Sudden The Marshal of Lawless (1933) s-8 Page 3

  "Injun an' Mex or bad white, like Durley said, reg'lar devil's brew," was Green's unvoiced criticism.

  "Well, what vu want?" Raven asked curtly.

  The puncher leaned nonchalantly against the door, his thumbs hooked in his belt. "I'm told this burg is shy a marshal," he said. "I'm shy a job, an' there yu have it."

  The saloon-keeper studied him in silence for a moment. He knew the applicant's history from the time he had arrived, including the incident of the wasted whisky and the affair at Miguel's. Little happened in Lawless that did not come to the ears of The Vulture sooner or later--generally sooner.

  "We don't know nothin' about yu," he said.

  "My name is James Green, o' Texas, an' lately I've been livin' mostly under my hat," the puncher told him.

  "Which don't make us much wiser," was Raven's comment.

  "Yore last marshal, Perkins, lit outa Nevada a flea's jump ahead o' the Vigilantes, an' Dawlish, the man afore him, had been in the pen for cattle-rustlin'. Ain't yu gettin' a mite particular?" Green asked sardonically.

  The saloon-keeper's thin lips lengthened, which was his nearest approach to a smile. He had not expected to get any details of the fellow's past, and in reality he cared little. Lawless was a sanctuary for the law-breaker, and only a man of that type could hope to keep any semblance of order. The puncher's lean, hard face, level eyes, and firm lips were not those of a weakling.

  "Yore kind o' young," Raven objected.

  "Suffered from that since I was born," Green said lightly. "The doctors say I'll grow out of it. Well, what's the word?"

  "The pay is two hundred dollars a month," the other said.

  "Which ain't over generous," Green commented.

  "An' pickin's, the same bein'--to the right man--considerable," Raven slowly added.

  "With another hundred for a deputy," the puncher suggested, and when the saloon-keeper shook his head, "See here, I ain't a machine; there's times when I wanta sleep some."

  "Awright, a deputy goes. Yu better pick a good one an' tell him to shoot first an' argue afterwards," Raven said. He dipped into a drawer of the desk. "It so happens I got a coupla stars, an' here's the key to yore quarters." Handing the articles to Green, he dismissed the new officer with a curt "See yu later."

  For a little while Raven sat thinking, weighing up the man who had just left him. He recognized that Green was not the ordinary type of desperado; his cool, smiling confidence contrasted oddly with the blustering, bullying attitude of the average gun-fighter.

  "A useful fella if he comes to heel--an' if he don't--" His lips twisted in a sneer. "But there's a sheriff somewheres who'd be glad to meet him."

  And in this he was entirely right.

  When Green returned to the Rest House he found the bar empty, save for Barsay sprawling in a chair with his feet on a table and snoring lustily. The marshal's face became that of an imp of mischief. Gently he pinned one of the stars he had received to the sleeping man's vest, and pulling one of his guns, fired into the floor. The violence of the slumberer's awaking start flung him to the ground but in a second he was on his feet, gun out, and eyes glaring. A moment later Durley came flying into the bar, only to find Green, weak with laughter, a smoking gun in his hand, leaning against the wall.

  "Yu natural damn fool," the victim admonished, when he realized the joke. "Mighta broke my blamed neck."

  "No fear--that's slated for a rope," Green retorted. "Fine deputy-marshal yu are--caught nappin' right away."

  Barsay then noticed the decoration he had unconsciously acquired and his eyes widened. "Yu got it?" he cried, and when his new friend nodded, he turned to Durley and said, "Well, what d'yu know about that, huh?"

  "I shore hope yu got a month's pay in advance," the landlord replied. "It's about yore one chance to draw any."

  "Mother's cheery little comforter, ain't yu?" Green grinned. "Yu oughta be in the undertakin' business."

  Durley laughed too, and then his face grew serious again. "Puttin' jokes aside, gents, I shore wish yu all the luck there is, but yu'll have to watch cases mighty close," he warned.

  "We'er aimin' to do that same," the marshal assured him. "An' we're reckonin' on one friend anyways."

