Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (23 page)

 
          
Always,
by accident or design
,,
the marshal hampered him.

 
          
“Green
again, blast him,” he muttered. “He’s allus in the way.”

 
          
“Put
him outa business,” the foreman suggested callously.

 
          
“Tell
me how,” snapped the other. “Yu can’t—he’s got yu all buffaloed.”

 
          
Jevons
was silent for a while, and when he did speak his remark seemed to be
irrelevant:

 
          
“‘Split’
Adam is at the 88,” he said.

 
          
Raven
reflected. “Think he’d tackle it?” he asked.

 
          
“‘Split’
is mighty near sellin’ his saddle,” Jevons told him. “Five hundred dollars
would listen
good
to him about now.”

 
          
Since
a saddle is the last thing a Western rider parts with the saloonkeeper knew
that Adam must be at desperation point.

 
          
“Send
him in,” he said shortly.

 
          
Hard-looking
strangers attracted little attention in Lawless, unless they invited it by
their actions, and this Mister Adam was careful to avoid. In fact, he arrived
after dark, pushed his bronc furtively into the Red Ace corral, himself into
that place of entertainment by the side door, and so into the owner’s private
sanctum. Raven nodded towards a chair, shoved forward a box of cigars, and
silently studied his visitor. Adam had small pretensions to beauty. On the
wrong side of forty, he was thin—even weedy—in build. He had a long, narrow
face, emphasized by a ginger goatee beard and a stringy, drooping moustache,
and a sneer appeared to be his natural expression. His small eyes, cold,
expressionless, were like polished stone. Two guns, the holsters tied down,
hung low on his lips. He endured the other man’s scrutiny for a moment or two,
and then, in a harsh, rasping voice, he said:

 
          
“Jevons
allowed vu wanted to see me. Well, yu done it, an’ if that’s all I’ll be on my
way.”

 
          
The
truculent, bullying tone did not appear to affect Raven. “How many men have yu
killed, Mister Adam?” he asked. “There’s a fella in this town we could git
along without, but he won’t take a hint.”

 
          
The
sneering question was plain in the other’s eyes.

 
          
“Yeah.
Natural for yu to think that, Mister Adam,” Raven
went on, “but I’m not a gun-fighter—don’t even tote one. My weapons are brains
and—dollars.”

 
          
The
killer smiled wolfishly. “How many—dollars?” he asked.

 
          
“Five
hundred,” Raven replied. “The fella happens to be the marshal too, so if
he—left us—there’d be a vacancy.”

 
          
“I’ll
go yu,” Adam said. “I can use that mazuma, an’ I’ve allus thought a star would
look about right on me.”

 
          
“Yu
gotta earn ‘em first,” the other warned. “The chap ain’t
no
pilgrim, an’ yu’ll need to play yore cards close. He calls hisself Green, but
yu can risk a stack it don’t describe him.”

 
          
“I
ain’t exactly a beginner my own self,” the gunman replied. “Nothin’ will
happen
to-night—don’t want it to look like I come in
a-purpose—but I’ll be takin’ his measure. O’ course, yu won’t know me
from—Adam.”

 
          
He
laughed hoarsely at his little joke, nodded to his host, and departed, again
using the side door. Some time later he oozed into the Red Ace, posted
himself
at the bar, and called for the customary drink.
Beyond a casual glance, no one took any notice of him, but his own eyes were
busy. Presently Pete drifted in, and when he caught sight of the deputy’s
badge, Adam looked at Raven, who was playing cards at a nearby table. The
saloonkeeper shook his head slightly.

 
          
When
Green eventually made his appearance, Adam got from Raven the sign he was
waiting for, and his cold gaze watched the marshal incessantly. He noted the
tall, limber frame, the easy play of the muscles when their owner moved, and
the youthfulness. But the little smile which crinkled the corners of the firm
mouth and softened the square jaw misled him.

 
          
“Kinda
young for his job an’ liable to take chances,” he reflected sneeringly. He
turned to the bartender. “Ever heard o’ Split Adam?” he asked loudly.

 
          
“Yeah,
but I never seen him,” Jude replied.

 
          
“Yu
have now,”
came
the answer. “Yessir, I’m that
eedentical fella. Know how I got that label?”

 
          
The
barkeep did not, and shook his head.

 
          
“‘Cause
I c’n split a bullet on a knife edge at twelve paces,” boasted the killer, and
with an aggressive look at Green. “That’s shootin’, Mister Marshal.”

 
          
“Shore
is,” the officer agreed mildly. “But if the knife-edge was bustlin’ bullets in
yore direction at the time it might make a difference.”

 
          
“There’s
quite a few who found it didn’t,” Adam sneered.

 
          
“I’ll
have to take yore word for that, seh,” the marshal replied. “I reckon theirs
ain’t available.”

 
          
He
turned away, ending the discussion, and the gunman’s gaze followed him with
malignant triumph. He did not want to clash yet; he was merely trying out his
man. The marshal left the saloon early, and when Pete followed some time later
he found him cleaning and oiling his revolvers.

 
          
“Know
anythin’ ‘bout that hombre Adam?” asked the deputy casually.

 
          
“Heard
of him,” Green replied. “He’s bad, all right—one o’ the gunmen yu can hire.
There’s towns
in Texas where they’d jerk him on the way to
Paradise with considerable enthusiasm.”

 
          
“He’s
after yu,” Pete said.

