Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (12 page)

 
          
“‘Lo,
Tonia, what good wind fetched yu in to-day?” he asked.

 
          
“A
woman’s usual excuse—shopping,” she smiled. “We’ve been expecting you at the
Double S.”

 
          
“I
know, but I’ve had stacks to do,” he replied. “Dad, dear old boy, hadn’t what
they call a business head—he was straight himself an’ trusted folks. His
affairs were in a bit of a mess, an’ I’ll have to buckle in to put them right.”

 
          
Tonia
nodded. She knew he was telling her that the Box B was not as prosperous as he
had expected to find it. Old Bordene, a bluff, out-of-doors specimen of the
early pioneer, who regarded a given word binding as a written one, was the kind
whose ranch might easily be in difficulties without his realizing it, if people
whose promises he had carelessly accepted failed to redeem them.

 
          
“If
we can do anything, Andy—” she began, and broke off at an exclamation from her
companion.

 
          
“Sufferin’ serpents!
Here’s a circus a-comin’.”

 
          
The
girl turned and saw a group of riders pacing slowly up the street. Their
leader, who was mounted on a fine Spanish horse, was the most
magnificently-attired person Lawless had ever beheld. His sombrero, bright
scarlet tunic, and blue trousers were lavishly decorated with gold braid, the
spurs on his polished boots were of silver, and a wealth of the same metal
adorned saddle and bridle. The half-dozen men who followed him were Mexicans,
dressed in nondescript ragged garments, but all well armed.

 
          
“Who
the blazes is that spangled jay?” asked a bystander.

 
          
“El
Diablo, the guerrilla, though what the hell he’s doin’ this side o’ the line, I
dunno,” replied another. “Wonder where he stole that hoss?”

 
          
It
was Andy’s laugh which drew the Mexican’s attention to the girl, and at the
sight of her his eyes gleamed. With a wrench at the reins he forced his mount
to pivot on its hindlegs, and pulling up at the sidewalk, swept off his hat and
spoke to Bordene, using the American tongue.

 
          
“I
am Moraga; present me to the senorita.”

 
          
His
voice was harsh, commanding, and the bold gaze rested on the girl possessively
as it absorbed the slim, graceful beauty of her. The young rancher saw the lust
in the look, and this, added to the insolence of the demand, made him careless
of offence. Disdainfully he replied:

 
          
“Never
heard o’ yu, an’ we ain’t carin’.”

 
          
The
guerrilla’s yellow face became suffused and his smile changed to a snarl.
“Perhaps the senor has heard of El Diablo?” he said softly, and seeing the
question in the young man’s face, he added, “Si, senor, I am El Diablo.”

 
          
Andy’s
cool gaze travelled slowly over the Mexican. “Well—yu—shore—look it,” he
drawled, and taking Tonia by the arm, turned away.

 
          
For
an instant the man who had called himself Moraga glared murder, his claw-like
fingers hovering over the butt of the pistol thrust through his
brightly-coloured sash. But he knew it would be madness—a dozen men would shoot
him down if he drew the weapon, and with a savage oath he wheeled his horse,
scoring its sides until the cruel spurs showed red, and rejoined his waiting
followers. The humiliation made the still unhealed stripes under the gay coat
burn like fire.

 
          
“Andy
has shore rubbed that Greaser the wrongest way,” grinned one of the spectators
of the scene. “S’pose he’s goin’ to visit Seth?”

 
          
His
surmise was correct, for at the Red Ace the Mexican wrenched his horse to a
stop, flung the reins over the hitch-rail, and with a wave of dismissal to his
men, vanished inside. The escort rode back to the dive presided over by their
countryman, Miguel.

 
          
Closeted
with Raven in the letter’s office, the visitor showed no sign of his recent
rage.

 
          
Smoking
a long, black cigar and occasionally helping himself to wine from a bottle on
the desk, he was suavity itself. The saloonkeeper had been explaining something
at length.

 
          
“So
now yu got it,” he concluded. “There’ll be five hundred steers—mebbe more. They
won’t be wearin’ my brand—I’m takin’ ‘em for a debt, yu understand, but once
they’re over the line their monograms won’t matter, I reckon.”

 
          
Moraga’s
thin lips curled in a meaning smile; he understood perfectly. This was not the
first transaction between them, though on previous occasions the saloonkeeper
had apparently sold his own cattle. He drew reflectively at his cigar and asked
a question, casually:

 
          
“It
musta bin Tonia Sarel,” Raven said, with a keen glance. “Owns the Double S;
father was dry-gulched in The Cut a while ago.”

 
          
“So,”
the Mexican said. “Ver’ preety, that senorita,” One finger of his right hand
was idly drawing a figure on the desk—the letter S. He completed it and began
again, but this time he continued the up-stroke and the S became an 8, He
laughed quietly, shot a sly look at his host, and said again, “Ver’ preety.”
The saloonkeeper was not to be drawn; he was wearing his poker face. Moraga
harked back.

 
          
“Who
was the man?” he asked.

 
          
“From
yore description I’d say it was young Bordene o’ the Box B,” Raven told him.

 
          
“Whose
father was also—removed,” Moraga said reflectively; and then, “So the Box B
weel provide the steers thees time, senor?”

 
          
Seth
Raven looked at the malicious, sneering face and had hard work to keep his
temper.

 
          
“See
here, Moraga, better not horn in on what don’t concern yu,” he advised. “It was
a fool play to come ridin’ in at the head of a young army as if yu owned the
town.”

