Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (18 page)

 
          
Though
he was many miles from the Double S, he was working in that direction, passing
over a level expanse of good grass, gashed here and there with little gullies.
From one of these came the bellow of a steer, and forcing his way in, the
marshal found that the trees ringed a grassy, saucer-like depression, in the
middle of which was a rough corral. Riding down to the enclosure, one glance
told him he had found what he sought—stolen stock. There were about a score of
cows in the corral and the brand on them had been recently worked over,
transforming a Double S into an 88. The dead ashes of a fire afforded further
proof. Regaining the level, the marshal loped leisurely in the direction of the
town, turning over his discovery. That Raven, as owner of the 88, was in on the
steal, he had not the slightest doubt, but the trouble was to prove it.

 
          
“Cuss
the luck,” he soliloquized. “I’m findin’ nothin’ but loose ends.”

 
          
He
was crossing a little tree-covered plateau from which a gravelly stretch of
ground sloped gently down when a slug sang past his ear, followed by the report
of a revolver. Instantly he flung himself headlong to the earth, falling so
that he lay behind a convenient boulder. Some sixty yards down the decline
wisps of blue smoke showed that the shot came from behind a low bush,
apparently the only cover the spot offered. Nigger, smacked on the rump when his
master dived for shelter, had retreated into the trees behind. At one side the
chunk of rock did not touch the ground, and this provided the marshal with a
peep-hole through which he could watch events.

 
          
Motionless,
with gun drawn, he waited, but nothing happened.

 
          
“He’s
wonderin’ if he got me,” Green muttered. “Well, I ain’t tellin’ him.”

 
          
Another
ten minutes passed, and first the crown and then the brim of a black sombrero
edged into view above the bush. The marshal chuckled softly; he knew there was
no head inside the hat and declined to be drawn. The hat vanished and the bush
became slightly agitated, but the silence remained unbroken. Another interval
and abruptly from behind the bush, a man stood up, pistol in hand; it was
Leeson.

 
          
He
weapon ready for instant use, he stepped from his cover and began to mount the
slope.

 
          
The
marshal waited until he was too far from the bush to regain it and then rose
noiselessly to his feet.

 
          
“Reach
for the sky, Leeson; I’m coverin’ yu,” he called.

 
          
The
man flung up his arms as ordered.

 
          
When
he had sworn himself to a standstill, the marshal spoke:

 
          
“Chuck
yore weapons ahead o’ yu.”

 
          
He
watched while a gun and a knife curved through the air towards him.

 
          
“What’s
the idea?” Leeson snarled, and then, as though he had just discovered the
identity of his opponent, “Why, damn me if it ain’t the marshal.”

 
          
Green
picked up the surrendered weapons. “Yu didn’t know, o’ course,” he said
sarcastically.

 
          
“An’
that’s a fact,” Leeson replied. “I took yu for that road-agent fella, Sudden;
that black hoss o’ yores—”

 
          
“Ain’t
got a white face,” the marshal reminded.

 
          
“That’s
so. I oughta
remembered
,” the other agreed readily.
“Well, mistakes will happen, but there’s no harm done; I’m glad I didn’t get
yu, marshal.”

 
          
“I’m
a mite pleased about that my own self,” the officer admitted. “I got yu
instead, an’ I’m takin’ yu in.”

 
          
Leeson
stared at him in anger and amazement, the latter well simulated. “Ain’t I
explained it was a mistake?” he demanded.

 
          
“Folks
have to pay for ‘em in this hard world, fella,” the marshal told him. “Where’s
yore hoss?”

 
          
“Bottom
o’ the slope—in the brush,” the man replied, and then, “Lookit, marshal—”

 
          
“Get
a-goin’,” Green cut in. “Yu can sing yore little song on the way.”

 
          
A
low whistle brought Nigger stepping sedately towards them. The marshal climbed
into the saddle and with his drawn pistol motioned the prisoner to proceed.
They found the horse, and Leeson mounted.

 
          
“Seth’ll
have a word to say ‘bout this,” he growled, and for the rest of the journey
maintained a sullen silence. On reaching town, the marshal handed the captive
over to his assistant and went in search of Raven. He found him in his private
room at the saloon.

 
          
“Leeson
tried to bushwhack me this afternoon,” he said bluntly. “I fetched him
in—alive.”

 
          
For
one fleeting second the man’s face betrayed an emotion, but whether it was
surprise, anger, or disappointment, the marshal could not determine; then it
was gone, and the cold, passionless mask was back again.

 
          
“Leeson
shot at yu? Whatever for?” he asked.

 
          
“Pure
affection, don’t you reckon?” Green returned flippantly, and then, “He claims
he took me for Sudden.”

 
          
“Well,
that’s likely enough too,” Raven returned. “Yu better get rid o’ that black
hoss. As for Leeson, I’d turn him loose, in yore place.”

 
          
“If
yu want I should—” the marshal began.

 
          
“I
don’t give a damn; the fella’s just one o’ my hands—not too good a one at
that,” Raven retorted, adding carelessly, “His tale will clear him with most.”

 
          
Green
nodded and came away. At the office he found Pete and the prisoner chatting
amiably. When handed his weapons and informed that he was at liberty to depart,
a sneering grin further disfigured Leeson’s features.

