Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (8 page)

 
          
“Do
we? Any fella can call hisself Sudden,” Green retorted, and his tone was so
harsh that Pete looked at him in surprise. “It would be a damn easy way o’
blottin’ a trail.”

 
          
The
young man bit his lips. “I didn’t think o’ that,” he admitted.

 
          
It
did not take them long to find where the killer had hidden his horse. Just
behind the hut the lower foliage of a tree had been nibbled, and a branch bore
traces of having been chafed.

 
          
Moreover,
in the bark of the trunk, Green’s quick eye discerned several hairs and the
hoofprints showed that the animal
had ..
been
restive. The hairs were black.

 
          
“Sudden
is said to ride a black, ain’t he?” Andy questioned.

 
          
“Yeah,”
the marshal replied.

 
          
He
was on his knees, studying the hoofprints carefully. Presently he stood up, and
they went to the spot where the body had been found. The ground here was matted
with the marks of both men and horses. Green pored over them for some time,
gradually picked out the ones he wanted—those of the murderer’s mount—and noted
that they went south. Then he announced his decision.

 
          
“I’m
goin’ to follow his tracks,” he said. “Pete, yu’ll stay here while Andy goes to
the Box B for a wagon an’ some of his boys to take the old man to town:
there’ll have to be an enquiry.”

 
          
When
the boy had gone, the marshal rolled and lighted a
cigarette,
and selecting a small rock, squatted and smoked in silence. His deputy stood it
for a while, and then:

 
          
“Bordene
is hard hit,” he said.

 
          
“He’ll
get over it,” Green replied. “Ol’ Man Trouble sits lightly on the shoulders o’
youth an’ is easy shook off.”

 
          
Silence
again ensued, and presently the deputy tried once more:

 
          
“Ever
run acrost this jasper, Sudden?” he asked, and this time he got a surprise.

 
          
“Yeah,
I know him pretty well,” the marshal returned. He looked at his assistant
reflectively for a moment, and then, with the air of one who has at last come
to a decision, he went on, “Pete, yu ain’t got no more brain than a sage-hen,
but I think yo’re white, an’ I’m goin’ to gamble on it. Yu heard me pull up
young Bordene pretty brisk just now an’ mebbe wondered why?”

 
          
“Shore
did,” Pete agreed.

 
          
“Well,
here’s the reason,” Green resumed. “The fella that did this job an’ brought off
the other plays in this part o’ the country ain’t the genuine Sudden; he’s just
shovin’ the blame on another man, yu sabe?”

 
          
“How’d
yu know?” queried the deputy.

 
          
“Because
I happen to be the real Sudden,”
came
the amazing
answer.

 
          
For
some moments Pete stared goggle-eyed at the man who had calmly claimed to be
one of the most famous—or infamous—outlaws in the South-west, and then he shook
his head knowingly and laughed.

 
          
“I’d
never ‘a’ guessed it—me havin’ no brain,” he grinned. “Mighta suspected yu o’ being
Julius Caesar or OF King Cole, but—” He stopped short as he read the other’s
expression.

 
          
“May
I be whittled to chips if he
don’t
believe it hisself;
musta bin eatin’ loco-weed.”

 
          
“I’m
givin’ yu the straight goods, yu idjut,” the marshal said seriously. “I’m the
man they call Sudden down in Texas an’ New Mexico. I came here to find Mister
Sudden the Second—the fella who’s buildin’ me a reputation an’ doin’ well out
of it. I don’t claim to be no plaster saint, but I’ve had too many things hung
on me a’ready an’ I aim to stop it. I reckoned yu had to know who yu were
trailin’ with.”

 
          
Bar
say got up, and if there was a smile on his face it was but an attempt to hide
the feeling in his voice. “Jim,” he said, “I don’t care if yo’re forty outlaws
rolled into one; I’m backin’ yore game to a fare-yu-well.”

 
          
The
marshal gripped the outthrust hand. “I knowed I wasn’t makin’ a mistake,” he
said.

 
          
“I’m
thankin’ yu, Pete.”

 
          
The
plump little puncher scuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable. “Shucks!” he
muttered.

 
          
The
marshal’s reply put them back on their old easy footing.
“Awright,
just listen to me.

 
          
What
I’ve told yu has gotta be kept tight behind yore teeth. If Lawless gets to know
there’ll be a necktie party an’ we’ll be the guests. Now, I’m goin’ to trail
Mister Bushwhacker. Yu go back with the body an’ see if yu can learn anythin’
in town.”

 
          
This
arrangement was not to Barsay’s liking, but his chief smiled away all his
objections and forthwith departed. He left the little man with plenty to occupy
his mind. Remarkable as was the revelation to which he had listened, doubt of
it never occurred to him.

 
          
“I
just knowed he warn’t no ordinary puncher,” he muttered.
“Sudden,
huh?
He’s all o’ that, I reckon.”

 
          
For
a mile or more the marshal was able to maintain a fair pace, the tracks of the
horse which had been tied behind the shack being plain. Presently, however,
they turned off the beaten trail to the Box B, following a mere pathway which
twisted tortuously through the brush. Green noted that the fugitive was heading
south and making no effort to hide the fact. Pausing at the top of a slight
ridge, he scanned the surrounding country.

