Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (25 page)

 
          
When
the cold light of the coming dawn showed above the eastern horizon the rescue
party forded the stream and plunged into what was to all of them, save perhaps
the Indian, unknown territory. The tracks they were following headed straight
into what appeared to be an expanse of open country, but the guide turned
sharply to the right, pointing his horse’s head towards a jumble of rocky
ridges, the valleys and gorges between which were hidden by close-growing
timber.

 
          
“We’re
leavin’ the trail; that’s a risk, ain’t it?” Andy asked. “The Injun is wise to
his work,” Green replied. “This way may be harder, but I’m bettin’ he’s got a
reason, an’ a good one.”

 
          
Midday
found them clear of the barrier of broken country and they saw ahead a broad,
billowing stretch of semi-desert, walled in on the far horizon by a jagged line
of purple hills.

 
          
“Git
ready to be grilled, boys,” Renton warned, his slitted eyes squinting at the
view.

 
          
“We’re
pointin’ Pinacate way, seemin’ly—volcanic country—all lava an’ cactus. I’ve
heard of it.

 
          
We’ll
need all the water we can carry; wells ain’t any too frequent.”

 
          
A
meal was eaten, canteens filled at a neighbouring creek, and the journey
resumed.

 
          
Speed
was out of the question in the soft sand, and before they had gone very far the
Double S foreman’s prophecy was being fulfilled. From the sun flaming in the turquoise
sky
came
a stream of heat which burnt like a hot iron,
and absorbed perspiration before it had time to form.

 
          
“I
know now just how the steak feels in the pan,” Rusty groaned. “All we want is a
nice li’l dust-storm.”

 
          
Hour
after hour they plodded on, halting only at long intervals for a brief meal and
a gulp of the tepid contents of their canteens. The approach of night, with
cooler air, afforded welcome relief after the sweltering heat. The character of
the desert too was changing; the sand was thinning out and hummocks of vitreous
rock began to appear.
Presently, at the base of a pile of
these, the.
guide
pulled up and slid from his
saddle.

 
          
“Je-ru-sa-lem!”
breathed one of the Double S riders. “Am I seein’ things or is that real
water?”

 
          
At
the foot of the rocks lay a little pool, shining like a mirror in the last rays
of the setting sun.

 
          
“Its
water, shore enough,” another assured him, and tugged on his reins. “Steady, yu
son of a devil; vu ain’t going to roll in it; we gotta use it too.”

 
          
Black
Feather, who had brought them to it, was a popular member of the party, despite
his copper skin. Pete voiced the general opinion:

 
          
“Shore
was a lucky day for us, Jim, when yu snatched that Injun back from the happy
hunting-grounds,” he said.

 
          
The
horses were watered, hobbled, and turned loose to search for the scattered
clumps of gramma grass, while their masters squatted round the fires—for desert
nights are bitterly cold—and swallowed a much-needed meal. The marshal had a
chat with their guide and then joined Andy, Pete, and Renton.

 
          
“We’re
pointin’ for Moraga’s headquarters, an’ the Injun reckons we’ll make it
sometime day after tomorrow,” he told them. “Like I figured, this is a short
cut, but if they’ve got the girl there ahead of us, we’ll have to study the
layout an’ plan accordin’. Get
all the
sleep yu can;
it’ll be hard goin’ the rest o’ the way.”

 
          
The
morning light confirmed his statement. In front of them stretched an apparently
endless expanse of black lava, fantastically fashioned into ridges, shelves,
spires, and massed blocks as though a mighty molten sea had suddenly been
frozen into immobility. The edges of the broken lava were as keen as knives.

 
          
“Good
thing the Injun held out for shod hosses,” the marshal remarked, as they
commenced the journey. “A few miles o’ this would peel the horn clean off their
hoofs.”

 
          
“Well,
I dunno what the other trail’s like, but I’m votin’ for it,” Pete said, as his
horse slipped on a shining slope and fought furiously to recover its footing.

 
          
Helpless
targets of a relentless sun, parched by a thirst they dared not satisfy, the
riders slipped and slithered on across the burnt-out, forbidding wilderness.
For the most part they rode in silence, for inattention to one’s mount might
mean an awkward accident, but occasionally a rider relieved his feelings with a
fervent but humorous curse.

 
          
“Hell
won’t interest me
none
at all now,” Rusty was heard to
complain. “Guess I’ll have to try for the other place.”

 
          
Night
found them still on the desert, camped at the base of a pinnacle of rock. They
had found no more water, but by pulping the interiors of some barrel cactus
they managed to supply the needs of themselves and their mounts. Dead mesquite
branches provided a fire, but it was a miserable one, for fuel was hard to
find. So that it was good news to hear that the next day would see them clear
of the desert.

 
          
And
so it proved. Early in the afternoon they halted in a long, deep arroyo which
contained more vegetation than they had seen for two days. All of this meant
water, and they soon found a tiny, sparkling creek.

 
          
“Moraga’s
settlement ain’t far away from here,” the marshal said. “
Me
an’ Pete is goin’ to prospect it some. If we ain’t back in a coupla
hours
yu better come an’ look for us. This is a good place to
leave the hosses.”

 
          
Discarding
their own mounts and rifles, the two men traversed the arroyo and emerged, with
due caution, into the open. Hidden behind lumps of storm-riven lava, they got
their first view of the bandit settlement. It proved to be a mere collection of
hovels, mostly with rock walls and sodded roofs, clustered beneath the shadow
of a jagged cliff, the curving shape of which showed that it had once been part
of the wall of a crater. Zigzagging steeply up the weathered face was a narrow path
leading to a ledge about two-thirds of the way up. Only one building justifying
the name was to be seen—a stout cabin of untrimmed logs standing in the centre
of the other habitations.

