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

by Oliver Strange

  “Well, that’s likely enough too,” Raven returned. “Yu better get rid o’ that black hoss. As for Leeson, I’d turn him loose, in yore place.”

  “If yu want I should—” the marshal began.

  “I don’t give a damn; the fella’s just one o’ my hands—not too good a one at that,” Raven retorted, adding carelessly, “His tale will clear him with most.”

  Green nodded and came away. At the office he found Pete and the prisoner chatting amiably. When handed his weapons and informed that he was at liberty to depart, a sneering grin further disfigured Leeson’s features.

  “Got yore orders from Seth, huh?” he said.

  “Don’t push yore luck too hard, fella,” the marshal replied caustically.

  When he had gone Barsay burst into a roar of merriment, and it was some moments before he could explain.

  “He’s bin tellin’ me how yu turned the tables on him,” he said. “An’ he was as solemn as an undertaker at his own funeral; reckons yu got no right to monkey with citizens thataway, an’ I had to listen without a smile; I near died.”

  “It was shorely funny,” the marshal grinned. “Just the same, he damn near got me.”

  “You oughta abolished him right away,” Pete said disgustedly. “Where’s the sense in totin’ him in?”

  “Wanted to see what line Raven would take,” Green replied. “But he warn’t makin’ presents to-day. As hard to catch as a greased snake, that fella. The 88 is rustlin’ Double S cows. What yu make o’ that?”

  “I ain’t surprised a-tall,” Pete told him. “That gang at the 88 ain’t got enough honesty to protect a plugged peso, I’ve a hunch Mister Raven is swingin’ a wide loop.”

  In which conjecture Pete was undoubtedly correct, but as to how wide the said loop was neither of them had, as yet, the smallest conception.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Seth Raven was paying a visit, and though attired as usual, a careful observer might have noted that his sallow face was newly shaven, his shirt and collar clean, and his black coat and boots brushed. Slumped in his saddle, with a loose rein, he jogged steadily along the eastern trail on his way to the Double S. From every tree and shrub came the chatter and piping of the birds.

  For the saloonkeeper the beauties of Nature had no appeal; his mind was wholly absorbed by material considerations. The move he was about to make was one he had long deliberated, being, in fact, the coping-stone of all his plannings. He would have to walk warily—to-day’s expedition was merely the first step—but Raven had the patience of the red woman who had borne him; he could plant seed and wait, uncomplainingly, for it to mature and flower. Over-eagerness was the fault of a fool, and therefore, as he reflected sardonically, the weakness of the majority of mankind. Money, and the power that money provides, would put him in the position to treat white men as they had so often treated him—like dirt. And he thirsted for it. Cold, calculating, ruthless, this passion of prolonged hate made him inhuman.

  By the time he had covered the open range and reached the ranch-house the sun’s rays were slanting down like beams of flame and the shaded veranda was a comforting sight. An even more pleasant one was the girl standing upon it, though there was no welcoming smile on her face; she had early discovered the identity of the visitor.

  “Mornin’, Miss Tonia. No need to ask after yore health,” the saloonkeeper greeted, as he got down and tied his steed. The girl returned the salutation, adding, “You want to see my uncle, of course.”

  “No, ‘of course’ about it when yo’re around,” Raven replied with clumsy gallantry. “But, as a matter o’ fact, there’s a bit o’ business I wanta talk over with him. Ah, here he is. ‘Lo, Reub, how are yu?”

  “Mornin’, Seth. Hot, ain’t it? Here, have a seat an’ a ‘smile.’ Too bad I can’t offer yu a decent drink. Tonia, fetch this fella some of his own poison.”

  The saloonkeeper was only half-listening. He was watching the girl, admiring the lithe grace of her every movement, savouring the appeal of her slim, rounded form, and feeling again the fury of hate stir in him as he reflected that she would regard him as little better than a full-blooded Apache, and somewhat lower in the scale of humanity than Moraga. Having set the liquor on the table she went away.

  “Here’s how,” Sarel said, adding with a shade of anxiety in his tone, “What’s brung yu, Seth?”

