Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (5 page)

 
          
And
in this he was entirely right.

 
          
When
Green returned to the Rest House he found the bar empty, save for Barsay
sprawling in a chair with his feet on a table and snoring lustily. The
marshal’s face became that of an imp of mischief. Gently he pinned one of the
stars he had received to the sleeping man’s vest, and pulling one of his guns,
fired into the floor. The violence of the slumberer’s awaking start flung him
to the ground but in a second he was on his feet, gun out, and eyes glaring. A
moment later Durley came flying into the bar, only to find Green, weak with
laughter, a smoking gun in his hand, leaning against the wall.

 
          
“Yu
natural damn fool,” the victim admonished, when he realized the joke.
“Mighta broke my blamed neck.”

 
          
“No
fear—that’s slated for a rope,” Green retorted. “Fine deputy-marshal yu
are—caught nappin’ right away.”

 
          
Barsay
then noticed the decoration he had unconsciously acquired and his eyes widened.

 
          
“Yu
got it?” he cried, and when his new friend nodded, he turned to Durley and
said, “Well, what d’yu know about that, huh?”

 
          
“I
shore hope yu got a month’s pay in advance,” the landlord replied. “It’s about
yore one chance to draw any.”

 
          
“Mother’s
cheery little comforter, ain’t yu?” Green grinned. “Yu oughta be in the
undertakin’ business.”

 
          
Durley
laughed too, and then his face grew serious again. “Puttin’ jokes aside, gents,
I shore wish yu all the luck there is, but yu’ll have to watch cases mighty
close,” he warned.

 
          
“We’er
aimin’ to do that same,” the marshal assured him. “An’ we’re reckonin’ on one
friend anyways.”

 
          
“You
can reckon on more than that,” the landlord said. “Quite a few of us would like
this town to have a better reputation, but o’ course, if yo’re goin’ to run
with The Vulture—”

 
          
“I
cut my own trail, ol’-timer,” Green told him. “Say, Pete, what about takin’
possession of our new home? Raven gave me the key.”

 
          
The
official quarters of the town marshal were situated alongside the Red Ace, and
consisted of a one-storey ‘dobe hut. Over the door was a board with the single
word “Marshal” painted in large letters. This was sadly pockmarked by bullets;
evidently festive visitors were in the habit of testifying their contempt for
the law by peppering the outward and visible sign of its presence. Green
surveyed the battered board sardonically and unlocked the door. The room they
entered was clearly the office, scantily furnished with an old desk, three
somewhat decrepit chairs, and a cupboard. Behind it was another containing two
pallet-beds; adjoining it, but reached by a narrow passage from the office, was
a third room, empty
save
for a bench, with a massive,
padlocked door and small barred window.

 
          
Continuing
their investigations, they found a side-door in the passage which led into a
board shack containing a broken-down stove, a ditto chair, and a few battered
culinary utensils.

 
          
“Don’t
think much o’ the kitchen—we’ll have to do most of our feedin’ at Durley’s,”
the marshal said. “I allus did hate cookin’ anyways.”

 
          
“Same
here,” responded his assistant. “This show won’t be so bad once we got her
tidied up an’ our war-bags fetched in. We’re nice an’ handy to the boss,” he
finished, with a sly look at the other.

 
          
Green
rose at the bait instantly. “See here, fella, bosses don’t go with me, not
any,” he said acidly. “If that Vulture person thinks he can ride me he’s got
another guess comin’. Yu get that into the knob you hang yore hat on.”

 
          
Barsay
laughed delightedly at his success in drawing his chief. “Partner, I like yu
most to death,” he chortled. “I had an idea yu weren’t exactly saddle-broke,
but I wanted to be shore.”

 
          
Whereupon
Green joined in the laugh against himself and they departed in search of their
belongings.

 
          
“I
certainly was lucky to catch yu in town to-day, Tonia,” Andy Bordene remarked,
as they jogged slowly along the trail. “It seems ages since I saw you.”

 
          
The
girl’s eyes twinkled. “Yes, the Double S must be a good two hours’ ride from
the Box B,” she said demurely.

 
          
The
young man sensed the mild sarcasm and flushed. “I have to work for my livin’
nowadays, Tonia,” he defended. “Yu’ve no notion what a driver the old man is,
an’ we’re short-handed at that.”

 
          
“You
ought not to be, when there are likely punchers in town with nothing better to
do than swallow the poison sold at the Red Ace,” she retorted, and went on to
tell of her recent encounter with the stranger cowboy.

 
          
Bordene
smiled. “Any puncher is apt to slip over the edge now an’ then; I’ll look him
up when I get back to town.” He shot a mischievous glance at her. “Mebbe it
would be wiser to have him at the Box B.”

 
          
The
girl returned the look. She knew he was teasing her—it was an old trick of
his—but this time she suspected
a gravity
under the
playful words.

 
          
“Andy,
you are a chump,” she said, and smiled sweetly. “But you are a nice chump.”

