Sudden: The Marshal of Lawless Read online

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  The Marshal of Lawless ~ Oliver Strange

  (Book 03 in the Sudden Westerns series)

  Sudden

  When Jim Green took on the job of Marshal in the roaring hell town of Lawless, he soon knew he’d tackled a tough one. But he had no idea just how tough a job it was until he discovered there was a man pirating around the town on a black stallion and calling himself ‘Sudden.’

  Jim Green wanted to meet this Sudden personally over six-guns. Because Jim Green happened to be the real Sudden…

  Chapter I

  Out of a pale blue sky unflecked by the tiniest cloud, the sun, a disk of polished brass, blazed down, and perhaps for the fiftieth time the red-faced, grizzled driver of the stage-coach cursed it.

  “If hell’s any hotter’n this, damn me if I don’t go an’ get religion,” he said to the express messenger who sat on the box beside him.

  They were descending a narrow, winding defile, the weather-scarred, rock walls of which were bare save for scattered clumps of brush and cactus clinging precariously where an earth-filled crevice afforded root-hold, and the four wicked-eyed mules comprising the team required careful handling if the lumbering vehicle were to reach the end of the decline as a whole. None knew this better than Bill Eames, the driver; and though he talked, hands and eyes were concentrated on his job. Lurching, swaying, jolting over a rough road originally scoured out by torrents and enlivened by chunks of debris from the ridges on either side the coach went on, and presently, sweeping round a bend, the finish of the gully came in view. Eames eased his drag on the reins a little and gave a grunt of relief.

  “Allus glad when I’m through Devil’s Dip,” he remarked. “Dunno why, but I got a feelin’ that if anythin’ does happen, it’ll be here.”

  “Dandy place for a hold-up,” said the messenger, who was making the trip for the first time.

  “Yu said it,” agreed the driver. “But we ain’t never—”

  “Stick ‘em up, pronto,” came the curt command.

  With a curse, Eames flung all his weight on the lines, pulled his scared team to a standstill by main force and jammed his foot on the heavy brake. With a screech and a bump the coach stopped, and its driver, still holding the reins, promptly elevated his hands; he was not paid to fight. The express messenger was, and when his hands went up they gripped the gun which had lain across his thighs; it was loaded with buckshot, which would scatter, and was a deadly weapon at short range.

  “Drop that, yu fool!”

  The harsh voice appeared to come from a cluster of shrubs some ten yards away. It seemed to be the only cover near, and the guard, realizing that this was his sole chance against an unseen foe, fired plump into it. The roar of the report was instantly followed by the lesser detonation of a pistol-shot and the messenger slumped forward in his seat to sprawl across the footboard, his weapon hitting a wheel of the coach and bouncing into the roadway.

  The driver, no stranger to scenes of violence, looked at the stricken man, saw the puncture in the forehead, with its tiny trickle of blood, and swore through his clenched teeth; and he did a good job, for when it comes to comprehensive and highly ornamental vituperation, your Western mule-skinner is gifted above his fellows. At the same time, risking a like fate, he dropped his arms and strove to subdue his mules, which, driven out of their senses by the shooting, were doing their level best to overturn the vehicle.

  He was still busy with the task when a horseman emerged from the bushes. His face was masked by a common bandana handkerchief slitted for the eyes, further concealment being afforded by the pulled-down brim of a Stetson. In his right hand hung a revolver from the muzzle of which a wisp of blue smoke curled. He was mounted on a big black, with a white blaze between the eyes and a white stocking on the near foreleg.

  “Don’t try no tricks, driver,” the unknown said, and though his voice had a hard, metallic ring, the mask muffled and disguised it “I’m sudden by nature as well as name.” He paused for a moment as if to let the remark sink in, and then, “Tie yore lines. Whyfor did that fool fixe? I gave him his chance.”

  Eames, having got his team into subjection, looped the reins round the hook at his side and hoisted his hands again without delay. Even had he meditated making a dash for it, the avowed identity of the marauder would have negatived the notion. So this was Sudden, the man whose wizard-like gun-play and daredevil exploits had made his name a terror in the South-west.

