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.
“Yo’re a suspicious jigger, but it ain’t a bad notion,” the other agreed.
When his guests had departed on the following morning, Andy set out for the Double S to take Tonia riding. He soon noticed that Reuben Sarel was not his jovial self, and that there was a tiny crease between the girl’s level eyebrows.
“What’s troublin’ Uncle this bright mornin’?” he asked as they trotted away. “Not losin’ weight, is he?”
“Losing cows, Andy,” she told him, “and we don’t know how. I think, too, he’s worrying about that Mexican.”
The young man snorted. “That fella’s becomin’ a menace to the country,” he said, and told of the guerrilla’s latest exploit.
The girl shivered; she knew what the victim of it must have endured. “Are the men around here going to stand for that?” she asked indignantly.
“They ain’t,” Andy assured her. “When I get my drive through something goin’ to be done; but, for now, the marshal wants it kept quiet.”
“I shall be glad when you are back, Andy,” the girl said. “I’m a bit scared, I think.”
“Of that dirty Greaser?” he asked.
“No—not altogether,” she said slowly. “I can’t explain it, but I’ve had a ‘breakers ahead’ sort of feeling, and that man Raven has begun visiting the Double S.”
Bordene laughed. “Nothin’ to that, Tonia,” he replied. “I s’pose he had business with Reuben.”
“That’s the excuse, of course, but if it weren’t so absurd I’d say he came to see me,” Tonia told him. “Yesterday he brought me a box of candy, and—he pays me compliments.”
Andy’s eyebrows rose. “Yu think he’s courtin’ yu?” he gasped incredulously. “Why, he’s a breed. Ain’t Reuben showed him the door?”
“He sings praises; I think he’s afraid of him in some way,” Tonia replied.
“My Gawd!” the young man exploded. “Seth Raven shinin’ up to yu—a Sarel? Well, if that ain’t the frozen limit.” He looked at her closely. “Yu still don’t like the fella, Tonia?”
“I detest him,” was her emphatic reply. “To me he always suggests what they call him,
‘The Vulture,’ rapacious, cruel, a bird of prey.”
For some time the rancher rode in moody silence; he was getting a new angle on the man he had hitherto regarded as a good sort. The seeds of doubt sown in his mind by the marshal were beginning to germinate, fed by this latest factor. Had the note been tampered with? Was the breaking up of his drive herd the word of the 88? He recalled the poker game, in which he had a shrewd suspicion that Green had saved him from being skinned—for he now knew that Pardoe was a not too scrupulous professional gambler. Were these all part of a plan to put a rival out of the running? The questions milled in his mind and he could find no satisfactory answers. It was the girl who spoke first:
“Too bad to bother you with my little troubles, Andy. Especially when you have bigger ones of your own.”
“Shucks! I hope yu’ll allus come to me, Tonia, Yu know I’d do anythin’.”
There was an undercurrent of feeling in the voice and the girl steered from the subject.
“You drive tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yeah. I’ve got a good bunch—all hand-picked—an’ if I lose ‘em this time I’ll be comin’ to yu for a job, Tonia.”
For an instant she looked at him in startled surprise, but his grin reassured her, and she replied in the same vein: “What sort of job would you like, Andy? But there, you’ll make it this trip; bad luck, like lightning, never strikes twice in the same place.”
The soft, sweet voice and the heartening warm smile in her eyes were almost irresistible; he ached to take her in his arms and tell her that the job he wanted was to care for and shield her all the days of his life. But his man’s pride kept him silent. When he came back, his ranch cleared of debt—
So the golden moment passed.
CHAPTER XVII
The marshal’s return to Lawless excited a great deal of curiosity which had to remain unsatisfied. His own explanation was that he had been absent on business connected with his office, and he treated any suggestion that he had been kidnapped by El Diablo with a tolerant smile, an attitude which aroused Pete’s personal wrath.
“What’s the grand idea?” he enquired. “Here’s me workin’ up a case agin the Greaser an’ yu percolate in an’ knock it flat. Makes me look a fool.”
“I can’t see that yore appearance has altered the littlest bit,” the marshal told him, with that disarming grin of his. “We gotta walk in the water, ol’-timer; yu watch Raven’s face when I say my little piece.”
They had not long to wait, for the saloonkeeper came in soon afterwards.
“‘Lo, marshal, so yo’re back again all safe an’ sound,” he began, with a crooked smile.
“We’ve shore bin some worried ‘bout yu. Barsay here, reckoned yu’d bin carried off by Moraga.”
“Hold yore hosses, Raven, it sticks in my mind that suggestion come from yu,” the deputy protested.
“That so? Well, mebbe yo’re right,” Raven admitted easily. “Yore high-falutin’ yarn made it seem likely.”
“Pete’s a born romancer,” the marshal said. “Hear him tell of his past an’ yu look for his wings.”
“So it warn’t the Greaser?” Raven asked.
“Senor Moraga has not yet settled his little account with me,” Green smiled, adding, “I’ve been at the Box B.”
