Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (10 page)

      
 
“Me well now,” the patient replied, and made
to rise. The Indian is both proud and punctilious; he would crawl outside to
die rather than remain an unwelcome guest. The marshal motioned him to lie down
again.

 
          
“Make
a job of it, amigo,” he said, and his smile meant more than the words.

 
          
The
sick man sank back with a grunt of relief; even that slight exertion had been
too much for his exhausted frame. “Black Feather no
forget
,”
he whispered.

 
          
Pete
looked up as the marshal re-entered the office. “When do we start?” he asked
hopefully.

 
          
“We
don’t,” Green said. “I’m agoin’ to see Sheriff Strade over to
Sweetwater,
an’ I’m leavin’ yu in charge—o’ the patient.”

 
          
“Well,
of all the hawgs,” ejaculated Barsay. “Why can’t yu nurse the nigger an’ let me
see Strade?”

 
          
“He
might recognize yu,” Green replied, his eyes twinkling. The appalling impudence
of this remark struck the deputy dumb, and before he could recover, the marshal
was on his way to the corral. Pete watched him saddle the big black, swing
lightly to the saddle, and lope away. He grinned ruefully.

 
          
“Ain’t
he the aggravatin’ cuss?” he asked himself. “An’ I can’t get mad at him
neither—not real mad. I hope to Gawd the sheriff don’t recognize him—for the
sheriff’s sake.”

 
          
Pete’s
fear was due to be realized, though the consequences were not serious. To
Strade, the tall man who walked into his office and, giving his name, announced
himself as the new marshal of Lawless, seemed faintly familiar.

 
          
“Ain’t
I seen yu afore some place?” he asked.

 
          
“Yeah,
lying outside the Red Ace,” Green smiled. “Mebbe I wasn’t as bad as yu figured.

 
          
Yu
savvy, sheriff, a drunken man’ll get more information in two days than a sober
one in that number o’ weeks; folks take it he’s too ‘blind’ to see or hear
anythin’.”

 
          
“Yu
was layin’ for the marshal’s job then?” Strade queried.

 
          
Green
grinned at him. “Yeah, I went to Lawless to get it; I’m after the fella who
calls hisself Sudden.”

 
          
There
was emphasis on the concluding words and Strade straightened up with a jerk,
“Yu tellin’ me that it ain’t the real Sudden pirootin’ round in these parts?”
he asked.

 
          
“Just
that,” the visitor replied, and anticipating the inevitable question, he added,
“Take a squint at this.”

 
          
From
his vest pocket he produced a folded paper. The sheriff saw that it was a printed
bill, offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the capture of one
“Sudden.” A somewhat vague description followed: “Young, dark hair and
moustache, grey-blue eyes, dressed as a cowboy, wears two guns, and rides a
black horse with a white blaze on face and white stocking on off foreleg.” The
bill had been issued by the sheriff of Fourways, Texas.

 
          
Strade
looked up and nodded. “That agrees with what we got,” he said. “Neither Sands
nor Eames could say much about the man—him bein’ masked—but they got the hoss
to a dot.”

 
          
“They
couldn’t both be wrong, an’ Eames—a hoss-user—certainly wouldn’t be.”

 
          
The
sheriff looked puzzled. “What’s yore point?”

 
          
“Accordin’
to this”—Green tapped the printed notice—“the real Sudden’s hoss has a white
stockin’ on the off fore, but both yore men say the near. Ain’t that so?”

 
          
Strade
reached some papers from a drawer and referred to them. “Yo’re right,” he
admitted. “Funny I didn’t spot that. Somebody’s made a mistake.”

 
          
“Yeah,
an’
it’s
Mister Bushwhacker,” Green said. “He’s
painted the wrong leg of his bronc.”

 
          
The
Sweetwater sheriff scratched his head. “It does shorely look like yu’ve hit the
mark,” he said. “We’ve bin searchin’ for a stranger, but it might be anybody—”

 
          
He
broke off suddenly and his eyes narrowed as they rested on the black horse
hitched outside. Green saw the look and laughed.

 
          
“No
use, ol’-timer,” he said. “I was in the Red Ace when the stage was held up.”

 
          
The
sheriff laughed too. “Sorry, Green,” he apologized. “This damn job makes a
fella suspect hisself a’most.
Yu stayin’ over?”

 
          
“I
was aimin’ to.”

 
          
“Good,
then yu’ll dig in with me. Bachelor quarters, but I reckon yu’ll prefer ‘em.
The hotel here stuffs its mattresses with rocks.”

 
          
“Bein’
rocked to sleep don’t appeal to me,” the visitor grinned, and then his face
sobered.

 
          
“‘Fore
we go any further, there’s somethin’ yu have to know.” The sheriff looked at
him, surprised at the change of tone. “That black out there is Sudden’s hoss
with the blaze an’ stockin’ on the off fore dyed out.”

 
          
The
geniality faded from the sheriff’s face, to be replaced by a hard, bleak look;
his right hand, which had been resting on the table, dropped to his side. The
marshal, rolling a smoke, took no notice of the movement.