 
          
The
marshal grinned. “Ain’t yu the cute little observer,” he bantered, and then,
“Yeah, I sort suspicioned it m’self, an’ I’m wonderin’—who’s payin’?”

 
          
“Well,
seein’ he’s a buzzard I’d say it was a case of ‘birds of a feather,’ ” the
deputy opined. “I’m a-goin’ to be yore shadder tomorrow.”

 
          
To
this decision he adhered; wherever the marshal went Pete was, unobtrusively,
close at hand. It was about noon when the pair of them entered the Red Ace.
Adam was there, talking and drinking with several of the toughest inhabitants.
Raven was leaning against the far end of the bar, and the attendance was bigger
than usual. Immediately the marshal entered all eyes turned upon him, and he
guessed that the killer had been talking. With an evil look that advertised his
intention to force a quarrel, Adam stepped towards his quarry.

 
          
“Marshal,
yu ain’t lookin’ too good—kinda peaky ‘bout the gills,” he began. “I reckon
this part o’ the country don’t suit yu.”

 
          
The
grating tones carried a plain threat, and the room waited in utter silence for
the officer’s reply to the challenge. The marshal sipped the drink he had
ordered, noting grimly that men in his vicinity were edging away from him.
Putting down his glass, he commenced to roll a cigarette.

 
          
“Yu
think I’d better be goin’?” he asked in mild surprise.

 
          
“Don’t
be funny with me, fella,” he warned. “I let yu git away with it las’ night, but
that don’t happen twice. Savvy?”

 
          
Hands
hanging over his gun-butts, teeth bared like a snarling dog’s, he thrust his
face within a few inches of his intended victim’s, his narrowed eyes flaming
with the lust to kill. The marshal straightened up and stepped back a pace,
throwing his weight on his right foot.

 
          
“Mister
Adam,” he said quietly. “I don’t like rubbin’ noses with a rattlesnake. That
face o’ yores may look mighty near human two miles off, but at two inches it’s
an outrage. I’m movin’ it.”

 
          
With
the words his right fist came up, and as the arm shot out, landed with terrific
force on the outthrust jaw of the killer. Driven home with all the power of
perfect muscles, backed up by the forward fling of the body, the blow lifted
the fellow from his feet and hurled him full length on the floor. He was still
conscious, for Green’s fist had just missed the point of the jaw, but he could
not rise. Lying there, glaring his hatred, he poured out a stream of abuse, and
clawed feebly for his gun. “I guess I wouldn’t,” the marshal
warned,
his hand on his own weapon. “Fade.”

 
          
The
ruffian scrambled to his feet, a fury of passion shaking him.

 
          
Staggering
blindly like a drunken man, Adam went out, and the victor turned to face the
advice and expostulations of his friends.

 
          
“Yu
did oughta drilled him, marshal,” Durley put in. “He shore asked for it.”

 
          
“Oh,
I reckon he’ll drift,” Green said.

 
          
“Drift
nothin’—he’ll hang around an’ shoot yu from cover,” Loder contributed. “Better
leave here by the back door.”

 
          
The
marshal shook his head. He had noticed Raven’s departure immediately after the
killer’s downfall, and was wondering whether his expression denoted contempt or
disappointed anger. When the excitement had died down a little several of the
spectators left the saloon, and one of them thrust the door open again to say
there was no sign of Adam.

 
          
“Two-three
of us’ll come out with yu,” Pete suggested. “No, I’ll play her a lone hand,”
the marshal said firmly. Bunched together, the men went out into the sunshine,
but halted a little way along the street. Evidently the news had spread, for
there were other groups and heads protruded from windows and doors. Three tense
minutes loitered past, and then the swing-door of the saloon was thrown back
and the marshal stepped out. At the same instant a gun roared from the corner
of a log building opposite and the onlookers saw Green pitch sideways, to lie prone
on the footpath, his right arm outflung and his left bent across his hip. With
a cackle of malignant triumph, Adam emerged from his shelter, both guns poised.

 
          
“Well,
gents, I reckon I’ve sent yore marshal to hell. Any o’ yu got notions?”

 
          
Muttered
curses were the only response to his bravado. Pete, filled with a bitter rage,
looked at the prostrate form of his friend and wondered if his eyes were
playing tricks. Surely that left hand was moving, nearer and nearer to the
holster. A moment later he knew, for the gun was out and spouting flame. The
amazed spectators saw the killer crumple up and collapse in the dust, and by
the time they reached the marshal, he was on his feet again. They found him
untouched.

 
          
“Shore
thought he’d got yu,” Durley said. “How’d he come to miss?”

 
          
“I
fell before he fired,” Green explained. “I guessed he’d hide an’ lay for me.
Had to make him show hisself.
Well, he had his chance.”

 
          
“Why
yu give him any has got me guessin’,” the deputy grumbled.

 
          
Later
on, in the privacy of
their own
shack, Green
enlightened him. “Yu see, Pete,” he argued. “Yu don’t blame a gun for killin’,
yu blame the fella who pulls the trigger. This Adam jasper was just a gun, an’
though I’m holdin’ he warn’t fit to go on livin’, it’s the man who used him who
oughta be lyin’ out there.”

 
          
“Mebbe
yo’re right,” the deputy conceded. “I’m just .is pleased things worked out as
they did. Chewin’ over these here fine distinctions’ll end one day in yore
bein’ described as ‘the late lamented.’”