This was not all the truth, but it served, for the marshal saw the visitor’s eyes widen. All he said, however, was:
“Andy’s drivin’ to-day, I hear. Where’s he campin’ this time?”
“Same place as before, I understand. It’s a good beddin’ ground an’ he reckons there ain’t no storms around.”
Raven nodded. “Weather seems likely to stay put,” he agreed.
When he had gone Pete turned aggressively on his chief. “Why d’yu tell him where Andy was campin’?” he asked.
“I didn’t,” the marshal grinned.
“But—” the deputy began, and then comprehension came to him and he grinned too.
“Awright, Solomon,” the little man said. “What yu goin’ to do now?”
“Put some money in the bank,” Green told him.
Barsay dropped into the nearest chair.
“Savin’ coin, the hawg, an’ me with a thirst,” he ejaculated in mock horror. “Wonder which of us he can’t trust, me or the Injun?”
To which query he got no reply, the marshal being already on the way to execute his financial errand. Arrived outside the bank he hung about until he saw the clerk emerge and then entered. As he had hoped, Potter was alone. He took the money Green tendered and wrote out a receipt.
“Ain’t got on the track of that outlaw yet, I suppose?” he remarked, and when his customer admitted that his supposition was correct, he added, “I was saying to Raven yesterday that you hadn’t much to go on, and that probably he’s hundreds of miles away by now.”
“Raven is a hard man to satisfy,” the marshal stated.
“You are right,” the banker agreed harshly. “He’s—” he paused suddenly, and then, in an altered tone, went on, “a good customer, and I ought not to be discussing him, but I know you won’t chatter, marshal.”
Having assured him on that point, Green came away, wondering. A comparison of the receipt with the mysterious note showed a similarity in the writing; they might have been done by the same person, but why, Green asked himself, should the banker help Moraga? For the rest, all he had discovered was that Potter disliked but feared Raven, an attitude common to many of the citizens of Lawless. Additional proof of this was afforded that same evening. The marshal was nearing the bank when he heard Seth’s voice, and, curious as to his business there so late, slipped round the corner of the building and waited. In a moment the door opened and he heard the banker say, in. a tone of abject humility:
“I’ll do as you wish, sir.”
“Yu’d better,” the saloonkeeper said contemptuously, and went up the street.
From his door the banker watched until the other was out of hearing and then his pent-up bitterness burst its bonds:
“And may God damn your rotten soul,” he hissed, and shook his fist at the retreating figure.
Not until the door slammed did the marshal resume his way. One thing the incident told him—Potter was in The Vulture’s power, and might therefore have been compelled to write the decoy message.
“Odd number that,” he ruminated. “The banker is a bet I mustn’t overlook.”
A week slid by and the marshal was no nearer the solution of the problem he had set himself to solve. Though there had been no further activity on the part of Sudden the Second, Green did not agree with Potter’s suggestion that the outlaw had departed for fresh pastures; the black horse was still in its hiding-place. In the meanwhile, he had plenty to occupy his mind.
Two attempts had been made on his life, and though he believed that the saloonkeeper had something to do with them, he had no proof. Since his escape from death in the desert, the autocrat of Lawless had treated him with jovial friendliness, a circumstance which aroused suspicion in the object of it. So marked indeed was the change that Pete was moved to caustic comment.
“If yu was a turkey I’d say he was fattenin’ yu up for the killin’,” the deputy said. “Looks like Andy has made it this time.”
The marshal nodded. “Jevons was at the Red Ace last night,” he said. “An’ his boss didn’t seem none pleased ‘bout somethin’.”
Green’s guess was a good one. The 88 foreman had come on an unpleasant errand—the admission of his own failure, and that this was due to wrong information supplied by his employer, though it would have excused him with most men, did not do so with Raven.
“Well, how many d’yu get?” was his opening question, as the foreman entered the private room.
“Not a hoof,” Jevons replied. “Whoever told yu they aimed to bed down in The Pocket got it wrong.”
The half-breed gritted out an oath as he remembered where he got the information.
Always, by accident or design,, the marshal hampered him.
“Green again, blast him,” he muttered. “He’s allus in the way.”
“Put him outa business,” the foreman suggested callously.
“Tell me how,” snapped the other. “Yu can’t—he’s got yu all buffaloed.”
Jevons was silent for a while, and when he did speak his remark seemed to be irrelevant:
“‘Split’ Adam is at the 88,” he said.
Raven reflected. “Think he’d tackle it?” he asked.
“‘Split’ is mighty near sellin’ his saddle,” Jevons told him. “Five hundred dollars would listen good to him about now.”
Since a saddle is the last thing a Western rider parts with the saloonkeeper knew that Adam must be at desperation point.
“Send him in,” he said shortly.
