't astonish me none if he's right in Lawless now. Rustle some chuck; I've an idea our guest has missed meals lately."

  CHAPTER VII

  On the following morning the enquiry into the taking off of Andrew Bordene was held in the dance-hall attached to the Red Ace, where all public meetings of importance were convened. Nothing new transpired. Potter, the banker, deposed to the dead man having drawn out five thousand dollars, stating that he had a debt to pay. Andy related his story and the marshal told of his investigation, but he did not produce the empty shells he had picked up, nor make any reference to what had happened over the Border. The jury returned a verdict of wilful murder against the outlaw known as "Sudden," and the whole assembly adjourned to discuss the affair at the bar. Here the marshal found Raven, with two men he did not know. The saloon-keeper beckoned.

  "Marshal," he said, "meet Reuben Sarel of the Double S, and Saul Jevons, foreman o' my ranch, the 88."

  The fat man extended a moist, flabby hand, but Jevons merely nodded. He was about the same height as the marshal but older by ten years. He possessed a powerful but angular frame, a lean, hatchet face, and his dark, straggling moustache failed to hide a slit of a mouth. From ear to chin on his left cheek was a puckered white scar, relic of an old wound, which gave the impression of a perpetual sneer. The marshal disliked the fellow at sight.

  "Bad business this, marshal," Sarel remarked. "Bordene was a white man an' a valued citizen. We're lookin' to yu to put a crimp in this fella Sudden."

  "He's gotta be found first, Reub," Jevons said, and there was a suspicion of a jeer in his tone. "Yu ain't suspectin' that Injun yu toted in, are yu?" This to the marshal.

  "Not any," that officer replied. "I picked him up on the trail; he'd bin shot, stripped, an' set afoot."

  "What nation?" asked Raven.

  "Claims to be Mohave, but I figure he's a stray," the marshal told him. "He ain't talked much yet."

  "Bah! Better 'a' left him; I'd as soon fetch home a hurt rattler," Jevons said savagely. "Redskins is all liars an' thieves."

  "Saul is a bit sore on war-paints just now," Raven explained. "He's bin losin' a few steers an' he's blamin' them for it."

  "Well, I got no use for Injuns, but I reckon it's more likely them toughs in Tepee Mountain is liftin' yore beef, Raven," the Double S man offered.

  After a while the other two sat down to play cards, and Raven led the marshal into his office.

  "Yu got any private opinion 'bout this killin'?" he asked.

  "I said all I had to say at the enquiry," was the reply.

  "Young Andy could 'a' done it," the saloon-keeper suggested. Green shook his head. "Pete an' me checked up the times; we know when the old man left Lawless an' when Andy started from the Box B; he'd have had to ride mighty good to reach the Old Mine before his dad," he pointed out. " 'Nother thing, Andy carries a .44, which takes the same fodder as his Winchester."

  Seth could not gainsay this. "O' course, I was on'y givin' yu a possible line. Andy is in pretty deep with me, an' the old man didn't know it."

  "Anyways, he couldn't 'a' held up the stage, being at the Box B all that day."

  "Huh! Bound to be the same fella, yu think?" "Shore as shootin'."

  Raven picked up a large sheet of coarse paper. "What yu think o' this?" he queried.

  It was a notice, printed in large capitals, offering a reward of one thousand dollars for the capture of the man known as "Sudden," or information leading thereto. No particulars of the outlaw were given, but the horse was described. The document was signed by the saloon-keeper.

  "Might produce somethin'," the marshal agreed. "We gotta do somethin'. This is the fourth play he has put across in a short while. It's up to yu an' Barsay, marshal," Raven said.

  "We'l
l get him," Green said confidently, and picking up the notice, went to nail it outside the saloon door.

  Seth Raven puzzled him. Apparently a public-spirited citizen, anxious for the welfare of the community, there was an elusive something which evaded the marshal. With an innate feeling that the man was crooked, he had to admit that so far he was not justified in that belief. A little later, when he entered his quarters, and went in to see the sufferer he found him still occupying Barsay's bed, and awake. The black eyes, no longer fierce, looked up at him gratefully, reminding him of a devoted dog: and as any sort of sentiment rendered him uncomfortable, his tone was almost abrupt as he asked, "Feelin' better?" "Me well now," the patient replied, and made to rise. The Indian is both proud and punctilious; he would crawl outside to die rather than remain an unwelcome guest. The marshal motioned him to lie down again.

  "Make a job of it, amigo," he said, and his smile meant more than the words.

  The sick man sank back with a grunt of relief; even that slight exertion had been too much for his exhausted frame. "Black Feather no forget," he whispered.

  Pete looked up as the marshal re-entered the office. "When do we start?" he asked hopefully.

  "We don't," Green said. "I'm agoin' to see Sheriff Strade over to Sweetwater, an' I'm leavin' yu in charge--o' the patient."

  "Well, of all the hawgs," ejaculated Barsay. "Why can't yu nurse the nigger an' let me see Strade?"

  "He might recognize yu," Green replied, his eyes twinkling. The appalling impudence of this remark struck the deputy dumb, and before he could recover, the marshal was on his way to the corral. Pete watched him saddle the big black, swing lightly to the saddle, and lope away. He grinned ruefully.

  "Ain't he the aggravatin' cuss?" he asked himself. "An' I can't get mad at him neither--not real mad. I hope to Gawd the sheriff don't recognize him--for the sheriff's sake."

  * * *

  Pete's fear was due to be realized, though the consequences were not serious. To Strade, the tall man who walked into his office and, giving his name, announced himself as the new marshal of Lawless, seemed faintly familiar.