Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (16 page)

 
          
“Let
me in on the joke, boys,” he pleaded. “I ain’t had much to be merry about
lately, yu know.”

 
          
“Sorry,
Andy, but it was just too funny to see yu squanderin’ gratitude on that fella
an’ rubbin’ a sore spot every time yu thanked him,” Green explained. “Fact is,
if it hadn’t been for me, Pete, an’ the Injun, yore cows would ‘a’ been over
the Border hours back. Runnin’ across Leeson an’ that handful o’ steers put the
idea in my head, an’ I sent Black Feather to keep an eye on the 88. He fetched
us just in time.”

 
          
“The
damned skunks!” Andy exploded. “Do yu figure Jevons is in it?”

 
          
“Can’t
say,” the marshal admitted. “Don’t see how Leeson an’ his men could get away
with such a herd without the foreman knowin’.”

 
          
“Seems
hardly possible,” Bordene agreed.

 
          
“Raven
owns the 88,
don’t
he?” Pete asked meaningly.

 
          
“Yeah,
but I can’t believe he’d have any hand in this,” Andy replied. “Lots o’ people
don’t like him, but he’s my friend, an’, besides, there was a good reason for
him wantin’ my drive to go through; I was sellin’ to pay a debt to him, an’ he
wanted the money.”

 
          
“Then
he’s still shy of it?” Green asked.

 
          
“Nope.
I borrowed from the bank an’ paid him,” Bordene said.
“He told me he had to have it.”

 
          
The
marshal was silent for a while, and then he said, “So he’s got his coin, an’ if
he was in this steal he’d be the value o’ those steers to the good, huh?”

 
          
“That’s
so, of course, but I can’t think it of Seth,” the young man replied. “He’s
hard, an’ he wants his pound o’ flesh, but he ain’t crooked.”

 
          
Green
let it go at that. After all, he had no proof that the saloonkeeper was
anything but what he seemed. He had plenty to think about on the journey back
to Lawless, and Pete did not enjoy the ride.

 
          
The
marshal’s doubts as to Raven’s participation in the attempted rustling would
have been speedily dissolved had he been present when the news arrived at the
88. Jevons was angry—for his own pocket was affected—but he was also alarmed.
Two hours’ riding brought him to the Red Ace. Entering by the back door, he
sent in a message to the proprietor, who was playing poker. Raven rose
instantly.

 
          
“Leave
me out for a spell; got somethin’ to ‘tend to,” he excused, and went to his
office.

 
          
Here
he found his foreman waiting, and it needed no second glance to see that he had
come in a hurry and on no pleasant errand. The cards had proved unkind to Raven
and he was in an ill mood.

 
          
“What’s
the matter now, Jevons?” he growled.

 
          
The
man told the story just as he had it from Leeson, and the saloonkeeper’s
usually impassive face grew stormy as he realized the possible consequences of
the disaster.

 
          
“Yu
blunderin’ fool,” he hissed.
“Why didn’t vu go yoreself
instead o’ sendin’ that mutton-head?”

 
          
“What
difference would that ‘a’ made anyhow?” Jevons retorted. “Lookit, the marshal
finds us drivin’ four hundred Box B steers; what else was there to tell him?
Let’s hear what yu’d ‘a’ done; shoot ‘em down, huh?”

 
          
Raven
sensed that he was going too far; the man was too useful a tool to lose.
Moreover, looking at the problem Leeson had to face more coolly, he could not
but admit the only possible solution had been found. Tactfully he turned his
wrath in another direction.

 
          
“Blast
that marshal, he’s allus hornin’ in on what don’t concern him,” he snarled.
“What was he doin’ over there?”

 
          
“Waitin’
for the herd, Leeson reckons,” the foreman said. “Some way he got on to it,
though I’m blamed if I know how.”

 
          
Raven
was silent, remembering something. “I can tell yu,” he said. “That pesky Indian
nosed it out; Green said he was usin’ him.”

 
          
“Yu
don’t often make a mistake in pickin’ a man, boss, but yu shore slipped up on
that marshal,” Jevons said acidly.

 
          
“Mistakes
can frequently be rectified,” his employer told him. “Leeson don’t like Green
much, does he?”

 
          
“Not
that yu’d notice,” returned the foreman, adding with an ugly smile as he read
the other’s mind, “I’m bettin’ he’d like five hundred bucks a good deal more.”

 
          
“He
can choose between ‘em,” the saloonkeeper said meaningly. “Tell him I said so.

 
          
Anybody
see yu ride in?” The foreman shook his head. “Slip out quiet an’ get back to
the ranch,”

 
          
Raven
added, and returned to his cards.

 
          
The
88 man was wrong in supposing he had not been seen. A pair of black, vigilant
eyes, from a little depression fifty yards to the rear of the Red Ace, had
watched both his arrival and departure. Black Feather was still working for the
marshal.

 
          
Early on the following afternoon a musical call of “Hello, the
house,” appraised Bordene that he had a visitor.
Stepping out on the
veranda, he saw Tonia, astride a mettlesome little mustang. She jumped down and
trailed the reins when he appeared.

 
          
“Why,
Tonia, what good angel fetched you?” he cried.

 
          
She
sat down in the chair he pushed forward, accepted a glass of water from the
olla hanging in the porch, and then turned a serious face to her host.