Hard-looking strangers attracted little attention in Lawless, unless they invited it by their actions, and this Mister Adam was careful to avoid. In fact, he arrived after dark, pushed his bronc furtively into the Red Ace corral, himself into that place of entertainment by the side door, and so into the owner’s private sanctum. Raven nodded towards a chair, shoved forward a box of cigars, and silently studied his visitor. Adam had small pretensions to beauty. On the wrong side of forty, he was thin—even weedy—in build. He had a long, narrow face, emphasized by a ginger goatee beard and a stringy, drooping moustache, and a sneer appeared to be his natural expression. His small eyes, cold, expressionless, were like polished stone. Two guns, the holsters tied down, hung low on his lips. He endured the other man’s scrutiny for a moment or two, and then, in a harsh, rasping voice, he said:
“Jevons allowed vu wanted to see me. Well, yu done it, an’ if that’s all I’ll be on my way.”
The truculent, bullying tone did not appear to affect Raven. “How many men have yu killed, Mister Adam?” he asked. “There’s a fella in this town we could git along without, but he won’t take a hint.”
The sneering question was plain in the other’s eyes.
“Yeah. Natural for yu to think that, Mister Adam,” Raven went on, “but I’m not a gun-fighter—don’t even tote one. My weapons are brains and—dollars.”
The killer smiled wolfishly. “How many—dollars?” he asked.
“Five hundred,” Raven replied. “The fella happens to be the marshal too, so if he—left us—there’d be a vacancy.”
“I’ll go yu,” Adam said. “I can use that mazuma, an’ I’ve allus thought a star would look about right on me.”
“Yu gotta earn ‘em first,” the other warned. “The chap ain’t no pilgrim, an’ yu’ll need to play yore cards close. He calls hisself Green, but yu can risk a stack it don’t describe him.”
“I ain’t exactly a beginner my own self,” the gunman replied. “Nothin’ will happen to-night—don’t want it to look like I come in a-purpose—but I’ll be takin’ his measure. O’ course, yu won’t know me from—Adam.”
He laughed hoarsely at his little joke, nodded to his host, and departed, again using the side door. Some time later he oozed into the Red Ace, posted himself at the bar, and called for the customary drink. Beyond a casual glance, no one took any notice of him, but his own eyes were busy. Presently Pete drifted in, and when he caught sight of the deputy’s badge, Adam looked at Raven, who was playing cards at a nearby table. The saloonkeeper shook his head slightly.
When Green eventually made his appearance, Adam got from Raven the sign he was waiting for, and his cold gaze watched the marshal incessantly. He noted the tall, limber frame, the easy play of the muscles when their owner moved, and the youthfulness. But the little smile which crinkled the corners of the firm mouth and softened the square jaw misled him.
“Kinda young for his job an’ liable to take chances,” he reflected sneeringly. He turned to the bartender. “Ever heard o’ Split Adam?” he asked loudly.
“Yeah, but I never seen him,” Jude replied.
“Yu have now,” came the answer. “Yessir, I’m that eedentical fella. Know how I got that label?”
The barkeep did not, and shook his head.
“‘Cause I c’n split a bullet on a knife edge at twelve paces,” boasted the killer, an
d with an aggressive look at Green. “That’s shootin’, Mister Marshal.”
“Shore is,” the officer agreed mildly. “But if the knife-edge was bustlin’ bullets in yore direction at the time it might make a difference.”
“There’s quite a few who found it didn’t,” Adam sneered.
“I’ll have to take yore word for that, seh,” the marshal replied. “I reckon theirs ain’t available.”
He turned away, ending the discussion, and the gunman’s gaze followed him with malignant triumph. He did not want to clash yet; he was merely trying out his man. The marshal left the saloon early, and when Pete followed some time later he found him cleaning and oiling his revolvers.
“Know anythin’ ‘bout that hombre Adam?” asked the deputy casually.
“Heard of him,” Green replied. “He’s bad, all right—one o’ the gunmen yu can hire. There’s towns in Texas where they’d jerk him on the way to Paradise with considerable enthusiasm.”
“He’s after yu,” Pete said.
The marshal grinned. “Ain’t yu the cute little observer,” he bantered, and then, “Yeah, I sort suspicioned it m’self, an’ I’m wonderin’—who’s payin’?”
“Well, seein’ he’s a buzzard I’d say it was a case of ‘birds of a feather,’ ” the deputy opined. “I’m a-goin’ to be yore shadder tomorrow.”
To this decision he adhered; wherever the marshal went Pete was, unobtrusively, close at hand. It was about noon when the pair of them entered the Red Ace. Adam was there, talking and drinking with several of the toughest inhabitants. Raven was leaning against the far end of the bar, and the attendance was bigger than usual. Immediately the marshal entered all eyes turned upon him, and he guessed that the killer had been talking. With an evil look that advertised his intention to force a quarrel, Adam stepped towards his quarry.
“Marshal, yu ain’t lookin’ too good—kinda peaky ‘bout the gills,” he began. “I reckon this part o’ the country don’t suit yu.”
The grating tones carried a plain threat, and the room waited in utter silence for the officer’s reply to the challenge. The marshal sipped the drink he had ordered, noting grimly that men in his vicinity were edging away from him. Putting down his glass, he commenced to roll a cigarette.
Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) Page 13