 
          
“Got
yore orders from Seth, huh?” he said.

 
          
“Don’t
push yore luck too hard, fella,” the marshal replied caustically.

 
          
When
he had gone Barsay burst into a roar of merriment, and it was some moments
before he could explain.

 
          
“He’s
bin tellin’ me how yu turned the tables on him,” he said. “An’ he was as solemn
as an undertaker at his own funeral; reckons yu got no right to monkey with
citizens thataway, an’ I had to listen without a smile; I near died.”

 
          
“It
was shorely funny,” the marshal grinned. “Just the same, he damn near got me.”

 
          
“You
oughta
abolished
him right away,” Pete said
disgustedly. “Where’s the sense in totin’ him in?”

 
          
“Wanted
to see what line Raven would take,” Green replied. “But he warn’t makin’
presents to-day.
As hard to catch as a greased snake, that
fella.
The 88 is rustlin’ Double S cows. What yu make o’ that?”

 
          
“I
ain’t surprised a-tall,” Pete told him. “That gang at the 88 ain’t got enough
honesty to protect a plugged peso, I’ve a hunch Mister Raven is swingin’ a wide
loop.”

 
          
In
which conjecture Pete was undoubtedly correct, but as to how wide the said loop
was neither of them had, as yet, the smallest conception.

 
          
Seth
Raven was paying a visit, and though attired as usual, a careful observer might
have noted that his sallow face was newly shaven, his shirt and collar clean,
and his black coat and boots brushed. Slumped in his saddle, with a loose rein,
he jogged steadily along the eastern trail on his way to the Double S. From
every tree and shrub came the chatter and piping of the birds.

 
          
For
the saloonkeeper the beauties of Nature had no appeal; his mind was wholly
absorbed by material considerations. The move he was about to make was one he
had long deliberated, being, in fact, the coping-stone of all his plannings. He
would have to walk warily—to-day’s expedition was merely the first step—but
Raven had the patience of the red woman who had borne him; he could plant seed
and wait, uncomplainingly, for it to mature and flower. Over-eagerness was the
fault of a fool, and therefore, as he reflected sardonically, the weakness of
the majority of mankind. Money, and the power that money provides, would put
him in the position to treat white men as they had so often treated him—like
dirt. And he thirsted for it. Cold, calculating, ruthless, this passion of
prolonged hate made him inhuman.

 
          
By
the time he had covered the open range and reached the ranch-house the sun’s
rays were slanting down like beams of flame and the shaded veranda was a
comforting sight. An even more pleasant one was the girl standing upon it,
though there was no welcoming smile on her face; she had early discovered the
identity of the visitor.

 
          
“Mornin’,
Miss Tonia. No need to ask after yore health,” the saloonkeeper greeted, as he
got down and tied his steed. The girl returned the salutation, adding, “You
want to see my uncle, of course.”

 
          
“No,
‘of course’ about it when yo’re around,” Raven replied with clumsy gallantry.
“But, as a matter o’ fact, there’s a bit o’ business I wanta talk over with
him. Ah, here he is. ‘Lo, Reub, how are yu?”

 
          
“Mornin’,
Seth. Hot, ain’t it? Here, have a seat an’ a ‘smile.’ Too bad I can’t offer yu
a decent drink. Tonia, fetch this fella some of his own poison.”

 
          
The
saloonkeeper was only half-listening. He was watching the girl, admiring the
lithe grace of her every movement, savouring the appeal of her slim, rounded
form, and feeling again the fury of hate stir in him as he reflected that she
would regard him as little better than a full-blooded Apache, and somewhat
lower in the scale of humanity than Moraga. Having set the liquor on the table
she went away.

 
          
“Here’s
how,” Sarel said, adding with a shade of anxiety in his tone, “What’s brung yu,
Seth?”

 
          
Raven
did not reply at once; he was taking in his surroundings, noting the solidity
and apparent comfort of the ranch buildings, and the good grazing which
extended as far as the eye could reach, and farther. He had seen it all before,
but to-day it took on a fresh aspect.

 
          
“Anthony
knowed what he was about when he hit on this place—I reckon there ain’t a
better ranch in a hundred mile,” he said slowly.
“How much
stock yu runnin’, Reub?”

 
          
“Can’t
tell till round-up,” the fat man replied. “Oughta be around four thousand head,
I guess.”

 
          
“An’
if it all belongs to Tonia. She’s of age, ain’t she?”

 
          
Reuben
Sarel nodded, trying to fathom what the other was driving at.

 
          
“It’s
a big property for a gal to manage,” Raven said reflectively.

 
          
“She’s
got me,” Sarel pointed out.

 
          
“Yeah,
an’ she had her dad,” the saloonkeeper reminded him. “Somethin’ might happen to
yu too, Reub; we’re all mortal.”

 
          
The
stout man’s face lost a little of its colour and he took a swallow of whisky
rather hastily. He did not like the suggestion, or the tone in which it was
made.

 
          
“Cheerful
chap,
ain’t you?” he said, with an attempt at
jocularity. “Anyways, I s’pose Tonia will be gettin’ married sooner or later.”