Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (19 page)

 
          
“To Andy Bordene?”

 
          
“Looks like, though I dunno as anythin’ is fixed.”

 
          
“An’
what happens to yu then, Reub?”

 
          
Sarel
stared in surprise. “Why, I hadn’t
give
it a thought,”
he said. “S’pose I’d stay put, or perhaps Andy would let me run the Box B if
they decided to live here.”

 
          
“Don’t
yu gamble on that,” the visitor said quietly. “I happen to know that Andy don’t
think much o’ yore business capacity—heard him say once that yu hadn’t savvy
enough to sell cold water in hell. Young blood, yu know, is apt to have ideas
of its own an’ ain’t very patient with age. I’m bettin’ yu get yore time.”

 
          
The
statement was made with conviction, and, moreover, though he had denied it,
confirmed a fear that had already assailed Tonia’s relation more than once.
Raven’s crafty eyes read
all this,
saw that the man
was shaken to the core, and sneered inwardly.

 
          
“Tonia
wouldn’t turn me out,” Reuben protested.

 
          
“Mebbe
not, but her husband might, an’ I figure she’ll be a dutiful wife,” Raven
replied, and struck again, “I’m hopin’ not, seein’ yu still owe me four
thousand.”

 
          
“It
ain’t so much, Seth; yu had fifty cows.”

 
          
“Which
I gave yu twenty a head for—good price too for stolen stock,” the saloonkeeper
retorted, sneering when the other winced. “It was five
thou.,
warn’t it? More than I can afford to drop, Reub. If yu lose out here I’ll have
to go to Tonia.”

 
          
The
threat of exposure to the child he had robbed, but of whom he was genuinely
fond, wilted the man. When he spoke it was in a husky whisper:

 
          
“Anythin’ but that, Seth.
Take some more cows; I can manage
so they won’t be missed.”

 
          
Raven
shook his head.
“Too risky—for me.
Think I wanta be
pulled for rustlin’? I on’y took ‘em before ‘cause I was damn short an’ to
oblige yu. No, there’s a better way.”

 
          
Sarel.
raised
his head, a gleam of
hope in his deep-sunk eyes.

 
          
“S’pose
she married someone else?” Raven went on.

 
          
“Yu
got anybody in yore mind?” Reuben queried.

 
          
The
saloonkeeper hesitated, and then, “Yeah,” he said firmly.
“A
fella who wouldn’t send yu travellin’ an’ who might forget about that four
thousand.”

 
          
It
took a moment or two for the significance of this to sink in, but when it did
the fat man sat up in his chair as though he had been stung.

 
          
“Yu?”
he cried. “Yu marry ‘Ionia? Why, damn—” He clamped his lips suddenly.

 
          
“Yu
were goin’ to say—?” Raven suggested softly.

 
          
Sarel
swallowed hard and looked uncomfortable. “I was goin’ to say, damn me if I ever
thought of it,” he lied.

 
          
The
man who had made the proposition smiled acidly; he knew better. But he was
enjoying himself; to get a white man in his power, ride and rake him with the
spurs, afforded his mean mind the keenest satisfaction. But having indulged
this desire he must apply the soothing ointment; he did not wish to drive his
victim to desperation.

 
          
“Why
should yu ‘a’ thought of it, Reub?” he asked, smiling. “An’ again, why
shouldn’t yu?

 
          
I’m
young yet, an’
there’s
less important fellas than me
in these parts. Is there any reason why I mustn’t aspire to yore niece?”

 
          
The
cold, beady eyes of the speaker bored into those of the man opposite, daring
him to say what he knew was in his mind—that there was a reason, one no amount
of argument could ever remove. Reuben Sarel squirmed in his chair, fearful of
giving offence, as helpless as a hog-tied calf in the branding corral. When the
words came they were no answer to the question.

 
          
“I
expect she ain’t never thought o’ yu thataway, Seth. It’s her say-so, yu know.”

 
          
“Shore,
but yu bein’ her on’y relation, I reckoned it right to get yore—consent. No
doubt it’ll take time, but with yu on my side I got a chance.”

 
          
To
cover his perturbation, Sarel slopped some more whisky in his glass and took a
long drink. “Tonia’s fond o’ Bordene,” he said.

 
          
“Natural
enough—they’ve been brought up together,” Raven agreed. “But Andy’s affairs are
in bad shape, an’ he’s drinkin’ an’ gamblin’ more’n a young fella should who’s
expectin’ to settle down.
Yu sabe?”

 
          
The
Double S man nodded miserably; he was getting orders and hated it, but he could
not help himself. At his invitation the visitor stayed for the midday meal, and
made a surprising effort to be pleasant. He paid Tonia one or two little
compliments, but was careful not to let any hint of his intentions escape him.
When Bordene’s name was mentioned, all he said was, “Andy’s havin’ a tough
time; I’m hopin’ he’ll make the grade.”

 
          
After
he had gone, the girl turned to her uncle. “I don’t think I ever disliked
anyone as I do that man,” she said. “He’s—slimy.”

 
          
“Oh,
Seth’s all right,” Reuben muttered, and cursed the passion for poker which had
put him in the saloonkeeper’s power. He watched as she went to get her pony
from the corral, stepping with a fine, swinging grace which, as so many things
in her did, brought back her father. The thought that followed made him sick.
How would Anthony have received the proposal to which he had tamely listened?
He knew only too well—flung the maker of it headlong into the dust, at no
matter what cost to himself. Anthony had been all a man. With a bitter oath he
turned into the house.