 
          
“I
haven’t seen you since your drive failed, Andy,” she said. “It was bad luck.”

 
          
“Might
‘a’ been worse—barrin’ Tod,” the young man replied. “I got nearly two-thirds of

 
          
‘em
back in the end,” and went on to relate the story of the strays from the 88.

 
          
“So
your cows were headed for Mexico,” she said thoughtfully. “Andy, what do you
think of the marshal?”

 
          
“I
reckon he’s white,” Bordene replied.

 
          
“I
like him too,” she said. “I went in once or twice to see that sick Indian he
rescued; the man just worships him.”

 
          
“Hey,
Tonia, don’t yu go lavishin’ too much affection on Green,” Bordene cried; and
though he spoke in mock alarm, there was again an undertone of concern in his
voice.

 
          
The
girl detected it and was thrilled. Adopting his own manner of speech, she said
teasingly, “I shorely gotta be grateful when a fella helps yu, ain’t I?” Before
he could reply, she was sober again. “Andy, how much do you owe Raven?”

 
          
“Who’s
been tellin’ yu—” he began, and paused.

 
          
“The
same little old bird,” she smiled.

 
          
“Reg’lar
poll-parrot, that bird,” Bordene commented. “Well, here’s the straight of it,
Tonia. I did owe Seth money an’ was aimin’ to pay when I sold the herd. When
the drive was busted I had to borrow from the bank on mortgage.”

 
          
“I
don’t like that,” she said. “Why didn’t you come to us?”

 
          
Bordene
shook his head and she rose to go. “It’ll be all right, Tonia,” he assured her.

 
          
“Potter
is straight, an’ when I’ve sold my cows I can square up. I’ll see yu a piece on
the way.”

 
          
The
girl laughed at him. “Do you think I’m an Eastern miss to want shepherding?”
she asked. Then she held out her hand. “
Don’t trust
Raven too much, Andy,” she said earnestly.

 
          
With
a wave and a smile, she wheeled the pony and was off. The young rancher watched
her, something more than admiration in his eyes. Then he looked at his
dwelling-place and spoke aloud:

 
          
“It
ain’t good enough for her, an’ I ain’t good enough neither, but, by God, we’re
agoin’ to be, both of us.”

 
          
Meanwhile,
the subject of this pious resolution was loping steadily in the direction of
her own ranch. She had crossed the miles of open plain and reached a strip of
rougher country which formed one of the boundaries of the Box B when, at the
end of a long, narrow ravine, she saw a rider approaching. One glance was
enough—there was no mistaking the flaming scarlet tunic, with its wealth of
gold braid glittering in the bright sun. Though she had seen him but once,
Tonia knew that it was El Diablo, the man whom Andy had treated so cavalierly
in Lawless.

 
          
With
a shiver of apprehension she sought a means of avoiding the meeting, but it was
too late; he must already have seen her. So she rode on, endeavouring to appear
unconcerned, hoping that by a display of indifference she might get past. But
when she was a few yards distant the man pulled his mount across, barring her
path, and swept the sombrero from his head.

 
          
“Buenos
dias
, senorita,” he said, and in her own tongue he
added, “Miss Sarel ride all alone, huh?”

 
          
“As
you see, senor,” the girl replied. “I must ask you to excuse me; I am in
haste.”

 
          
“The
senorita was not hurrying when I see her,” he replied meaningly. “A lady so
beautiful must also be kind-hearted and grant a few meenits to her so great
admirer.”

 
          
“I
have no time to spare, and—I do not know you, senor,” Tonia returned.

 
          
The
guerrilla captain bowed low over the neck of his magnificent mount. “No?” he
smiled. “Then we must—how you say?—become acquaint. In the absence of Meester
Bordene I present myself, Don Luis Moraga, a caballero of Old Spain, and at
your feet.”

 
          
“‘In
my way’ would be more correct, senor,” the girl retorted. “As for Mr. Bordene,
I am expecting him to overtake me, and he may have friends with him.”

 
          
The
man laughed mockingly. “I too have friends here, senorita,” he said, and tapped
the butts of the silver-mounted pistols thrust through his sash.

 
          
“I
must repeat, senor, that I am in haste,” she said coldly. “A caballero would
not detain me.”

 
          
Moraga
grinned hatefully as he forced his horse to her side. “The senorita is at liberty
to go—when she
have
paid, oh, so small a ransom,” he
said. “One leetle kees—”

 
          
Tonia’s
eyes and cheeks flamed at the insult. Heedless of her helplessness, she gripped
the quirt dangling by a thong from her wrist, and cried:

 
          
“Lay
a finger on me, you yellow dog, and I’ll thrash you.”

 
          
The
contemptuous epithet stung the Mexican to fury; his face became that of a devil
indeed. “Dios!” he hissed, “you shall pay for that.” He snatched at her wrist,
but she jumped her horse aside and swung the whip. Moraga cursed as the lash
seared his cheek, but before she could strike again his claw-like hands were
sinking into her flesh and he was dragging her from the saddle, his snarling
lips, like a ravening wolf’s, close to her own. Panting for breath, she fought on,
but could not loosen that iron grip, and her strength was well-nigh spent when
a cold, rasping voice said: