Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (24 page)

 
          
During
the next few days Green, in accordance with his resolution, made discreet
enquiries regarding Potter. The result was meagre. Residing in a room at the
back of his premises, he had remained an Easterner in speech and habits, taking
no part in the activities of the town other than his business demanded. So that
it was a surprise to the marshal, sitting alone in his office one evening, when
the banker opened the door and slipped quietly in.

 
          
“Evening,
marshal,” he said. “Am I disturbing you?” Green assured him that he was not and
invited him to take a seat. He noticed that the visitor selected a position
where he could not be seen from the window, and that his hands were trembling.

 
          
“Marshal,”
he began, “I hope you will not be offended, but I’ve been studying you rather
closely since you came here and I’ve decided that you are to be trusted.
Believing that, I am going to depend on you in a matter of the greatest
importance to me.” He drew out a long, sealed envelope. “I want you to take
charge of this, hide it, and give me your word that it shall not be opened
until the breath is out of my body. It is of no interest to any save one man,
and he would sell his soul to destroy it. Should he learn it is in your
possession he would slay you without hesitation, and—the contents of that
envelope are my death-warrant also. I felt it only fair to tell you this,
marshal, although it may mean refusal.”

 
          
His
voice shook on the last few words, and there was eagerness in his eyes as he
awaited the other’s decision.

 
          
“I
ain’t refusin’, Mr. Potter,” Green said. “I’ll take yore envelope, an’ no one
shall see or hear of it again till yu are beyond human hurt. That’s what yu
want, ain’t it?” The banker
nodded,
a look of relief
on his face. The marshal hesitated for a moment and then added, “Yu got any
reason to think yu are in danger?”

 
          
“I
can’t tell you another word, marshal,” the banker replied, as he rose and held
out his hand. “I am deeply obliged to you.”

 
          
After
the visitor had gone Green looked at the envelope, but it was a plain one and
told him nothing. That the maker of this strange request was in deadly fear was
very evident, but why? With a shrug of his shoulders he set about the task of
concealing the envelope. Wrapped in a piece of an old slicker, he buried it
beneath his bed, stamping the earth flat again to remove any signs of
disturbance.

 
          
“If
what Potter says is right it’ll be like sleepin’ over a keg o’ giant powder,”
he reflected grimly. “Well, I reckon that won’t ruin my rest anyways.”

 
          
Andy
Bordene rode into Lawless with a light heart and let out a whoop of delight
when he saw the marshal and his deputy talking to
Raven
just outside the bank. Leaping down, he greeted the officers joyously, but his
manner towards the saloonkeeper was more distant.

 
          
“‘Lo,
Andy, so yu fetched ‘em through this time?” Green said.

 
          
“Yu
betcha—no trouble a-tall,” the young man replied. “An’ I sold well too; I got
over thirty thousand in my clothes an’ I’m a-goin’ to talk turkey to Potter an’
get my ranch back right now.”

 
          
“Good
for yu,” the marshal said. “No time like—hell!
here
comes a gent in a hurry.”

 
          
At
the eastern end of the street, a buckboard, drawn by two wild-eyed, maddened
ponies rocketed into view. The driver, a short and very fat man, was urging his
team both with tongue and whip to greater efforts, despite the fact that nearly
every jolt of the swaying, lurching vehicle threated to fling him into the
rutty road. Andy needed only one look.

 
          
“I’m
an Injun if it ain’t Reub Sarel,” he explained. “What’s broke loose now?”

 
          
With
a string of expletives which would have aroused the envy of even a talented
mule-skinner the driver of the buckboard flung his weight on the lines and
dragged the ponies to a standstill by main force. His appearance bore testimony
to the urgency of his errand. Coatless, hatless, shirt torn open at the throat,
his fleshy face grimed with dust and sweat, he was hardly to be recognized as
the indolent manager of the Double S. Flinging down reins and whip, he fell
rather than stepped out of the conveyance, gulped once, and then said huskily:

 
          
“Marshal,
they got Tonia. She went for a ride yestiddy an’ didn’t come home. I sent the
boys out to comb the
country,
an’ this mornin’ early
they found her hoss—shot. There warn’t
no
sign of her.
I left the boys searchin’ an’ come for help. I’m guessin’ that damned Greaser
has nabbed her.”

 
          
“By God!
if
Moraga has dared to lay
a finger on her I’ll tear him in strips,” Andy swore.

 
          
“Guns
an’
hosses,
marshal; we’ll get that coyote if we have
to foller him clear across Mexico.”

 
          
Green
was watching Raven. At the first mention of the Mexican the man’s sallow face
had gone paler and his little black eyes had gleamed with sudden anger. Now he
turned to the officer and spoke, his voice charged with venom:

 
          
“If
it’s Moraga, get him, marshal,” he rasped. “Spare no effort or expense. I’d
come with yu, but I’m no good with a gun, I’d only be a hindrance. Kill the
dirty cur. Bring the girl back an’ yu can name yore own reward.
Sabe?”

 
          
There
was no mistaking his sincerity. For some reason which the marshal could not
fathom the disappearance of Tonia had stirred unsuspected depths in the
saloonkeeper.

 
          
“We’ll
find her,” Green said, and turned to Bordene. “Better hurry up yore business
with Potter.”