 
          
At
the slow “Spanish trot” of the cowpuncher, Raven was returning to Lawless. He
was well satisfied with the morning’s work. Another instrument for the
furtherance of his schemes had been created, a weak one, certainly, but—as he
reflected grimly—all the more useful on that account.

 
          
Before
his brooding eyes flashed a picture of the future as he had planned it: Seth
Raven, offspring of a drunken prospector and his Comanche woman, owner of the
three big ranches and husband of the prettiest girl in the south-west, rich,
respected, and, above all, feared. He saw himself sent to Congress, even
appointed Governor of the Territory, and at the thought of that he laughed
harshly.

 
          
“By God!
I’ll make some o’ these damn Yanks step around,” he
cried.

 
          
It
was typical of the man that he did not long indulge in these day-dreams. Almost
immediately his mind was again milling over the problems he had to solve, and
of these the most pressing was the marshal. Leeson had failed, and he cursed
him for a clumsy fool. Then his scowl changed to a
Satanic
smile of satisfaction; he had hit on a plan, one which would achieve his object
without any come-back, which was what he desired.

 
          
“That’ll
fix him,” he exulted, and awoke his dozing pony by ripping it across the ribs
with both spurs.

 
          
It
was two mornings later that Pete, who for once was first astir, found a
somewhat grubby envelope thrust under the door. It was addressed to “The
Marshul.”

 
          
“Huh,
one has come at last,” he said. “I’m wonderin’ which o’ the damsels in this
dog-hole of a town has fallen for yore fatal beauty?”

 
          
“Usin’
yore intellects on an empty stomach’ll put yu in a loco-house,” the marshal
told him.

 
          
He
tore open the envelope, extracted a scrap of coarse paper, and read:

 
          
“Marshul.

 
          
If yu wanta here about Sudden, come to the Old Mine at nune.

 
          
A Frend.”

 
          
“Writin’
is pretty near good, but she’s got her own notions o’ spellin’,” Pete
commented.

 
          
“Yu
supposin’ it’s a girl?”

 
          
“Shore
am
. One o’ them female wimmen wants to meet yu on the
quiet. Mebbe she’s bashful, or got a husban’, or somethin’.”

 
          
“You
ain’t got brains enough to outfit a flea,” the marshal said caustically. “Grab
a skillet an’ get breakfast, yu chunk o’ grease.”

 
          
The
approach of noon found Green nearing the rendezvous. He recognized that he was
taking a risk, and had no intention of riding blindly into an ambush. Therefore
he turned off the trail and advanced cautiously under cover of the chaparral
until he was able to see the open space where Bordene’s body had been found.
Squatting on the ground in the shade of a juniper was a man, smoking a
cigarette, and from time to time casting an eye down the trail in the direction
of Lawless. He was a Mexican of the poorest class, a peon, raggedly clad, with
a knife and pistol thrust through the dirty scarf wound round his waist. For a
while the marshal waited, and then rode out. Instantly the man got up, a gleam
in his shifty eyes.

 
          
“Buenas
dias, senor!” he greeted.
“No spik here; I breeng horse.”

 
          
He
slipped like a snake into the brush, and a moment later, a cackle of merriment
told the marshal that he was trapped.

 
          
“One
leetle move, senor, and you die,” said a familiar voice.

 
          
Green
glanced round and saw Moraga covering him with a levelled carbine; saw, too,
the dozen bandits with drawn guns closing in upon him from all sides, and
realized that any attempt at resistance would be sheer suicide. His hands came
away from his guns, and, disregarding the threat, he rolled and lighted a
smoke. Then he turned to face the leader.

 
          
“Yu
win—this time—little man,” he said contemptuously. “Brought yore army too, I
see.”

 
          
Moraga
spat out a sibilant Spanish oath; like most small men he was touchy about his
stature. For an instant his hand hovered over a pistol butt, and then, with a
cruel smile, he hissed,

 
          
“I
can wait, senor.” Turning to his followers, he added, “Seize and tie him.”

 
          
The
marshal had made his preparations. While his hands had apparently been fumbling
with his cigarette papers, he had deftly tied the reins to the horn of his
saddle. As soon as he heard the command, he slid to the ground and uttered a
shrill call. Nigger knew it for the signal that he was to go full speed, and
bunching his great muscles he sprang forward, burst through the ring of
astonished riders, and vanished down the trail. Green grinned scornfully as two
of the guerrillas spurred after the runaway; he knew his horse. The return of
the animal to town with the reins tied would tell Pete something was wrong, and
they might be able to trail the bandits; it was his only chance.

 
          
“Yu
don’t get the hoss,” he said to Moraga. “He’s too good for a Greaser.”

 
          
The
Mexican’s face flamed at the epithet, but he said nothing. Two men removed the
marshal’s guns and directed him to mount a pony; his wrists were then secured
and his ankles roped beneath the animal’s belly. At a word from its leader, the
party set out at a fast lope, headed for Mexico, one man remaining behind. They
had covered several miles when two horses, one bearing a double burden, caught
them up; Nigger had evidently got away.