Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (2 page)

 
          
“Also
took from a gambler, with the help o’ the pack an’ the pistol, I’m bettin’,” he
commented.

 
          
“It
ain’t mine; that’s money collected for those in need,” the passenger protested,
but his face was flushed and there was an evil glare in his eyes.

 
          
The
road-agent laughed again. “It has shorely reached its destination, for I’m one
of ‘em, brother, an’
I’m
thankin’ yu,” he jeered.
Then, as he read the expression on the other’s face, his own voice took on an
ugly edge. “Yu lyin’ rat,” he grated. “Did yu think yu could put it over me?
Don’t yu reckon I know a tin-horn cardsharp when I see one?”

 
          
“Damn
yu, I’ll get yu for this—I’ll hunt yu down,” screamed the “minister,” and,
beside himself at the loss of his money, he sprang at the outlaw.

 
          
Like
a piston-rod the stranger’s fist shot out and the man in black, driven headlong
into the dust, lay there mouthing curses and threats. The masked man shrugged
his shoulders contemptuously and turned to the other passengers.

 
          
“A
poor loser,” he commented. “Seein’ yu boys ain’t put up a yap, yu can keep yore
pickin’s.” He swung up into the saddle. “All set, driver,” he called.
“Get agoin’ when you want to, but I’ll be with yu for a while
though yu won’t see me, an’ I’m tellin’ yu not to hurry.
Sabe?”

 
          
“No
need to hurry now,” Eames retorted, and with another laugh the hold-up trotted
round a bend and vanished in a thicket which bordered the trail.

 
          
Despite
the parting threat the driver wasted no time. Lifting the body of the
messenger, he tied it securely on the top of the coach, and then ordered his
passengers aboard.

 
          
Having
finished his arrangements, he clambered to his seat and cracked his long-lashed
whip over the heads of the team. With a jerk that nearly threw the occupants
from their places the coach resumed its interrupted journey. Only a few
scattered cards and a broken cigar-box marked the spot where a man had died
doing his duty.

 
          
How
the town came to be called Lawless was not certainly known. A few of the
dwellers therein, actuated by astonishing loyalty, claimed that it was
christened after the first settler, while others, cynical citizens devoid of
any proper pride in the place, held the name to be the fortunate fluke of one
who could see into the future. The reputation of Lawless as one of the toughest
towns in the territory undoubtedly supported this view.

 
          
In
appearance it was typical of a hundred other early Western settlements—two
jagged rows of crude erections facing one another across a wide strip of
wheel-rutted, hoof-pounded dust. The buildings, squat, unlovely, were of timber
or ‘dobe, with a sprinkling of sod-walled and roofed dugouts, set in a sea of
tin cans and other refuse. Along the front of these ran boarded sidewalks for
pedestrians, and outside the saloons and stores hitch-rails were provided.

 
          
Sordid
as it seemed. Lawless was yet the hub round which the life of the neighbouring
ranches revolved, for the only other town within reasonable reach was
Sweetwater, thirty miles eastward, from whence the traveller must take the
coach north for the nearest railway point and civilization. Flung haphazard
into the middle of a little plain, the site seemed unsuitable for a settlement,
and yet it was not. The surrounding open country provided space and feed for
occasional trail-herds and there was good water in the shape of Squaw Creek,
which came down from the Tepee Mountain some six miles northwards.

 
          
That
men lived there was known, and that was all. From time to time a stranger would
drift into Lawless about dark, load up a pack-horse with supplies, sample the
relaxations the town had to offer, and vanish before dawn. Lawless asked no
questions, taking the custom thankfully and minding its own business in strict
accordance with the Western etiquette of that day.

 
          
Twenty-four
hours after the robbery of the stage five men rode silently into Lawless and
pulled up outside the Red Ace, the largest and most pretentious of the town’s
saloons. The visitors were cowpunchers, and the oldest, who appeared to be the
leader, had the white metal star of a sheriff pinned to his vest. The first to
dismount stretched
himself
with a sigh of relief.

 
          
“Seems
like we bin ridin’ a week,” he said.

 
          
Four
of the party vanished through the door of the saloon with all speed. Their
leader laughed too, but remained
outside,
looking
curiously at the form of a man sprawled carelessly across the sidewalk a few
yards away. He could not see the face, for the big hat was tilted forward to
keep off the glare of the sun, but from his build he judged the wearer to be
young. The long legs stretched out before him, and the wide shoulders slumped
against the saloon wall, seemed to indicate youth. The unknown was dressed in
well-worn range-rig, and the holsters on either side of his sagging belt were
empty.

 
          
“Canned,
an’ sleepin’ it off,” muttered the sheriff. “Hocked his guns too, durn young
fool.”

 
          
With
a shrug of his broad shoulders he followed his men, failing to note the keen,
appraising look which the object of his good-humoured contempt shot after him.
He found his companions already draped against the bar, each cuddling a glass.
They welcomed him effusively.

 
          
“Hey,
Strade, ain’t yu thirsty no more? What’s bin keepin’ yu?” asked one.

 
          
“Stopped
to scrape the mud off’n my boots,” the sheriff grinned, with a glance at his
dust-laden feet, and then, to the bartender
, ”
‘Lo,
Jude, how’s tricks?”

 
          
“Town’s
‘bout dead since the spring round-up,” the dispenser of drinks told him,
pushing forward a bottle and glass.
“Never knowed it so
quiet.”