 
          
“Don’t
froth up, sheriff,” he warned. “I could beat yu to it. I’m Sudden, an’ I’m here
to find the skunk
who’s
fillin’ his pockets an’
puttin’ the blame on me. It’s bin done before, Strade, an’ while I don’t claim
to be no sort of a saint, I ain’t a thief, an’ I never shot a man who wasn’t
gunnin’ for me.”

 
          
Strade
listened with growing amazement; he had pictured the famous gunman as very
different to the cool, nonchalant young man who so calmly announced his
identity.

 
          
“Take
a squint at this,” the level voice proceeded. “I ain’t aimin’ to use it unless
I have to; this job concerns me personal’.”

 
          
Strade
took the proffered paper and saw that it was an official document, formally
appointing James Green a deputy-sheriff in the service of the Governor of the
Territory, by whom it was signed. For a long moment the sheriff pondered, two
points uppermost in his mind: that this could not be the man he was looking
for, and that Sudden was playing a straight game.

 
          
Handing
back the paper he pushed out a paw.

 
          
“Shake,”
he said. “I’m takin’ yore word.”

 
          
Green
gripped the hand, his eyes lighting up. “Even my friends allow I’m a poor
liar,” he smiled. “Ever hear of fellas named Peterson and Webb?”

 
          
Strade
shook his head. “What yu want ‘em for?” he asked.

 
          
“They’ve
lived too long,” was the grim reply, and the sheriff said no more.

 
          
Years
later, when the news of their finding1 filtered through from a distant part of
the country, he was to remember the question.

 
          
At
Strade’s suggestion, they went out to take a look at the town. It proved to be
another Lawless, but larger, and of a slightly less unsavoury reputation, due
to the efforts of a sheriff who took his duties seriously. In the course of the
evening, Green was presented to several of the leading citizens, played a
pleasant game of poker, and presently retired with his host. Back in the little
parlour, the sheriff talked business again.

 
          
“Bad
about Bordene,” he said, when he had heard the whole story. “He was a straight
man. Nothin’ distinctive ‘bout them two shells yu found, I s’pose?”

 
          
“They
were .45’s, an’ one of ‘em had a scratch along the side,” the marshal told him.
“I’d say one chamber of his gun was nicked someway.”

 
          
“Huh!
Might be helpful,” the sheriff said. “Sands an’ the messenger was drilled by
.45’s too, but the shells was clean, an’ that’s the common calibre round here.”

 
          
As
they gripped hands, the sheriff had a parting word:

 
          
“Glad
yu came over,” he said, and meant it. “Any time yu want help, I’ll come
a-runnin’.”

 
          
“I’m
obliged,” the marshal said. “Yu know the country.”

 
          
“I
know Lawless,” Strade warned him.

 
          
Several
uneventful days followed the marshal’s return. In truth, Lawless was wondering
about its new custodian of the peace. Though his treatment of Rusty and Leeson
savoured of leniency, the speed with which he “got action” made even the
toughest citizen dubious about challenging his authority.

 
          
Rest
and regular food soon restored the Indian to health, but he showed no
disposition to depart. He had relinquished Pete’s bed and slept on the floor of
the little kitchen, Green presenting him with a couple of blankets. With a
shirt, an old pair of pants, and his moccasins carefully mended, Black
Feather’s wardrobe was complete. As soon as he was able he chopped wood for the
stove and cleaned the place up generally. In spite of this evident desire to be
useful, Pete continued to regard him with suspicion.

 
          
With
the little man in this mood it was waste of time to argue, so the marshal did
not explain that he had a use for their guest. But as soon as the Indian was
able to sit a saddle, he took him to the Old Mine and showed him the hoofprints
of the killer’s horse, which, as there had been no rain, were still clear.

 
          
“I
was followin’ them when I run across vu,” he explained.

 
          
Black
Feather studied the marks closely for a few moments and then swung into his
saddle again. “Me find,” he said gravely, and rode away.

 
          
The
marshal returned to Lawless, and in reply to Pete’s enquiry as to the
whereabouts of their guest, told him of the incident. The deputy was plainly
pessimistic.

 
          
“Betcha
five dollars he fades,” he offered, and chortled when the other took the wager.

 
          
“Easy money, ol’-timer, easy money.”

 
          
“Yeah,
for me,” the marshal retorted.

 
          
And
so it proved, for, to Pete’s chagrin, the Indian returned late in the evening.
Standing for a moment before the marshal, he said, “No find—yet,” and stalked
solemnly into the kitchen.

 
          
“Chatty
devil, ain’t he?” Barsay said. “Double or quits he don’t locate the hoss.”

 
          
“I’ll
go yu,” Green smiled.
“Easy money, ol’-timer.”

 
          
When
they rose the next morning, the Indian had already vanished, and they saw no
sign of him until the evening. Though he was obviously tired out, there was a
gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

 
          
“Me
find um,” he said, and that was all.

 
          
Peeping
into the kitchen a little later, they saw him, rolled in his blankets, fast
asleep, his precious carbine beside him.

 
          
“Bet
he’s had one punishin’ day trailin’ that hoss,” Green said. “Wonder where he
found him?”