 
          
“Would
you have me sleenk in and out like a cur, senor?” the Mexican returned
haughtily. “I am El Diablo.”

 
          
“Which
is why I’m warnin’ yu,” Raven replied, a touch of acid in his tone, “On yore
side o’ the line yu may be ace-high, but this side”—he smiled sourly at his own
humour—“
yo’re
the deuce. If yu take my tip, yu’ll git
back to yore own bank o’ the ditch, pronto.”

 
          
“Moraga
does not run away,” the other said boastfully. “I stay till evening.”

 
          
The
saloonkeeper shrugged his shoulders and offered no further protest. Probably
there would be no trouble, but knowing Lawless, he wished his guest on his way.

 
          
Raven
was not present when, later on, the guerrilla chief made his appearance in the
Red Ace. A few of Seth’s friends nodded a greeting, but most of the men present
either sniggered or scowled as the garishly-clad figure strutted arrogantly to
the bar. He had almost reached it when he saw the marshal, who, chatting with
Pete, had not noticed his arrival. For an instant Moraga stood motionless, his
eyes distended, his lips working, and then he snatched out his pistol.

 
          
The
marshal caught one glimpse of the scarlet-coated form and acted. A powerful
thrust with his left hand sent Pete reeling away and at the same time a spurt
of flame darted from his right hip. The bullet, striking Moraga’s gun, tore it
from his numbed fingers. His left hand was reaching for his second pistol when
a warning came.

 
          
“Don’t
yu,” the marshal said, and the cold threat in the words penetrated even the
brain of the infuriated Mexican. He hesitated, and before he could make up his
mind, two men had grabbed his arms, holding him, cursing and struggling, while
others got out of the line of fire. In the midst of the uproar Raven came
surging in.

 
          
“What
in hell’s broke loose?” he thundered.

 
          
A
dozen excited voices told him the story, and as he listened his face settled
into a heavy scowl. He turned to Green.

 
          
“I’ll
attend to this,” he said, and signed the men to release the captive. Then, with
a fierce whispered word, he led the Mexican into his private room.

 
          
Immediately
they had disappeared the excitement broke out again. Threats against the
“Greaser” were freely uttered, and the saloonkeeper was openly blamed for what
was regarded as an insult to the whole town.

 
          
“What
made him pick on vu, marshal?” the store-keeper, Loder, enquired.

 
          
“Spotted
my badge, I reckon,” Green evaded with a laugh.

 
          
Meanwhile,
Seth Raven was listening to a story which brought disquietude even to his
usually impassive features, for Moraga, mad with rage at his second
discomfiture, blurted out the tale of his former meeting with the marshal,
despite the fact that he thereby published his own shame. Striding up and down
the room, gesticulating, his voice rose to a shrill shriek as he cursed and
threatened.

 
          
“I’ll
keel him—keel him by inches!” he cried, and his claw-like fingers opened and
shut as though he held his enemy’s throat.

 
          
“I
ain’t sayin’ yu mustn’t,” Raven said quietly, “but yu can’t do it now or here.
He’s the marshal, an’ the way the fellas out there look at it yu’ve tried to
run a blazer on the town. Hark to ‘em.” Through the partition they could hear
loud and angry voices. “If yu wasn’t my guest, senor, yu’d be dancin’ a
fandango on nothin’ right now, an’ yu can stick a pin in that,” the
saloonkeeper went on. “Yu better slide outa the back door, climb yore cayuse,
an’ hike for the Border.”

 
          
Possessed
by passion as he was, the visitor knew that Raven was right. So when, in
response to a message, the marshal entered the office, there was no sign of the
Mexican. Raven, slumped in his chair, greeted him with a frowning brow.

 
          
“Pretty
damn mess yore blasted Injun has got us into,” he began. “What’s the idea,
shootin’ strangers up thisaway?”

 
          
The
marshal’s eyes grew frosty and his jaw stiffened. “See here, Raven,” he said,
and his tone had an edge, “if yu think any yeller-skinned thief can pull a gun
on me an’ get away with if yu got another guess comin’. O’ course”—and there
was a suspicion of a sneer—“I didn’t know he was a friend o’ yores.”

 
          
“Friend
nothin’,” the saloonkeeper replied testily. “He buys cows, pays a good price,
an’ saves me the trouble an’ expense o’ drivin’ ‘em to the rail-head. But it
ain’t that I’m thinkin’ of.

 
          
That
hombre can raise more’n hundred men. S’pose he comes back an’ stands the town
up, what yu goin’ to do?”

 
          
“Yo’re
scarin’ me cold,” Green said sarcastically. “Me? I should run like hell, o’
course. Anythin’ else yu wanta say to me?”

 
          
Raven
shook his head, and for some time after Green had gone sat there deep in
thought, inwardly cursing the new marshal and himself for having appointed him.
It was becoming all too evident that this saturnine, self-reliant young puncher
was not likely to “come to heel,” and that—despite Raven’s assertion to the
contrary—he had quite a good notion of his responsibilities.

 
          
Although
he had given him the position, Raven knew he could not take it away without a
very good excuse, and the fracas with Moraga, far from furnishing that, had
only made the marshal more popular. When at length he got up there was an ugly
expression on his face.

 
          
From
the bunk-house of the Box B, Rusty watched the approach of a horseman along the
trail, which, emerging from the thicket of spruce and
cottonwood,
zigzagged across the open stretch in front of the ranch. Presently the visitor
was sufficiently near to be identified.