  "You can reckon on more than that," the landlord said. "Quite a few of us would like this town to have a better reputation, but o' course, if yo're goin' to run with The Vulture--"

  "I cut my own trail, ol'-timer," Green told him. "Say, Pete, what about takin' possession of our new home? Raven gave me the key."

  The official quarters of the town marshal were situated alongside the Red Ace, and consisted of a one-storey 'dobe hut. Over the door was a board with the single word "Marshal" painted in large letters. This was sadly pockmarked by bullets; evidently festive visitors were in the habit of testifying their contempt for the law by peppering the outward and visible sign of its presence. Green surveyed the battered board sardonically and unlocked the door. The room they entered was clearly the office, scantily furnished with an old desk, three somewhat decrepit chairs, and a cupboard. Behind it was another containing two pallet-beds; adjoining it, but reached by a narrow passage from the office, was a third room, empty save for a bench, with a massive, padlocked door and small barred window.

  Continuing their investigations, they found a side-door in the passage which led into a board shack containing a broken-down stove, a ditto chair, and a few battered culinary utensils.

  "Don't think much o' the kitchen--we'll have to do most of our feedin' at Durley's," the marshal said. "I allus did hate cookin' anyways."

  "Same here," responded his assistant. "This show won't be so bad once we got her tidied up an' our war-bags fetched in. We're nice an' handy to the boss," he finished, with a sly look at the other.

  Green rose at the bait instantly. "See here, fella, bosses don't go with me, not any," he said acidly. "If that Vulture person thinks he can ride me he's got another guess comin'. Yu get that into the knob you hang yore hat on."

  Barsay laughed delightedly at his success in drawing his chief. "Partner, I like yu most to death," he chortled. "I had an idea yu weren't exactly saddle-broke, but I wanted to be shore."

  Whereupon Green joined in the laugh against himself and they departed in search of their belongings.

  CHAPTER IV

  "I certainly was lucky to catch yu in town to-day, Tonia," Andy Bordene remarked, as they jogged slowly along the trail. "It seems ages since I saw you."

  The girl's eyes twinkled. "Yes, the Double S must be a good two hours' ride from the Box B," she said demurely.

  The young man sensed the mild sarcasm and flushed. "I have to work for my livin' nowadays, Tonia," he defended. "Yu've no notion what a driver the old man is, an' we're short-handed at that."

  "You ought not to be, when there are likely punchers in town with nothing better to do than swallow the poison sold at the Red Ace," she retorted, and went on to tell of her recent encounter with the stranger cowboy.

  Bordene smiled. "Any puncher is apt to slip over the edge now an' then; I'll look him up when I get back to town." He shot a mischievous glance at her. "Mebbe it would be wiser to have him at the Box B."

  The girl returned the look. She knew he was teasing her--it was an old trick of his--but this time she suspected a gravity under the playful words.

  "Andy, you are a chump," she said, and smiled sweetly. "But you are a nice chump."

  The Double S ranch lay some fifteen miles south-east of Lawless and about half-way between that town and Sweetwater, though not on the direct route. For the most part, the trail to it passed over the open range. At one point, however, it cut through a strip of broken country which jutted out like a great finger into the grassland, dipping down between the tree and brush-clad walls of a ravine. After the scorching sunshine of the open, the shade of the overhanging foliage was a welcome relief, and, therefore, Bordene was astonished when his companion spurred her mount and rocketed through the gorge at full speed. Wondering what was the matter, he
did likewise, catching her up just as she emerged on the open plain again. She slowed down and turned to him, a somewhat shamed expression on her flushed face.

  "I'm sorry, Andy," she said. "I dread that place, and I just cannot dawdle through it. If you hadn't been here I'd have gone round, though it's miles out of the way. Cowardly, I know, but you understand, don't you?"

  He nodded, and his eyes were suddenly tender. Of course he understood, and it was not difficult, remembering that less than a twelvemonth before, Anthony Sard, her father, had been foully done to death somewhere in the ravine. Both he and Tonia had been away at college, but he knew that the rancher had been bushwhacked--shot in the back from ambush--and his slayer had never been discovered. The girl had returned home to find Reuben Sarel, her father's only brother, in charge of the ranch. For some time they rode in silence and then, as though she had been screwing up her courage, Tonia turned impulsively to her companion.