 
          
“
Ca’m
before the storm, mebbe,” Strade said. “Yore marshal
must be havin’ quite a rest.”

 
          
“Shore
is—we planted him a week back,” Jude explained. “That’s three we’ve lost in
less’n six months.”

 
          
“Yo’re
mighty careless with marshals, ain’t yu?” was Strade’s comment. “Filled the
vacancy yet?”

 
          
“Nope.
There’s bin no rush that yu’d notice,” Jude grinned.
“Bein’ marshal in thisyer man’s town ain’t no pastime.”

 
          
Jude
swabbed down the bar, mentally comparing the man.
before
him with the late marshal of Lawless, and not to the latter’s advantage.
Strade’s shortish, square, powerful frame and his rugged, good-humoured face
with the clipped grey moustache indicated force and determination mingled with
a sense of justice. He was both feared and liked in Sweetwater, where he had
been sheriff for some years.

 
          
“Bin
hearin’ from the boys ‘bout the stage robbery,” the bartender remarked.
“Sudden again, huh?”

 
          
“He
named hisself, ‘cordin’ to Eames, an’ the description o’ the hoss tallies with
that o’ the chap who held up Sands, the Sweetwater store-keeper, a month back,”
the sheriff said. “Who’s that fella layin’ on the sidewalk?”

 
          
“Stray
cowpunch, drifted in a coupla days ago,” Jude told him. “Lapped up every cent
he had an’ hocked his artillery to get more. I had to throw him out this
mornin’ when he showed hostile.”

 
          
“What
sorta hoss does he ride?”

 
          
“Black—ain’t
a white hair on him. He can’t be yore man, Strade, he ain’t left town for
forty-eight hours, nor drawed a sober breath neither. Yu won’t find Sudden
here.”

 
          
“No strangers in town, eh?”

 
          
“On’y
the specimen outside,” Jude replied. “An’, as I told yu, he’s bin wedded to
this bar pretty constant.”

 
          
Meanwhile
the “specimen” was arousing attention in another quarter. Soon after the
sheriff had entered the saloon, a girl emerged from a store and tripped along
the sun-drenched, sordid street. She walked with the easy swinging stride
indicative of robust health and an outdoor life. Her neat shirt-waist and short
divided skirt set off her slim figure to advantage. She pulled up abruptly when
she came to the lounger on the sidewalk. For a moment she regarded the obstacle
disgustedly and was about to step over it when a sudden decision firmed her
pretty lips.

 
          
“I
suppose I have to take the road,” she said aloud.

 
          
At
the cool, clear voice, the recumbent stranger opened his eyes, and under the
brim of his hat saw a neat pair of high riding-boots fitted with dainty silver
spurs. Grabbing his headgear with one hand, he looked up into the charming but
rather scornful face of the wearer.

 
          
“I’m
right sorry, ma’am,” he stammered, and drew up his long legs so that she might
proceed on her way.

 
          
Instead
of doing so she stood still, and a gleam of pity shone in her deep brown eyes
as she noted the empty belt. Drunken punchers she had seen before, but this one
was so young—not over twenty-five, she reflected, little more than a boy. She
herself was nearing twenty. He had the slim waist and broad shoulders of an
athlete, and his face showed no traces of dissipation. On the contrary, it was
a strong face, she decided, and not unattractive, despite its unshaven
condition; the lean, square jaw and level eyes bespoke determination above the
ordinary; there were possibilities in such a man.

 
          
“Aren’t
you ashamed of yourself?” she asked, after an awkward pause.

 
          
“I
shore am, ma’am,” drawled the culprit. “Blockin’ the trail thisaway is
certainly scand’lous.”

 
          
Sitting
there, hugging his knees, a grin on his upturned face, he looked like a
mischievous youngster. She had hard work not to smile, but instead she said
reprovingly:

 
          
“I
wasn’t referring to that. I meant for being—” She paused confusedly.

 
          
“Drunk,”
he assisted, and the engaging grin was again evident. “Don’t yu mind my
feelin’s—the barkeep inside didn’t when he threw me out on my ear, though I’ve
spent near enough in there the last two-three days to buy the hull shebang.
Drink is a shore deceiver; it lifts a fella up, but it sets him down again
mighty hard.”

 
          
“Knowing
that, then why do you do it?” she naturally asked.

 
          
“Yu
got me guessin’,” he smiled. “I reckon
men is
like
hosses—even the steadiest will buck once in a while, sorta temp’rary rebellion
‘gainst the thusness o’ things, yu sabe? Now I’ve put up my kick, I’ll get me a
job an’ be a respectable citizen for a piece.”

 
          
She
had a suspicion that he was amusing himself, and her next remark was a little
ironical.

 
          
“Oh,
you do work?”

 
          
“Shorely,”
he grinned. “I got a healthy appetite to provide for.”

 
          
She
smiled too at this, and then, as she glanced down the street, he saw a little
more colour steal into her cheeks. A tall, rather carefully-clad young
cowpuncher was swinging along towards them. The girl prepared to depart.

 
          
“If
you come to the Double S my uncle might be able to use you,” she said.

 
          
“I’m
obliged to you,” the man said. “If I don’t get the job I’m after, I’ll shore
remember that.”

 
          
With
a little nod she went on her way and his eyes followed her with a gleam of
admiration. The newcomer’s greeting was an elaborate sweep of his sombrero, and
after chatting for a moment, they turned and went along the street together.