Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (26 page)

 
          
“I
come to tell you not to be alarm,” he said. “The shooting is jus’ a leetle
argument with some foolish folk who not like me.” He drew up his
gaudily-attired form with absurd dignity.

 
          
“There
are many such,” he went on. “El Diablo is feared, not loved; he desire only, to
be loved by one.” He swept off his hat in a low bow, and though his keen little
eyes must have seen the contempt in her face, his voice did not betray the
fact. “I have sent for a padre.”

 
          
“I
would rather be dead than married to you,” the girl said stormily.

 
          
“There
are worse things than death, or marriage to a Spanish caballero,” he retorted.

 
          
“A Spanish caballero!”
Tonia repeated.
“‘A
Mexican peon—a leader of ladrones—a yellow dog from whom my riders will strip
the hide with their quirts when they catch him.”

 
          
The
disdainful words, stung more deeply than the lashes they promised him. For a
moment he stood, fingers convulsively clenched, inarticulate, and she thought
he would kill her.

 
          
“We
weel speak of it again,” he said, and there was a threat which chilled her
blood in the softly spoken words.

 
          
Rejoining
his men, Moraga found something else to occupy his attention. The marshal,
surveying the cabin from behind the nearest shack, had conceived a plan. It was
a desperate chance but—

 
          
“
It’s
less’n forty yards an’ that door ain’t loopholed,” he
mused aloud. “If a man could get there—”

 
          
“He
could sit down on that chunk o’ lava an’ wait till they opened up,” Pete said
sarcastically.

 
          
Green
grinned at him. “That bit o’ rock is the key to the situation—an’ the door,” he
replied. “Mosey round to the boys an’ tell ‘em to fling lead regardless when I
whistle.”

 
          
The
deputy departed unwillingly, and presently returned with the news that he had
passed the word along, and that, beyond a graze or two, there were no
casualties among the cowboys.

 
          
The
marshal stood his rifle against the wall, and made sure that his pistols came
freely from their holsters.

 
          
Green
gave the signal. The moment the firing began, he jumped from his shelter, and
crouching low, ran for the cabin. Bullets whined past his ears and spat up the
sand on all sides of him, but he reached his goal unhurt. Pausing to get some
air into his lungs, he stooped to the lump of lava which lay by the cabin
entrance. With an effort he raised and flung it at the door, which cracked and
shook under the impact. Immediately a hand holding a pistol pointing sideways
projected from the nearest loophole. Green drove a bullet into it, saw the
weapon fall, and heard the curse of the owner as he withdrew his shattered
fingers. Twice he hurled the stone and the door began to sag. Resting again, he
wiped the perspiration from his brow and, with a wary eye on the loopholes,
surveyed the damage.

 
          
“One
more an’ I reckon she’ll cave,” he muttered. “Better call the boys.”

 
          
Uttering
a shrill whistle, he lifted the missile once again and drove it at the
obstacle. A sound of rending wood was drowned by the yell of the cowboys as
they broke from cover and raced for the cabin. With both guns spurting lead,
Green sprang through the breach he had made.

 
          
Flashes
lit up the dark interior, a bullet scorched his cheek, another tore off his
hat, and then, clubbing his own empty guns, he leapt on the bandits, striking
right and left. His men were close on his heels, swarming eagerly through the
broken door and plunging into the combat. Driven back by the rush of the
invaders, the Mexicans fought desperately, shooting, stabbing, and yelling out
wild Spanish oaths and supplications. But they were no match for these hard
riders of the plains who fought with a laugh on their lips and struck with
an earnestness
utterly out of keeping with it. Presently
Green, in the medley of the fight, found himself beside Bordene.

 
          
“Where’s
that damn coyote, Moraga?” panted the rancher.

 
          
“Ain’t
seen hide
nor
hair of him,” the marshal replied.
“We’ll get on his trail; the boys can clean up here.”

 
          
A
search of the rest of the cabin revealed no trace of the girl or the bandit
chief. Then Andy flung open a door at the rear of the building, and a bitter
curse escaped his lips. Instantly the marshal saw the reason. Half-way up the
little track which scored the face of the cliff was the man they sought, and
hanging limply like a sack over his shoulder was Tonia. Andy lifted his rifle
only to lower it again with a groan; he dared not risk a shot. Green sprang
forward.

 
          
“C’mon,
he can’t get far,” he cried, and began to climb.

 
          
After
the first dozen yards the ascent became almost vertical, and the pathway—if
such it could be called—was a mere indication that others had gone that way.
Slipping on the precarious foothold, jumping at times from one projection to
another, hauling themselves up by the stunted vegetation, they struggled on.
Slow as their progress was, they gained on the fugitive, who, hampered by his
burden, had a task only made possible by previous knowledge of the pathway.

 
          
They
had left their rifles at the foot of the cliff, realizing that they would be an
encumbrance.

 
          
Andy
swore explosively as his foot slipped and he had to grab frantically at a
mesquite root to save
himself
. “I hope to Gawd he
makes it,” he said, “I’m scared to look up.”

 
          
“He
knows the ground,” his friend comforted. “We’re coverin’ two feet to his one;
we’ll get him.”