  "Andy, would you be hurt if I asked you not to spend so much time at the Red Ace?" she asked.

  "Who's been talkin'?" he countered.

  "Oh, little birds chirp, you know," she replied lightly.

  "Some little birds oughta have their little necks twisted," he replied. "Just because a fella drops into a place now an' again for a drink an' a game they figure he's headin' for hell right away."

  "Is it only now and again, Andy?" she queried. "And isn't it true you have lost a lot at poker lately?"

  "I've dropped a bit," he admitted. "Dad keeps me pretty close-hauled, but I'll get it back, an' Seth ain't in no hurry."

  "I don't like that man--he makes me shudder," she said. "Whenever I meet him I think of something I saw years ago when I was a kid."

  "Not so awful many years ago," smiled the boy.

  She refused to be put off. "I was out riding with Dad and we came upon a poor little dead calf," she went on. "Perched on the carcase was a great black bird, its claws embedded in the body and its cruel beak tearing away the flesh. Ugh! It was horrible!"

  Bordene laughed at her. "Well, they call him The Vulture, but he ain't a bad old scout," he replied. "Fella can't help his looks, yu know, an' he's too big a man in these parts to tangle with. Yore uncle thinks a lot of him."

  "I know, but--"

  She left the sentence unfinished, loth to admit distrust of her only relation, even to Andy. For the truth was that though she was fond of Reuben Sarel, and believed that he sincerely cared for her, she recognized his limitations, knew that he was weak, and that his great bulk inclined him to laziness. In the hands of a man like Raven...

  Presently they reached the long, easy slope which wound up to the top of the little mesa where stood the Double S. It was a big place, the bunk-house, barns, store-houses, and corrals all constructed on a generous scale. The ranch-house, though of one storey only, was roomy. Solidly built of shaped logs and adobe bricks, it had a broad, covered veranda which overlooked the trail. In some ways the location was not a happy one, but the presence of a perpetual spring of cold, sweet water, in a land where that liquid was sometimes more precious than gold, compensated for other disadvantages. Three giant cottonwoods, survivors of the grove cut down when the buildings were erected, cast a welcome shade and relieved the bareness of the surroundings.

  Lounging in a chair in a protected corner of the veranda, puffing a long black cigar, Reuben Sarel watched the approaching riders. Of middle age, his big, round, fleshy face, in which the tiny eyes twinkled, was so fashioned as to present a perpetual expression of good-humour, but there was a slackness and want of decision about the mouth which told a story; here was one who would take the easy way. His enormous breadth of body, coupled with his corpulency, made him appear almost as wide as he was long. With astonishing agility for so massive a man, he jumped up and waved to the girl and her companion as they loped up.

  "'Lo, Andy, what's brung yu over?" he asked, with a grin which uncovered his strong, tobacco-stained teeth. "Light an' tell us the news."

  "Just had to see Tonia safe home, but I can't stay," the young man smiled, as he dismounted and trailed the reins. "Heard about the Sweetwater stage bein' held up?"

  "Yu don't say!" ejaculated the other. "When was it?"

  "Yesterday mornin' in Devil's Dip. Strade an' his posse was in lookin' for the fella."

  "The fella? One-man job, huh? Did he get anythin'?"

  "He got the messenger--plumb through the head, the express box with ten thousand, an' one o' the passengers claims he lost two thousand more."

  "Pretty good haul," Sard said. "Strade got anythin' to go on? Fella didn't look anyways like me, I s'pose?"

  "I guess not," Bordene assured him. "Eames, the driver, said the hold-up claimed to be Sudden, an' the hoss tallied."

  Sarel's small eyes widened. "Hell!" he exploded. "That jasper's gettin' too prevalent in these parts; it's time somebody put a crimp in his game."

  The talk drifted to range topics, and presently Andy climbed his horse again, and, with a wave of his hat, set out for Lawless. He rode slowly, his mind full of the girl from whom he had just parted. Ever since they could toddle they had been playmates, like brother and sister. School and college days for both of them had intervened, and when these were over the relationship had become one of good comrades. But something had happened today. Was it a sudden realization of her budding, youthful beauty as she rode so jauntily beside him, or the fact that she had shown interest in another man? He did not know, but he was acutely conscious that he wanted her, that his feeling was no longer one of mere friendship. He decided that he would employ this stranger, and would see to it that his duties did not take him to the Double S.