 
          
The
Double S ranch lay some fifteen miles south-east of Lawless and about half-way
between that town and Sweetwater, though not on the direct route. For the most
part, the trail to it passed over the open range. At one point, however, it cut
through a strip of broken country which jutted out like a great finger into the
grassland, dipping down between the tree and brush-clad walls of a ravine.
After the scorching sunshine of the open, the shade of the overhanging foliage
was a welcome relief, and, therefore, Bordene was astonished when his companion
spurred her mount and rocketed through the gorge at full speed. Wondering what
was the matter
, he did likewise, catching her up just as she
emerged on the open plain again. She slowed down and turned to him, a somewhat
shamed expression on her flushed face.

 
          
“I’m
sorry, Andy,” she said. “I dread that place, and I just cannot dawdle through
it. If you hadn’t been here I’d have gone round, though
it’s
miles out of the way. Cowardly, I know, but you understand, don’t you?”

 
          
He
nodded, and his eyes were suddenly tender. Of course he understood, and it was
not difficult, remembering that less than a twelvemonth before, Anthony Sard,
her father, had been foully done to death somewhere in the ravine. Both he and
Tonia had been away at college, but he knew that the rancher had been
bushwhacked—shot in the back from ambush—and his slayer had never been
discovered. The girl had returned home to find Reuben Sarel, her father’s only
brother, in charge of the ranch.
For some time they rode in
silence and then, as though she had been screwing up her courage, Tonia turned
impulsively to her companion.

 
          
“Andy,
would you be hurt if I asked you not to spend so much time at the Red Ace?” she
asked.

 
          
“Who’s
been talkin’?” he countered.

 
          
“Oh,
little birds chirp, you know,” she replied lightly.

 
          
“Some
little birds oughta have their little necks twisted,” he replied. “Just because
a fella drops into a place now an’ again for a drink an’ a game they figure
he’s headin’ for hell right away.”

 
          
“Is
it only now and again, Andy?” she queried. “And isn’t it true you have lost a
lot at poker lately?”

 
          
“I’ve
dropped a bit,” he admitted. “Dad keeps me pretty close-hauled, but I’ll get it
back, an’ Seth ain’t in
no
hurry.”

 
          
“I
don’t like that man—he makes me shudder,” she said. “Whenever I meet him I
think of something I saw years ago when I was a kid.”

 
          
“Not
so awful many years ago,” smiled the boy.

 
          
She
refused to be put off. “I was out riding with Dad and we came upon a poor
little dead calf,” she went on. “Perched on the carcase was a great black bird,
its claws embedded in the body and its cruel beak tearing away the flesh. Ugh!
It was horrible!”

 
          
Bordene
laughed at her. “Well, they call him The Vulture, but he ain’t a bad old
scout,” he replied. “Fella can’t help his looks, yu know, an’ he’s too big a
man in these parts to tangle with. Yore uncle thinks a lot of him.”

 
          
“I
know, but—”

 
          
She
left the sentence unfinished, loth to admit distrust of her only relation, even
to Andy.

 
          
For
the truth was that though she was fond of Reuben Sarel, and believed that he
sincerely cared for her, she recognized his limitations, knew that he was weak,
and that his great bulk inclined him to laziness.
In the
hands of a man like Raven…

 
          
Presently
they reached the long, easy slope which wound up to the top of the little mesa
where
stood the Double S.
It was a big place, the
bunk-house, barns, store-houses, and corrals all constructed on a generous
scale. The ranch-house, though of one storey only, was roomy. Solidly built of
shaped logs and adobe bricks, it had a broad, covered veranda which overlooked
the trail.

 
          
In
some ways the location was not a happy one, but the presence of a perpetual
spring of cold, sweet water, in a land where that liquid was sometimes more
precious than gold, compensated for other disadvantages. Three giant
cottonwoods, survivors of the grove cut down when the buildings were erected,
cast a welcome shade and relieved the bareness of the surroundings.

 
          
Lounging
in a chair in a protected corner of the veranda, puffing a long black cigar,
Reuben Sarel watched the approaching riders. Of middle age, his big, round,
fleshy face, in which the tiny eyes twinkled, was so fashioned as to present a
perpetual expression of good-humour, but there was a slackness and want of
decision about the mouth which told a story; here was one who would take the
easy way. His enormous breadth of body, coupled with his corpulency, made him
appear almost as wide as he was long. With astonishing agility for so massive a
man, he jumped up and waved to the girl and her companion as they loped up.

 
          
“‘Lo,
Andy, what’s brung yu over?” he asked, with a grin which uncovered his strong,
tobacco-stained teeth. “Light an’ tell us the news.”

 
          
“Just
had to see Tonia safe home, but I can’t stay,” the young man smiled, as he
dismounted and trailed the reins. “Heard about the Sweetwater stage bein’ held
up?”

 
          
“Yu
don’t say!” ejaculated the other. “When was it?”

 
          
“Yesterday
mornin’ in Devil’s Dip. Strade an’ his posse
was
in
lookin’ for the fella.”

 
          
“The fella?
One-man job, huh?
Did
he get anythin’?”

 
          
“He
got the messenger—plumb through the head, the express box with ten thousand,
an’ one o’ the
passengers
claims he lost two thousand
more.”

 
          
“Pretty
good haul,” Sard said. “Strade got anythin’ to go on? Fella didn’t look anyways
like me, I s’pose?”

 
          
“I
guess not,” Bordene assured him. “Eames, the driver, said the hold-up claimed
to be Sudden, an’ the hoss tallied.”