  Raven did not reply at once; he was taking in his surroundings, noting the solidity and apparent comfort of the ranch buildings, and the good grazing which extended as far as the eye could reach, and farther. He had seen it all before, but to-day it took on a fresh aspect.

  “Anthony knowed what he was about when he hit on this place—I reckon there ain’t a better ranch in a hundred mile,” he said slowly. “How much stock yu runnin’, Reub?”

  “Can’t tell till round-up,” the fat man replied. “Oughta be around four thousand head, I guess.”

  “An’ if it all belongs to Tonia. She’s of age, ain’t she?”

  Reuben Sarel nodded, trying to fathom what the other was driving at.

  “It’s a big property for a gal to manage,” Raven said reflectively.

  “She’s got me,” Sarel pointed out.

  “Yeah, an’ she had her dad,” the saloonkeeper reminded him. “Somethin’ might happen to yu too, Reub; we’re all mortal.”

  The stout man’s face lost a little of its colour and he took a swallow of whisky rather hastily. He did not like the suggestion, or the tone in which it was made.

  “Cheerful chap, ain’t you?” he said, with an attempt at jocularity. “Anyways, I s’pose Tonia will be gettin’ married sooner or later.”

  “To Andy Bordene?”

  “Looks like, though I dunno as anythin’ is fixed.”

  “An’ what happens to yu then, Reub?”

  Sarel stared in surprise. “Why, I hadn’t give it a thought,” he said. “S’pose I’d stay put, or perhaps Andy would let me run the Box B if they decided to live here.”

  “Don’t yu gamble on that,” the visitor said quietly. “I happen to know that Andy don’t think much o’ yore business capacity—heard him say once that yu hadn’t savvy enough to sell cold water in hell. Young blood, yu know, is apt to have ideas of its own an’ ain’t very patient with age. I’m bettin’ yu get yore time.”

  The statement was made with conviction, and, moreover, though he had denied it, confirmed a fear that had already assailed Tonia’s relation more than once. Raven’s crafty eyes read all this, saw that the man was shaken to the core, and sneered inwardly.

  “Tonia wouldn’t turn me out,” Reuben protested.

  “Mebbe not, but her husband might, an’ I figure she’ll be a dutiful wife,” Raven replied, and struck again, “I’m hopin’ not, seein’ yu still owe me four thousand.”

  “It ain’t so much, Seth; yu had fifty cows.”

  “Which I gave yu twenty a head for—good price too for stolen stock,” the saloonkeeper retorted, sneering when the other winced. “It was five thou., warn’t it? More than I can afford to drop, Reub. If yu lose out here I’ll have to go to Tonia.”

  The threat of exposure to the child he had robbed, but of whom he was genuinely fond, wilted the man. When he spoke it was in a husky whisper:

  “Anythin’ but that, Seth. Take some more cows; I can manage so they won’t be missed.”

  Raven shook his head. “Too risky—for me. Think I wanta be pulled for rustlin’? I on’y took ‘em before ‘cause I was damn short an’ to oblige yu. No, there’s a better way.”

  Sarel. raised his head, a gleam of hope in his deep-sunk eyes.

  “S’pose she married someone else?” Raven went on.

  “Yu got anybody in yore mind?” Reuben queried.

  The saloonkeeper hesitated, and then, “Yeah,” he said firmly. “A fella who wouldn’t send yu travellin’ an’ who might forget about that four thousand.”

  It took a moment or two for the significance of this to sink in, but when it did the fat man s
at up in his chair as though he had been stung.

  “Yu?” he cried. “Yu marry ‘Ionia? Why, damn—” He clamped his lips suddenly.

  “Yu were goin’ to say—?” Raven suggested softly.

  Sarel swallowed hard and looked uncomfortable. “I was goin’ to say, damn me if I ever thought of it,” he lied.

  The man who had made the proposition smiled acidly; he knew better. But he was enjoying himself; to get a white man in his power, ride and rake him with the spurs, afforded his mean mind the keenest satisfaction. But having indulged this desire he must apply the soothing ointment; he did not wish to drive his victim to desperation.

  “Why should yu ‘a’ thought of it, Reub?” he asked, smiling. “An’ again, why shouldn’t yu?

  I’m young yet, an’ there’s less important fellas than me in these parts. Is there any reason why I mustn’t aspire to yore niece?”