 
          
There
was no sign of his quarry, and, indeed, he had not expected there would be; in
such country, the man might have been but a few hundred yards distant and still
unseen. The marshal moved down the slope of the ridge, threaded a narrow
arroyo, and pulled up again. In front lay an expanse of semi-desert, a broad
stretch of sand relieved only by clumps of bunch-grass, cactus, and mesquite.
The trail led straight on to this and abruptly vanished. For a moment the
trailer was at a loss, and then he noticed that his hoof prints had also gone,
the fine granular sand trickling back and filling up the depressions almost as
soon as they were made.

 
          
“This
fella ain’t
no
stranger,” the marshal muttered. “Well,
Nig, if he’s headin’ for the Border we gotta go on.”

 
          
Holding
a straight line, he crossed the little desert, and after a short search picked
up the trail again on the other side. Two miles brought him to a wide-banked,
slow-moving river which he guessed must be Lazy Creek; the opposite bank was
Mexico. At this time of the year the stream was shrunk to half its winter width
and he had no difficulty in crossing. He found the familiar hoofprints on the
other side only to lose them soon afterwards in a long narrow cleft, the floor
of which consisted of weathered rock, detritus from the bare walls on either
side.

 
          
He
rode through the gully, emerging into a strip of park-like country interspersed
with wooded knolls. Passing one of these, he heard a voice, harsh, speaking in
Spanish.

 
          
“See
if you can loosen his tongue, Lopez,” it said.

 
          
Trailing
his reins, the marshal crept cautiously up under cover of the chaparral. The sight
was a singular one. At the side of a little glade an Indian was standing, his
wrists tied behind him to a sapling. He was a tall fellow, of indeterminate
age, his body emaciated by illness or starvation. He was naked save for a
ragged pair of deerskin trousers. But for the fierce eyes he might have been a
statue of bronze. Facing him was a yellow-skinned Mexican of the lowest type,
in a huge sombrero, dirty blue shirt, and tattered overalls. He was holding a
wicked-looking quirt, passing the lash through his fingers and eyeing the
Indian gloatingly.

 
          
A
few yards distant was the man who had spoken, a dark, swarthy fellow of middle
age and stature, whose straight black hair framed one of the cruellest faces
Green had ever seen. The nose was almost flat, the eyes narrow and near, and
the thick, sensual lips were drawn back in a snarl, disclosing big, stained
teeth. His attire was a parody of a uniform; a slouched hat pinned up at one
side with a silver brooch; a flaming red tunic loaded with gold braid; faded
blue pants tucked into high boots garnished with huge wheel spurs. From the
gaudy sash round his middle peeped the butts of two pistols and the haft of a
dagger.

 
          
At
a nod from this man, and before the marshal could interfere, the peon swung his
quirt and lashed the Indian savagely across the chest, the thong, knotted at
the end, cutting an open weal from which the blood flew. Before the force of
the blow the victim staggered, but instantly drew himself up and became again
an inanimate thing. Only the clamped lips and bunched jaw-muscles betrayed his
agony.

 
          
“Speak,
dog, where is the gold?” thundered the man in uniform.

 
          
The Indian remained silent, his face a mask of pride, hatred, and
contempt.
The man in uniform read the expression aright, and it goaded
him to fury.

 
          
“Continue,
Lopez,” he hissed. “I’ll find his tongue if I have to strip the flesh off his
bones to do it.”

 
          
With
an eager grin the peon swished his bloodstained lash round his shoulder, but
ere he could bring it down Green’s gun crashed and he dropped in a huddled
heap; his torturing days were ended. At the sound of the shot, the other man’s
hand went to his belt but came away empty at the sight of the newcomer’s
blazing eyes and levelled weapon.

 
          
“Reach,
yu yellow skunk,”
came
the terse order.

 
          
The
man complied, but his expression was poisonous. “May I point out, senor, that
you are on the wrong side of the line?” he observed.

 
          
“I’m
on the right side o’ this gun,” Green grimly retorted. “What are yu up to
? ”

 
          
The
Mexican shrugged his shoulders. “Bah! Only an Indian,” he sneered. “He knows
where there ees much gold, senor, but the dog ees obstinate.”

 
          
The
marshal did not reply. Stepping up to the man he drew the pistols from his sash
and flung them, one after the other, into the brush. The dagger he used to free
the captive and then turned again to the Mexican.

 
          
“Take
off yore coat,” he ordered.

 
          
An
expression of surprise showed in the sallow face. It was not like an Americano
to rob a man of his clothes, though, of course, the garment was a desirable
one, and as he did not wish to lose it, the wearer ventured a protest.

 
          
“It
may interest the senor to learn that I am El Diablo,” he said softly. “He weel
have heard of me?”

 
          
If
the marshal was interested he did not show it; his narrowed eyes continued to
regard the ridiculous figure with cold contempt. So this was the guerrilla
leader whose reputation for savage cruelty was unequalled in Northern Mexico,
and who, at the head of his band of so-called revolutionaries, robbed,
murdered, and ravaged along the Border, even crossing it at times to raid the
ranches for cattle and horses. Though Green inwardly cursed the luck that had
thrown the man in his way, he was determined to punish him.

 
          
“El
Diablo, huh?” he sneered. “Well, if yu don’t shuck that coat, I’ll send yu home
so fast yu’ll get singed on the way.”