 
          
From
below came the frequent report of a firearm, showing that the cleaning-up
process was still in operation. Pygmy figures darted out of the cabin and dived
for cover, with others in pursuit. The marshal smiled with grim satisfaction;
this portion of Moraga’s robber band would make no more raids. He swung himself
round a jutting knob of rock and a bullet hummed past his ear, missing by a
bare inch. Hurriedly he flattened out. Sixty feet above him the guerrilla chief
was standing on the ledge, pistol poised, and a
Satanic
sneer of triumph on his evil face. He was still holding the girl, who appeared
to be unconscious.

 
          
“He’s
got us out on a limb, Andy,” the marshal said.

 
          
The
Mexican, of course, could not hear the words, but he evidently divined what
their thoughts must be, for a jeering laugh floated down. The rancher gritted
his teeth as he heard it.

 
          
Moraga
held all the cards, and knew it. He had recognized the marshal when he made his
dash for the door and was amazed that he should have escaped death in the
desert. It was then that he decided upon flight. His taunting tones reached
them again:

 
          
“El
Diablo has more than one home, senor the so clever marshal. We weel take the
senorita where you weel never find her.”

 
          
“Can’t we do nothin’?”
Bordene growled.

 
          
“We
can poke our heads out an’ get shot,” Green told him, and then, “Hell! Look at
the cliff above the ledge. Ain’t somethin’ movin’ there?”

 
          
At
the risk of being bored by a bullet, the rancher wriggled round a bush which
obstructed his view. Behind the ledge the crater rim appeared to rise almost
perpendicularly and through the sparse growth of cactus, mesquite, and coarse
grass he caught a shifting gleam of copper.

 
          
“It’s
Black Feather,” the marshal said. “I was wonderin’ where he’d drifted. Musta
knowed this place plenty well an’ gone there a-purpose to stop any getaway.”

 
          
Eagerly
they watched the Indian swing noiselessly down behind the unconscious Mexican.
They could see him plainly now. Stripped to the breech-clout he carried only a
knife between his teeth, and his bronzed body shone in the rays of the
westering sun. Lithe as a mountain lion, he crept nearer and nearer to the
ledge and the man standing on it, who had no eyes for anything save those
below. With a few yards to go, the redskin slipped and must have made some
noise, for the white men saw Moraga whirl round. In a single bound, the Indian
landed on the ledge, and the bandit, dropping the girl, raised his pistol.
Instead of pulling the trigger, however, he flung the weapon at the intruder’s
head. Green rapped out an oath.

 
          
“Damn
the luck. That musta been his last pill he fired at me,” he lamented.

 
          
Black
Feather dodged the missile and began to creep in on the other, knife in hand,
crouching, deliberate,
implacable
as death itself.
Moraga, realizing that he was trapped and that his only hope lay in killing the
redskin before the cowpunchers could reach the ledge, drew his own knife, with
a muttered malediction. With the knowledge that every moment was vital he
stepped towards the Indian. Only a couple of yards separated them when Moraga’s
right hand went up as though preparing to stab, and then—he threw the weapon.
Against a white the ruse would have succeeded, but the red man is the only
equal to the yellow in the use of cold steel, and Black Feather was not asleep.
There was no time to dodge, and with a sudden upward thrust of his own blade he
swept the oncoming missile aside, the force of the contact shivering both
blades.

 
          
Dropping
the useless handle, the Indian resumed his slow, relentless advance. But the
bandit dared not wait; one desperate chance had failed; he must try again.
Gathering himself for the effort, he rushed in, hoping by the suddenness of the
onslaught to hurl his foe from the ledge.

 
          
But
the claw-like brown fingers gripped like steel, and powerful as was his short,
stocky form, Moraga found
himself
swung round with his
back to the abyss. Savagely he struck at the fierce bronze mask with its bared
teeth, and triumphant flaming eyes which bored into his own. Inch by inch he
was forced nearer the edge; desperately he tried to clutch his enemy that both
might die, but his fingers could get no purchase on the smooth, pigmented skin.
His breath came in gulps, his face grew grey as he realized that the end was
near, yet he fought on; he was a strong man and he did not want to die.

 
          
“I
weel give you gold—much gold,” he gasped.

 
          
The
Indian’s face twisted into a hateful grin. “Yellow dog’s heart turn to water,
huh?” he sneered. “Die all same.”

 
          
Inexorably
he forced the now exhausted man back and a cold sweat broke out on Moraga’s
brow as one of his feet left the ledge. Despairingly he tried to twist, clawing
frenziedly, and then the end came. The marshal and his companion, still toiling
upwards, saw the bandit topple over the brink of the precipice and drop like a
stone. They watched the body hurtling downwards. It caught on a projecting mass
of choya and hung there for a moment, the bright red tunic like a great splash
of blood against the frosty, grey-green of the cactus. For a few brief seconds
the cruel claws held and tortured the shrieking form, and then Green fired.
With a convulsive shudder, the body broke away and vanished.

 
          
When
at last they reached the ledge Tonia was free of her bonds and Black Feather
again an impassive figure of bronze, but he bore himself like a man who has got
rid of a burden. It might well be that the slaying of Moraga had wiped away his
shame and put him right with himself, his people, and his gods. He would not
listen to thanks.

 
          
“No
good stay here,” he said. “Some
fella get
away—bring
more.”

 
          
“He’s
dead right,” the marshal said. “We’ve done what we came to do, an’ the sooner
we punch the breeze the healthier it’ll be for us; we can’t lick all Mexico.”