  The cold, beady eyes of the speaker bored into those of the man opposite, daring him to say what he knew was in his mind—that there was a reason, one no amount of argument could ever remove. Reuben Sarel squirmed in his chair, fearful of giving offence, as helpless as a hog-tied calf in the branding corral. When the words came they were no answer to the question.

  “I expect she ain’t never thought o’ yu thataway, Seth. It’s her say-so, yu know.”

  “Shore, but yu bein’ her on’y relation, I reckoned it right to get yore—consent. No doubt it’ll take time, but with yu on my side I got a chance.”

  To cover his perturbation, Sarel slopped some more whisky in his glass and took a long drink. “Tonia’s fond o’ Bordene,” he said.

  “Natural enough—they’ve been brought up together,” Raven agreed. “But Andy’s affairs are in bad shape, an’ he’s drinkin’ an’ gamblin’ more’n a young fella should who’s expectin’ to settle down. Yu sabe?”

  The Double S man nodded miserably; he was getting orders and hated it, but he could not help himself. At his invitation the visitor stayed for the midday meal, and made a surprising effort to be pleasant. He paid Tonia one or two little compliments, but was careful not to let any hint of his intentions escape him. When Bordene’s name was mentioned, all he said was, “Andy’s havin’ a tough time; I’m hopin’ he’ll make the grade.”

  After he had gone, the girl turned to her uncle. “I don’t think I ever disliked anyone as I do that man,” she said. “He’s—slimy.”

  “Oh, Seth’s all right,” Reuben muttered, and cursed the passion for poker which had put him in the saloonkeeper’s power. He watched as she went to get her pony from the corral, stepping with a fine, swinging grace which, as so many things in her did, brought back her father. The thought that followed made him sick. How would Anthony have received the proposal to which he had tamely listened? He knew only too well—flung the maker of it headlong into the dust, at no matter what cost to himself. Anthony had been all a man. With a bitter oath he turned into the house.

  At the slow “Spanish trot” of the cowpuncher, Raven was returning to Lawless. He was well satisfied with the morning’s work. Another instrument for the furtherance of his schemes had been created, a weak one, certainly, but—as he reflected grimly—all the more useful on that account.

  Before his brooding eyes flashed a picture of the future as he had planned it: Seth Raven, offspring of a drunken prospector and his Comanche woman, owner of the three big ranches and husband of the prettiest girl in the south-west, rich, respected, and, above all, feared. He saw himself sent to Congress, even appointed Governor of the Territory, and at the thought of that he laughed harshly.

  “By God! I’ll make some o’ these damn Yanks step around,” he cried.

  It was typical of the man that he did not long indulge in these day-dreams. Almost immediately his mind was again milling over the problems he had to solve, and of these the most pressing was the marshal. Leeson had failed, and he cursed him for a clumsy fool. Then his scowl changed to a Satanic smile of satisfaction; he had hit on a plan, one which would achieve his object without any come-back, which was what he desired.

  “That’ll fix him,” he exulted, and awoke his dozing pony by ripping it across the ribs with both spurs.

  CHAPTER XV

  It was two mornings later that Pete, who for once was first astir, found a somewhat grubby envelope thrust under the door. It was addressed to “The Marshul.”

  “Huh, one has come at last,” he said. “I’m wonderin’ which o’ the damsels in this dog-hole of a town has fallen for yore fatal beauty?”

  “Usin’ yore intellects on an empty stomach’ll put yu in a loco-house,” the marshal told him.

  He tore open the envelope, extracted a scrap of coarse paper, and read:

  “Marshul.

  If yu wanta here about Sudden, come to the Old Mine at nune.

  A Frend.”

  “Writin’ is pretty near good, but she’s got her own notions o’ spellin’,” Pete commented.

  “Yu supposin’ it’s a girl?”

  “Shore am. One o’ them female wimmen wants to meet yu on the quiet. Mebbe she’s bashful, or got a husban’, or somethin’.”

  “You ain’t got brains enough to outfit a flea,” the marshal said caustically. “Grab a skillet an’ get breakfast, yu chunk o’ grease.”

