Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (36 page)

 
          
“Well,
boys, afore yu string me up let me give yu a word of advice—never do another
fella a good turn,” he said, and his voice was easy, confident. “What yu’ve
heard is a pretty good specimen o’ gratitude—white man’s gratitude—an Injun
wouldn’t V done it.” He paused for a moment on the sneer. “I never knew Potter
was a murderer, but when he
come
here he told me a
hard luck story, an’ feelin’ sorry for him, I gave him a hand. Without it, he’d
‘a’ been—nothin’. Of late he’s been puttin’ on frills, dunno why, but I can
guess.” He looked meaningly at Green. “I had to call him down once or twice. He
took it bad an’ here’s the result—that pack o’ damn lies.”

 
          
“Yu
suggestin’ Potter got hisself killed a-purpose to spite yu?” Renton asked
sarcastically.

 
          
“No,
Renton, I ain’t,” was the quiet reply. “Here’s how I figure it: Potter an’
Green put their heads together an’ dope out that precious confession. Then, one
fine night, Potter slides out with the bank funds. When he’s clear away, the
marshal produces this paper, which ruins me an’ clears him. Later, they meet
somewheres an’ divvy up. It’s a good scheme, but the banker overlooks a bet; he
don’t
see that with him dead it’s twice as safe an’
profitable for his pardner.

 
          
Think
it over; why, it’s ‘money from home’ for—Mister Sudden.”

 
          
Thus,
with devilish cleverness, he twisted the weapon from his own breast and
directed it at that of his enemy. The explanation, plausible enough, made an
impression which his sharp eyes were quick to note. He knew he had surprised
them, that they had looked for a furious storm of repudiation, and he had
spoken quietly, holding down with iron control the rage that threatened to
choke him.

 
          
“Most
o’ yu have known me some time,” he went on. “Am I the kind to put myself in the
power of a man like Potter, or to rob a bank which was practically
mine
to hand yu back the money?”

 
          
“Less
my thirty thousand,” Andy reminded him.

 
          
Raven
refused to be ruffled. “Is it likely I’d go stravagin’ about the country
holdin’ folks up? Why, I never carry a gun,” he said. “That’s all I gotta say,
boys. There’s Sudden, an admitted outlaw an’ a stranger, an’ here’s Seth Raven,
who ain’t a stranger. Which are yu goin’ to believe?”

 
          
It
was a superb piece of acting and brought its reward. A big, black-bearded man
from the Tepee Mountain country jumped up.

 
          
“Gents,
I reckon Raven has the straight of it,” he called out. “I’m backin’ him.”

 
          
Shouts
of “Good for yu, Darky” and “Here’s another” followed this pronouncement, and a
number of the men got to their feet, stamping, yelling, and directing
threatening looks at the little group near the door. Amid
all
the
hubbub Green stood alone, cynically surveying the noisy scene. His
stem voice rang out above the din, and the very audacity of his request quelled
it.

 
          
“Raven,
I want
the gun yo’re
wearin’—it’s under yore left
armpit. Hand it to yore friend yonder”—he indicated the black-bearded man—“or
I’ll drop yu right now.”

 
          
The
half-breed looked surprised, hesitated, but one glance at the speaker’s granite
face told him that the levelled gun was no mere bluff. With a scornful smile he
pulled out the weapon and pitched it to Darky.

 
          
“Yo’re
a gun guesser, Sudden,” he jeered. “Gettin’ scared, huh? Yu needn’t be; yo’re
slated for a rope. Take care o’ that shootin’-iron; she’s an old favourite I
wouldn’t like to lose, though I ain’t carried one for years.”

 
          
“Oh,
yeah,” Green said, and to the man holding the revolver, “Fetch it out here,
friend, where we can all see.” From the pocket of his chaps he produced two
slender brass tubes and held them up. “The bullets from these killed Bordene
an’ Potter; I found ‘em near the bodies,” he went on. “Both have the same
distinctive mark.” He turned to Darky. “Take the ca’tridges outa that gun an’
have a look at ‘em.”

 
          
Curiosity
again rampant, the spectators clustered round and stood on the benches to watch
the operation; the singular duel was not yet over. Raven alone betrayed no
interest. He did not know what this new move portended, but confident in his
regained supremacy, he believed he could circumvent it. One by one the black-bearded
man drew out the shells, scanning each carefully. Not until he came to the last
did he speak.

 
          
“Thisyer
is scratched along the side—a straight line,” he said, and looked at the gun.
“The chamber is nicked.”

 
          
Green
handed him the empty shells. “Would yu say they were fired outa that gun?” he
asked.

 
          
Darky
gave them one glance. “Hell! There ain’t a shadder o’ doubt,” he said. “
Them
marks is eedentical.” He looked at Raven and spat
disgustedly. “An’ I was for him,” he added.

 
          
“Stranger,
I’m right ashamed.”

 
          
A
tense silence followed the black-bearded man’s verdict and instant
condemnation.

 
          
Swiftly
the tell-tale tubes passed from hand to hand, but in every case the scrutiny
was of the briefest. Familiar with weapons as all present were the evidence was
conclusive, even to the dullest intellect. Had further proof been needed,
Raven’s ashen face supplied it. The blow, coming in the moment of triumph, had
shattered his self-control. He knew that he was beaten, that nothing he could
say or do would save him. Not only had the fatal weapon been on him, but he had
admitted that he prized it; Green, too, had been astute enough to have the
cartridges examined by one of his, Raven’s, supporters; there was no loophole.
A cold fear clutched at his heart and he cursed himself for having kept and
worn the gun. Furtively he glanced about, reading his doom in the set, lowering
faces of those who, but a few moments before, had been his friends. At the
thought of all he had so nearly gained
a madness
came
upon him, a fierce desire to taunt these men, to vent his spleen upon them for
the last time. He rose and faced them, a sinister, evil figure.