  He did not doubt it; the ruthless slaying of the guard and the holding-up of the stage single-handed were in keeping with the outlaw’s reputation. The rider paced leisurely up to the coach.

  “Heave the box over,” he ordered.

  Eames reached down and from under the seat lately occupied by the murdered messenger drew out a small, iron-clamped chest which thudded deeply into the dust of the trail. The stranger nodded approvingly.

  “Sounds good,” he said, and then, “Go on prayin’.”

  He dismounted, and keeping a wary eye on the driver, raised the box and methodically tied it to the cantle of his saddle. Then he turned to the body of the coach.

  “Yu can come out, keepin’ yore paws up,” he called.

  Three passengers crept out from the dark interior and stood blinking in the glare of the sun. They were a sorry-looking trio. They had heard the shooting, the clatter of the messenger’s gun as it fell, the curses of the driver, and had guessed the rest. Their trembling hands, thrust stiffly upwards, betrayed their fear. The outlaw surveyed them sardonically. Two were obviously drummers from the East, while the third, a man of middle age, dressed in shabby black with a soiled white collar, might have passed for a minister of some denomination, though his coarse, bloated face was hardly in keeping. It was to him the outlaw addressed himself.

  “Parson, huh?” he asked.

  “I am a poor servant of the Lord, brother,” the man in black replied unctuously.

  “An’ a mighty poor one at that, I’m bettin’,” was the sneering comment. “Well, yu oughta know how to take up a collection anyways—first thing yu fellas learn—so go through ‘em, an’ don’t yu miss anythin’ or yore flock’ll be shy a shepherd.”

  He gestured with his pistol, and aware that protest would be futile, the man proceeded to despoil his fellow-passengers. The result was meagre enough; a small amount of currency and a little flash jewellery. Their grips, which the collector had to fetch from the coach and open, contained only clothing and samples. The road-agent shrugged his shoulders.

  “Chicken-feed,” he said, and pointed to several flat boxes in one of the grips. “What’s them?”

  The question awoke the business instinct in the quaking breast of the owner of the boxes.

  Possibly he hoped to placate this grim devil who might at any moment take it into his head to shoot them down.

  “Say, sport,” he quavered, “dat’s de finest smokin’ proposition ever offered in de West for two bits a t’row. Try one an’ tell me if I’m a liar.”

  The outlaw took out one of the cigars, smelt it, broke it in two and flung it away.

  “Yu shore are,” he said, and kicked the pile of samples broadcast. Turning to the other commercial, he growled, “What’s yore line?”

  “I sell soap,” was the reply.

  “Nobody’d never suspect yu of it,” the outlaw said with heavy sarcasm, and faced round on the man in black. “Cough up,” he ordered.

  “I have no worldly wealth, friend,” that worthy replied.

  “Yu got a friend here?” asked the other acidly.

  His fierce eyes studied the self-styled minister keenly for a moment. Then, with a swift motion he holstered his pistol, seized the lapels of t
he black frock-coat, jerked them up, and down over the wearer’s shoulders, thus pinioning his arms. The victim smothered an unclerical expression, and the road-agent laughed.

  “I’m a good guesser,” he rasped.

  From under the left armpit of the “minister” peeped the butt of a double-barrelled Derringer, hung in a shoulder holster. The stranger drew it out.

  “What’s a man o’ peace doin’ with this?” he asked.

  “I go into wild places an’ carry it for my protection,” replied the owner evenly.

  The outlaw stuck the weapon in his own belt and began to pass his hands lightly over the other’s clothing. A bulge in a pocket attracted him; it proved to be a pack of cards. The possessor’s face did not alter, but his voice was sullen when he explained:

  “I took them from a gambler.”

  The road-agent had squared the pack up on the palm of his hand, delicately, using the tips of his fingers only.

  “Mebbe—it’s a “cold deck’ anyways,” he said. “We’ll give it the ‘loser’s shuffle.’”

  With a vigorous sweep of his arm he flung the pack skyward, scattering the cards far and wide, and then resumed his investigation. Another bulge produced a fat roll of bills, at the sight of which the searcher gave vent to a throaty laugh.