 
          
“That
must wait,” the rancher replied. “I’ll leave the coin with him an’ settle when
I come back. Tonia—”

 
          
He
broke off and darted into the bank. The marshal saw the half-breed’s narrowed
eyes regarding him curiously as he went. Stark hatred, cunning, and desperate
design might all have been read in that look had Green possessed the key. But
he was too concerned with the business in hand to give it more than a passing
thought.

 
          
No
time was wasted. Andy, having deposited his money, set out at once for the Box
B to collect some of his riders. They were to meet at the Double S, for which
ranch the marshal, Pete, and the Indian started soon after. Green had declined
to take men from the town.

 
          
“It’s
the job o’ them two ranchers, an’ I reckon they can handle it,” he pointed out.
“We don’t want
no
army.”

 
          
Seth
Raven had a last word. “What I said goes, Green,” he reminded. “An’ don’t make
no
mistake this time. If yu don’t wanta kill the damn yellow
thief yoreself, let yore Injun do it.”

 
          
“We’ll
get him,” the officer promised, inwardly marvelling at the vindictive emphasis
on the last words.

 
          
They
were met at the Double S by a tall, thin, middle-aged cowboy who had just
ridden in from the other direction. This was Renton, the foreman, and his
frowning, worried features lighted up when he saw them.

 
          
“Durn
glad yu’ve come, marshal,” he said, and his tone showed relief. “This yer
business has shore got me bothered. Grub’s ‘bout ready; we can talk as we eat.”

 
          
He
had little more to tell them, save that his riders were still searching the
range in all directions. “But that ain’t no good,” he admitted. “My hunch is
she’s been carried off, an’ our on’y play is to foller, if we can strike an’
keep the trail.”

 
          
A
hail from outside proclaimed the arrival of the Box B contingent, which consisted
of Bordene, Rusty, and two other riders.

 
          
In
less than an hour Renton had picked his men, necessaries were packed, and the
party set out for the spot where the dead horse had been found. This proved to
be the mouth of a shallow arroyo about six miles from the ranch and somewhat
south of the direct line to the Box B. Here the marshal called a halt.

 
          
“Better
let the Injun have a clear field,” he said, and nodded to Black Feather.

 
          
The
redskin slid from his saddle and approached the carcass, or what the buzzards
had left of it, walking slowly in a half-crouch, his keen eyes scanning every
inch of the ground. They saw him circle round it and then head for a mass of
brush some thirty yards distant. Behind this he vanished for several moments
and then came striding back. His low, throaty words were addressed to the
marshal:

 
          
“Four
Mexican fellas wait there long time,” he said, pointing to the brush. “Girl
ride by, see them, an’ start run. One fella
him
shoot
hoss an’ they grab girl.” He waved to the south. “Go that way.
One hoss, two riders.”

 
          
The
marshal nodded comprehendingly.

 
          
“Guess
he’s got the straight of it,” he commented. “The sooner we get on their trail
the better. Go ahead, Black Feather; it’s El Diablo we’re after.”

 
          
The
redskin’s black eyes flamed for an instant at the name, but that was his sole
sign of emotion. Leaping into his saddle, he led the way to the Border. The
abductors had apparently made no attempt to hide their trail, and whenever they
crossed a patch of sand the riders could see, from the deeper indentation?,
that one of the horses—as the Indian had said—was carrying a double burden.

 
          
“They
got too big a start for us to catch ‘em up,” Andy remarked. “We’ll have to
smoke ‘em outa their hole.”

 
          
“Yeah,”
the marshal agreed, and then, with a covert glance at his companion, “Funny
Raven should get so hot under the collar; I figured the Greaser a friend o’
his.”

 
          
“I’m
gettin’ new ideas ‘bout Raven,” Andy said darkly, and the impatience of youth
flamed up, “Hell!
why
didn’t yu blow that damned
Greaser four ways, Jim?”

 
          
“Nobody
sorrier than I am, Andy,” Green assured him. “Black Feather will search him
out, yu betcha; he’s got a debt to pay too.”

 
          
Mile
after mile they pressed steadily on, strung out in a double line behind the
guide.

 
          
Once
clear of the open range, they dived into the wilder country which lay between
them and the Border. Here the pace slackened, for deep gulches and ravines,
thick tangles of thorny scrub, hills along the sides of which they wound on
ledges barely wide enough for one rider, all had to be faced and overcome. So
that night was at hand by the time they reached the sluggish stream which here
marked the northern limit of Mexico. Under an overhanging rock near the bank
they found the dead ashes of a fire, and not far away the Indian picked up a
small leather gauntlet.

 
          
“That’s
one o’ Tonia’s gloves,” Andy pronounced at once. “We’re on the right track,
anyways; mebbe we’ll overhaul ‘em yet.”

 
          
“No
catch—find urn,” the Indian said.

 
          
“He
reckons they’re still more than twelve hours ahead of us,” the marshal
explained.

 
          
“Nothin’ to do but keep on their tails.”

 
          
Andy
bit on an oath; he knew it was the only way, but the thought of Tonia in the
hands of the bandit, of whose way with a woman there were many tales current on
the Border, made him furious.

 
          
Camp-fires
were lighted, food eaten, sentries posted, and the rest of the men turned in,
conscious of a still harder day’s work to come.