 
          
“That’ll
be Mister Moraga’s mansion, yu betcha,” Pete observed. “Lie close—there’s a
fella who might come our way.”

 
          
“I’m
hopin’ he does,” the marshal said.

 
          
His
wish was granted; the man, stepping jauntily and humming a song, passed close
to their hiding-place. A quick clutch, which effectively closed his windpipe,
and he was behind the boulder, a gun-barrel boring into his ribs.

 
          
“Silence,
they say, is golden,” a voice whispered. “Noise, for yu, amigo, will be leaden.
Savvy?”

 
          
Apparently
the prisoner did, for he submitted silently while his pistol and knife were removed
from his belt. Seated on the ground with his back to the rock, he glared in
amaze at the grinning cowboys.

 
          
“Now
yu can talk, amigo, an’ I’m advisin’ yu to,” the marshal said, “Where is El
Diablo?”

 
          
“Senor
Moraga ees in ze beeg cabeen,” he said sullenly, adding with vicious emphasis,
“
he
keel you for dees.”

 
          
“Mebbe,”
the marshal agreed. “How many men has he got?”

 
          
The
Mexican’s eyes gleamed cunningly. “Ten,” he said. Green shrugged his shoulders
and glanced meaningly at the cactus patch. The effect was immediate. “Twenty,”
came
the correction. The Mexican stood up.
“Madre de Dios!
I spik true, senor; I swear it,” the captive
cried, crossing himself fervently. “Twenty onlee—no count me.”

 
          
“Yo’re
dead right to leave yoreself out,” the marshal said. “Where’s the girl?” The
man looked at him stupidly. “The American senorita fetched in this mornin’ by
four o’ yore men,” Green added.

 
          
It
was a guess, but a good one. The Mexican hesitated, but an impatient movement
on the part of Pete decided him; these thrice-damned Gringos were not to be
trifled with.

 
          
“In
ze beeg cabeen,” he muttered.

 
          
Marching
the fellow back into the brush, they tied his hands and feet securely, using
his own sash for the purpose, and left him there.

 
          
“If
we don’t make it back yu’ll be in pore luck,” the marshal told him. “Yu better
pray—hard—for our success.”

 
          
They
found the rest of the party eagerly waiting for their return. After a short
consultation with Andy and Renton, it was decided that the attack should be made
at once. Moraga was known to control a numerous force, and more of his men
might arrive at any moment. The marshal outlined a plan for the advance:

 
          
“We’ll
spread out in a half-circle, Injun up an’ drive ‘em into the big cabin; that’ll
give us the shacks for shelter. Leave the broncs here, split up into pairs, an’
keep under cover all yu can.

 
          
Rusty,
yu an’ Yates make for their corral an’ turn the hosses loose. Shoot any fella
that tries to get away—they may have
help
near.”

 
          
Silently
the men slipped away to their posts, with a final order not to shoot until they
had a target. The marshal and his deputy returned to the point they had already
visited, aiming from there to work up to Moraga’s headquarters. From the
shelter of the big boulder they could see the whole of the apology for a
street. Several times men came out of the main hut and entered one or other of
the shacks, but no shot shattered the silence; the marshal had warned his men
to allow time for all to get into position.

 
          
Suddenly
came a wild yell and a Mexican dashed from one of the dugouts towards the
cabin. Ere he had got half-way, however, a rifle crashed and he went down,
sprawling grotesquely in the dust. Instantly the place came to life. Like rats
from their holes, men popped out of the sordid dwellings and raced for the more
solid haven of the log house. Their appearance drew a volley from the invaders,
several dropped, but the rest gained their objective. The marshal smiled
grimly.

 
          
They
had been gradually advancing, crawling on their bellies and taking advantage of
every stone or bush which offered protection. Foot by foot the attacking force
advanced, closing in on the cabin, but still the problem of the open space in
front of it had to be solved. Once the cowpunchers left the shelter of the
shacks they would be at the mercy of Moraga’s marksmen.

 
          
Anxiously
Green scanned the cliff, but it appeared to be unscalable save for the little
path directly behind the cabin. They would have to rush the place, he decided,
and in broad daylight, for it was hours yet to darkness and he dared not wait.

 
          
The
firing now became spasmodic; a defender, fancying he saw a movement, would send
a questing leaden messenger, and an attacker would instantly reply, aiming at
the other’s smoke.

 
          
The
stifling air was further polluted by the pungent smell of burnt powder.

 
          
Inside
the cabin, Moraga and his men waited for the assault which they knew must come.

 
          
Two
.had been killed at the loopholes and several nicked, but the defence still
outnumbered the Americans, and although the guerrilla leader did not know this,
he was unperturbed. Though the dispersal of the horses—for Rusty and Yates had
done their work—prevented him sending for assistance, he was hourly expecting
another of his raiding bands. That the invaders were Gringo punchers comprised
his information of them, but he surmised that the abduction of the girl had
brought them. With a smirk of satisfaction on his evil, brutish features he
opened a door at the back of the main room of the building. On the right of the
passage outside was a smaller room, when he entered. Seated on a chair to which
her arms were bound was Tonia Sard. The bandit’s eyes rested upon her
possessively.