 
          
“Yo’re
a clever lot, ain’t yu?” he sneered. “Superior race, salt o’ the earth—scum
would fit yu better. Me, I’m what yu called me. The Vulture, that damned Injun,
the unwanted brat of a pore white an’ his copper-coloured squaw, yet I’ve
beaten an’ fooled yu all—killed, robbed, an’ had yu pattin’ me on the back for
a good fella. Bite on that! Why, if it hadn’t bin for a stranger”—his gaze
rested viciously on Green—“yu’d be eatin’ outa my hand this minit like the
dawgs yu are. Which of yu has the pluck an’ savvy to plan an’ do as I did? Not
one o’ yu.”

 
          
The
stinging, scornful voice lashed them like a whip and he had his moment. Silent,
spellbound, they stared at the extraordinary spectacle of a criminal glorying
in his evil, baiting the men at whose hands he must shortly die. Only Strade
spoke:

 
          
“Yu
admittin’ Potter was right, Raven?” he asked.

 
          
The
half-breed grinned hideously. “Yu pore pin-head, ain’t I said so?” he retorted.
“Potter knowed all, an’ I killed him, for that, an’ so’s I could buy the town
with its own coin.” The mad laugh came again. “Oh, I played big, an’ damn near
got away with it.”

 
          
“Yu—robbed—the
stage?”

 
          
He
turned on the speaker. “Yeah, Pardoe, I stole yore roll an’ flung a bit of it
back to yu in charity,” he gibed. “Ah, would yu?”

 
          
For
Pardoe, with the growl of a savage beast, was reaching for his hip. Raven’s
hand flashed to his breast, a shot crashed, and the gambler went writhing to
the floor, and was still.

 
          
The
killer faced round, crouching, the smoking weapon poised.

 
          
“Fooled
yu too, Sudden,” he jeered. “Yu guessed at one gun, but yu didn’t figure on
two, did yu? Now”—the muzzle was directed point-blank at Green’s breast—“if
anybody makes a move, yu die.” His beady eyes gloated over the man whose life
he held in the crook of a finger, for Green’s guns were back in their holsters.
Raven broke the tense silence. “Sudden the Second is goin’ to hell presently,”
he rasped. “Sudden the First is goin’ now, damn him.”

 
          
As
the last words left his lips Green’s right hand swept to his side. To the
onlookers the reports seemed simultaneous. They saw the younger man stagger
back as a bullet seared his left temple, and then Raven reeled, his knees
hinged under him, and he collapsed like a house of cards. For a long moment
there was no sound—men were breathing again—and then Rusty voiced the thoughts
of all:

 
          
“My
Gawd!” he said in awed admiration, “Raven had him covered an’ he beat him to
it!
Sudden, huh?
Well, I believe yu.”

 
          
Green
sheathed his gun and mustered up a grin as Pills came to bandage his hurt.
“On’y a scratch, doc,” he said.

 
          
“H’m,
another inch to the left and yu’d have been travelling together,” the little
man said grimly. “I’d given you up.”

 
          
“He
figured wrong—reckoned I’d raise the gun, but I fired from the hip,” the
patient explained. “If he hadn’t been so keen on cussin’ me—”

 
          
At
the far end of the room a crowd gathered round the fallen men; both were dead.

 
          
Raven’s
thin lips were drawn back in an ugly snarl and between the staring eyes was the
mark where the bullet had entered.

 
          
“An’
we thought he never packed no artillery,” Durley said.

 
          
“I
knew different,” Green told him. “Twice he nearly went for it; when he shot
Jevons, and again when I throwed him off the Double S, but I didn’t suspect he
carred a brace.”

 
          
“Good
thing he was totin’ the one he did his dirty work with,” Strade commented.

 
          
“I
figured he would be,” the marshal explained. “Yu know how it is with a gun;
they
has
differences, an’ a fella gets fond of his
own, an’ wise to its little ways. When he told us it was a favourite, I felt
pretty shore.”

 
          
“Well,
he’s saved thisyer town the cost of a rope,” Loder put in.

 
          
Which was the best that anyone could find to say of the late owner
of the Red Ace.

 
          
Lawless
was itself again when, two weeks later, Green emerged from the Red Ace and went
in search of his deputy. He found him in the office, sitting with his feet on
the ramshackle desk, moodily smoking.

 
          
“Howdy,
marshal,” the newcomer greeted.

 
          
Pete
looked up. “Yo’re a-goin’ then?” he asked, and regret was plain in his voice.
“How’d they take it?”

 
          
“One
an’ all they wept copious,” Green grinned. “But I guess that was just to spare
my feelin’s. Yu see
,
they know yu wouldn’t accept
unless I pull my freight, an’ they’re pinin’ for yu.”

 
          
“Yo’re
seven sorts of a liar, includin’ the damn kind,” the little man smiled. “Dunno
as I wanta be marshal anyways. I’m goin’ to
miss
yu a
whole lot, Jim.” And then, with the cowboy’s natural aversion to showing
emotion, he added, “I’ll have no one to talk to.”

 
          
“Too
bad we couldn’t persuade Black Feather to stay put,” the other suggested slyly.
For the Indian, astride his Spanish horse and gripping his cherished carbine,
had departed a few days earlier, refusing all offers save cartridges and a
small supply of food. After solemnly shaking hands with his “white brothers” he
had delivered a long harangue in his own tongue, and then, with a dignified
gesture of farewell, had ridden into the wilderness. His address had left Pete
gasping.