  “Also took from a gambler, with the help o’ the pack an’ the pistol, I’m bettin’,” he commented.

  “It ain’t mine; that’s money collected for those in need,” the passenger protested, but his face was flushed and there was an evil glare in his eyes.

  The road-agent laughed again. “It has shorely reached its destination, for I’m one of ‘em, brother, an’ I’m thankin’ yu,” he jeered. Then, as he read the expression on the other’s face, his own voice took on an ugly edge. “Yu lyin’ rat,” he grated. “Did yu think yu could put it over me? Don’t yu reckon I know a tin-horn cardsharp when I see one?”

  “Damn yu, I’ll get yu for this—I’ll hunt yu down,” screamed the “minister,” and, beside himself at the loss of his money, he sprang at the outlaw.

  Like a piston-rod the stranger’s fist shot out and the man in black, driven headlong into the dust, lay there mouthing curses and threats. The masked man shrugged his shoulders contemptuously and turned to the other passengers.

  “A poor loser,” he commented. “Seein’ yu boys ain’t put up a yap, yu can keep yore pickin’s.” He swung up into the saddle. “All set, driver,” he called. “Get agoin’ when you want to, but I’ll be with yu for a while though yu won’t see me, an’ I’m tellin’ yu not to hurry. Sabe?”

  “No need to hurry now,” Eames retorted, and with another laugh the hold-up trotted round a bend and vanished in a thicket which bordered the trail.

  Despite the parting threat the driver wasted no time. Lifting the body of the messenger, he tied it securely on the top of the coach, and then ordered his passengers aboard.

  Having finished his arrangements, he clambered to his seat and cracked his long-lashed whip over the heads of the team. With a jerk that nearly threw the occupants from their places the coach resumed its interrupted journey. Only a few scattered cards and a broken cigar-box marked the spot where a man had died doing his duty.

  CHAPTER II

  How the town came to be called Lawless was not certainly known. A few of the dwellers therein, actuated by astonishing loyalty, claimed that it was christened after the first settler, while others, cynical citizens devoid of any proper pride in the place, held the name to be the fortunate fluke of one who could see into the future. The reputation of Lawless as one of the toughest towns in the territory undoubtedly supported this view.

  In appearance it was typical of a hundred other early Western settlements—two jagged rows of crude erections facing one another across a wide strip of wheel-rutted, hoof-pounded dust. The buildings, squat, unlovely, were of timber or ‘dobe, with a sprinkling of sod-walled and roofed dugouts, set in a sea of tin cans and other refuse. Along the front of these ran boarded sidewalks for pedestrians, and outside the saloons and stores hitch-rails were provided.

  Sordid as it seemed. Lawless was yet the hub round which the life of the neighbouring ranches revolved, for the only other town within reasonable reach was Sweetwater, thirty miles eastward, from whence the traveller must take the coach north for the nearest railway point and civilization. Flung haphazard into the middle of a little plain, the site seemed unsuitable for a settlement, and yet it was not. The surrounding open country provided space and feed for occasional trail-herds and there was good water in the shape of Squaw Creek, which came down from the Tepee Mountain some six miles northwards.

  That men lived there was known, and that was all. From time to time a stranger would drift into Lawless about dark, load up a pack-horse with supplies, sample the relaxations the town had to offer, and vanish before dawn. Lawless asked no questions, taking the custom thankfully and minding its own business in strict accordance with the Western etiquette of that day.

  Twenty-four hours after the robbery of the stage five men rode silently into Lawless and pulled up outside the Red Ace, the largest and most pretentious of the town’s saloons. The visitors were cowpunchers, and the oldest, who appeared to be the leader, had the white metal star of a sheriff pinned to his vest. The first to dismount stretched himself with a sigh of relief.

  “Seems like we bin ridin’ a week,” he said.

  Four of the party vanished through the door of the saloon with all speed. Their leader laughed too, but remained outside, looking curiously at the form of a man sprawled carelessly across the sidewalk a few yards away. He could not see the face, for the big hat was tilted forward to keep off the glare of the sun, but from his build he judged the wearer to be young. The long legs stretched out before him, and the wide shoulders slumped against the saloon wall, seemed to indicate youth. The unknown was dressed in well-worn range-rig, and the holsters on either side of his sagging belt were empty.

  “Canned, an’ sleepin’ it off,” muttered the sheriff. “Hocked his guns too, durn young fool.”

  With a shrug of his broad shoulders he followed his men, failing to note the keen, appraising look which the object of his good-humoured contempt shot after him. He found his companions already draped against the bar, each cuddling a glass. They welcomed him effusively.

  “Hey, Strade, ain’t yu thirsty no more? What’s bin keepin’ yu?” asked one.

  “Stopped to scrape the mud off’n my boots,” the sheriff grinned, with a glance at his dust-laden feet, and then, to the bartender, ” ‘Lo, Jude, how’s tricks?”

  “Town’s ‘bout dead since the spring round-up,” the dispenser of drinks told him, pushing forward a bottle and glass. “Never knowed it so quiet.”

  “Ca’m before the storm, mebbe,” Strade said. “Yore marshal must be havin’ quite a rest.”

  “Shore is—we planted him a week back,” Jude explained. “That’s three we’ve lost in less’n six months.”

  “Yo’re mighty careless with marshals, ain’t yu?” was Strade’s comment. “Filled the vacancy yet?”

  “Nope. There’s bin no rush that yu’d notice,” Jude grinned. “Bein’ marshal in thisyer man’s town ain’t no pastime.”

  Jude swabbed down the bar, mentally comparing the man. before him with the late marshal of Lawless, and not to the latter’s advantage. Strade’s shortish, square, powerful frame and his rugged, good-humoured face with the clipped grey moustache indicated force and determination mingled with a sense of justice. He was both feared and liked in Sweetwater, where he had been sheriff for some years.

  “Bin hearin’ from the boys ‘bout the stage robbery,” the bartender remarked. “Sudden again, huh?”

  “He named hisself, ‘cordin’ to Eames, an’ the description o’ the hoss tallies with that o’ the chap who held up Sands, the Sweetwater store-keeper, a month back,” the sheriff said. “Who’s that fella layin’ on the sidewalk?”

  “Stray cowpunch, drifted in a coupla days ago,”
Jude told him. “Lapped up every cent he had an’ hocked his artillery to get more. I had to throw him out this mornin’ when he showed hostile.”

  “What sorta hoss does he ride?”

  “Black—ain’t a white hair on him. He can’t be yore man, Strade, he ain’t left town for forty-eight hours, nor drawed a sober breath neither. Yu won’t find Sudden here.”

  “No strangers in town, eh?”

  “On’y the specimen outside,” Jude replied. “An’, as I told yu, he’s bin wedded to this bar pretty constant.”

  Meanwhile the “specimen” was arousing attention in another quarter. Soon after the sheriff had entered the saloon, a girl emerged from a store and tripped along the sun-drenched, sordid street. She walked with the easy swinging stride indicative of robust health and an outdoor life. Her neat shirt-waist and short divided skirt set off her slim figure to advantage. She pulled up abruptly when she came to the lounger on the sidewalk. For a moment she regarded the obstacle disgustedly and was about to step over it when a sudden decision firmed her pretty lips.

  “I suppose I have to take the road,” she said aloud.

  At the cool, clear voice, the recumbent stranger opened his eyes, and under the brim of his hat saw a neat pair of high riding-boots fitted with dainty silver spurs. Grabbing his headgear with one hand, he looked up into the charming but rather scornful face of the wearer.

  “I’m right sorry, ma’am,” he stammered, and drew up his long legs so that she might proceed on her way.

  Instead of doing so she stood still, and a gleam of pity shone in her deep brown eyes as she noted the empty belt. Drunken punchers she had seen before, but this one was so young—not over twenty-five, she reflected, little more than a boy. She herself was nearing twenty. He had the slim waist and broad shoulders of an athlete, and his face showed no traces of dissipation. On the contrary, it was a strong face, she decided, and not unattractive, despite its unshaven condition; the lean, square jaw and level eyes bespoke determination above the ordinary; there were possibilities in such a man.