  "Wonder who told her 'bout the Red Ace?" he muttered. "Durn it, I'll not go there so much, though I gotta to-night--it's the likeliest spot to find that fella."

  Having thus, with the easy casuistry of youth, justified himself, he shook a little life into the heels of his horse and hurried to the place he had determined to avoid.

  * * *

  The dusk was creeping in from mountain and desert and Lawless was waking up for the evening's festivities. From the south-west trail came the muffled thunder of pounding hoofs as a party of four cowboys dashed into the street, riding and yelling like madmen. The light in the marshal's office arrested their attention at once and they pulled their ponies to a stop, squattering the dust in every direction.

  "Merciful Moses, they got a new marshal!" cried one. "Smoke him up, boys."

  With the words he snatched out his six-shooter and sent a hail of bullets into the signboard over the officer's door. His companions followed his example, and having thus evidenced their contempt for the law, and "run a blazer" on its representative, they emitted a derisive shout and rode on to the Red Ace. Inside the office the marshal and his deputy were straightening up. They heard the tattoo of the bullets, and from the side of the window Green watched the riders. Pete's face plainly disapproved of his superior's inactivity.

  "Ain't yu goin' to expostulate none with them playful people?" he asked.

  Green grinned at him quizzically. "Shucks, they're on'y boys from the Box B," he said. There had been just light enough for him to read the brand on the flank of the nearest pony. "Wasn't yu ever young an' wishful to let off steam on a night out?"

  "Awright, gran'pop, but they're countin' it a score agin yu," retorted the little man.

  "Betcha five dollars they apologize 'fore the night's out," the marshal offered. "An' anyway, that sign needs repaintin'."

  Pete took the bet, not that he felt sure of winning it--for he was beginning to realize that this new friend of his was an uncommon person--but because he was a born gambler, and curious. As to what the condition of the sign had to do with it, he could form no conjecture.

  Their entry, a little later, into the bar of the Red Ace aroused small interest in the crowded room. Here and there a card-player looked up, muttered something in an undertone, and went on playing.

  The Box B boys, seated at a table near the b
ar with a bottle between them, took no notice until a whisper reached their ears that it was the new marshal who had come in. Then heads went together, and presently one of them, a merry-looking youth whose red hair and profusely-freckled face had earned him the name of "Rusty," rose amid the laughter of the other three.

  Green was alone, leaning against the bar, his deputy being a few yards away, watching the play at a poker-table. The Box B rider lurched up, planted himself so that he faced his quarry, and, with a wink at his companions, opened the conversation.

  "Is it true yo're the new marshal?" he asked.

  "It's a solemn fact, seh," Green replied gravely.

  The young man teetered on his heels, eyeing the officer truculently. Had he been a little less under the influence of liquor he would have recognized that this quiet, lazy-looking man was not one to take liberties with.

  "Me an' my friends don't like marshals nohow--can't see any need for 'em," he pursued. "But if we gotta have one 'simportant to make shore he's good, yu unnerstan'? I've made a li'l wager I c'n beat yu to the draw." He suddenly crouched, his right hand hovering over his weapon. "Flash it!" he cried.

  Hardly had the words left his lips when a gun-barrel jolted him rudely in the stomach, while his hand, clawing at his holster, found it empty. Looking down, he saw that the marshal's weapons were still in his belt and that the gun now threatening his internal economy was his own. Instantly the drink died out as he realized that the man he had dared possessed every right to blow him into eternity. His companions started up in alarm.

  "Don't shoot, marshal, he was on'y joshin'," one of them called out.

  "Do yu still think yu can beat me to it?" the marshal asked, and without waiting for a reply slipped the borrowed pistol back into its place. "If yu do, well, have another try."

  There was a sardonic smile on his lips, but his eyes were friendly, and the beaten man was now sober enough to see it. He achieved a difficult grin.

  "Not any more for me, thank yu all the same," he said. "I ain't a hawg, an' I wanta say I'm sorry we shot up yore shingle this evenin'."