  The approach of noon found Green nearing the rendezvous. He recognized that he was taking a risk, and had no intention of riding blindly into an ambush. Therefore he turned off the trail and advanced cautiously under cover of the chaparral until he was able to see the open space where Bordene’s body had been found. Squatting on the ground in the shade of a juniper was a man, smoking a cigarette, and from time to time casting an eye down the trail in the direction of Lawless. He was a Mexican of the poorest class, a peon, raggedly clad, with a knife and pistol thrust through the dirty scarf wound round his waist. For a while the marshal waited, and then rode out. Instantly the man got up, a gleam in his shifty eyes.

  “Buenas dias, senor!” he greeted. “No spik here; I breeng horse.”

  He slipped like a snake into the brush, and a moment later, a cackle of merriment told the marshal that he was trapped.

  “One leetle move, senor, and you die,” said a familiar voice.

  Green glanced round and saw Moraga covering him with a levelled carbine; saw, too, the dozen bandits with drawn guns closing in upon him from all sides, and realized that any attempt at resistance would be sheer suicide. His hands came away from his guns, and, disregarding the threat, he rolled and lighted a smoke. Then he turned to face the leader.

  “Yu win—this time—little man,” he said contemptuously. “Brought yore army too, I see.”

  Moraga spat out a sibilant Spanish oath; like most small men he was touchy about his stature. For an instant his hand hovered over a pistol butt, and then, with a cruel smile, he hissed,

  “I can wait, senor.” Turning to his followers, he added, “Seize and tie him.”

  The marshal had made his preparations. While his hands had apparently been fumbling with his cigarette papers, he had deftly tied the reins to the horn of his saddle. As soon as he heard the command, he slid to the ground and uttered a shrill call. Nigger knew it for the signal that he was to go full speed, and bunching his great muscles he sprang forward, burst through the ring of astonished riders, and vanished down the trail. Green grinned scornfully as two of the guerrillas spurred after the runaway; he knew his horse. The return of the animal to town with the reins tied would tell Pete something was wrong, and they might be able to trail the bandits; it was his only chance.

  “Yu don’t get the hoss,” he said to Moraga. “He’s too good for a Greaser.”

  The Mexican’s face flamed at the epithet, but he said nothing. Two men removed the marshal’s guns and directed him to mount a pony; his wrists were then secured and his ankles roped beneath the animal’s belly. At a word from its leader, the party set out at a fast lope, headed for Mexico, one man remaining behind. They had covered several miles when tw
o horses, one bearing a double burden, caught them up; Nigger had evidently got away.

  The satisfaction the marshal derived from this did not make him unduly optimistic. The chance of deliverance was slim indeed, and he had little hope of seeing another day dawn. Some time must necessarily elapse before a rescue party could be organized, and the country on either side of the line was of the wildest description, making the following of a trail a slow and arduous affair. Still, it was not in the man’s nature to despair, and he rode along with an air of sardonic indifference. This attitude palpably amazed his captors; in his predicament they would have been shivering with dread, for they knew that El Diablo was not so named without reason.

  They crossed Lazy Creek at a point lower than the marshal had done and then plunged into a mass of low, flat-topped hills, through which they made their way by threading long narrow ravines, twisting and turning snake-like about the bases of the mesas.

  On the far side of the hills they found a desert confronting them, stretching out in every direction save that from which they had come. Across this arid waste Moraga unhesitatingly led his men. The only break in the maddening monotony of sand was provided by what appeared to be a group of tiny black mounds, towards which they were heading.

  Plodding on, the horses’ feet sinking to the fetlocks in the hot, powdery sand, they at length reached the spot, and the leader called a halt. It was a curious place. The “mounds” resolved themselves into pieces of stone, set in a rude circle, some upright, pointing like fingers to the sky, others lying prone. Old, weather-scarred, they yet seemed to suggest humanity. The marshal had no thought for them; his mind was busy with the problem of why the stop had been made. It could not be to camp, for there was neither wood nor water; it must be that this was where he was to die. He looked at Moraga, as two of the men removed the rope from his feet and dragged him from the saddle, and saw that he had guessed correctly; the guerrilla leader’s face was that of a devil. When he spoke his voice was soft, silky, but charged with menace: