Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (6 page)

 
          
Sarel’s
small eyes widened. “Hell!” he exploded. “That jasper’s gettin’ too prevalent in
these parts; it’s time somebody put a crimp in his game.”

 
          
The
talk drifted to range topics, and presently Andy climbed his horse again, and,
with a wave of his hat, set out for Lawless. He rode slowly, his mind full of
the girl from whom he had just parted. Ever since they could toddle they had
been playmates, like brother and sister. School and college days for both of
them had intervened, and when these were over the relationship had become one
of good comrades. But something had happened today. Was it a sudden realization
of her budding, youthful beauty as she rode so jauntily beside him, or the fact
that she had shown interest in another man? He did not know, but he was acutely
conscious that he wanted her, that his feeling was no longer one of mere
friendship. He decided that he would employ this stranger, and would see to it
that his duties did not take him to the Double S.

 
          
“Wonder
who told her ‘bout the Red Ace?” he muttered. “Durn it, I’ll not go there so
much, though I gotta to-night—it’s the likeliest spot to find that fella.”

 
          
Having
thus, with the easy casuistry of youth, justified himself, he shook a little
life into the heels of his horse and hurried to the place he had determined to
avoid.

 
          
The
dusk was creeping in from mountain and desert and Lawless was waking up for the
evening’s festivities. From the south-west trail came the muffled thunder of
pounding hoofs as a party of four cowboys dashed into the street, riding and
yelling like madmen. The light in the marshal’s office arrested their attention
at once and they pulled their ponies to a stop, squattering the dust in every
direction.

 
          
“Merciful
Moses, they got a new marshal!” cried one. “Smoke him up, boys.”

 
          
With
the words he snatched out his six-shooter and sent a hail of bullets into the
signboard over the officer’s door. His companions followed his example, and
having thus evidenced their contempt for the law, and “run a blazer” on its
representative, they emitted a derisive shout and rode on to the Red Ace.
Inside the office the marshal and his deputy were straightening up. They heard
the tattoo of the bullets, and from the side of the window Green watched the
riders. Pete’s face plainly disapproved of his superior’s inactivity.

 
          
“Ain’t
yu goin’ to expostulate none with them playful people?” he asked.

 
          
Green
grinned at him quizzically. “Shucks, they’re on’y boys from the Box B,” he
said.

 
          
There
had been just light enough for him to read the brand on the flank of the
nearest pony.

 
          
“Wasn’t
yu ever young an’ wishful to let off steam on a night out?”

 
          
“Awright,
gran’pop, but they’re countin’ it a score agin yu,” retorted the little man.

 
          
“Betcha
five dollars they apologize ‘fore the night’s out,” the marshal offered. “An’
anyway, that sign needs repaintin’.”

 
          
Pete
took the bet, not that he felt sure of winning it—for he was beginning to
realize that this new friend of his was an uncommon person—but because he was a
born gambler, and curious. As to what the condition of the sign had to do with
it, he could form no conjecture.

 
          
Their
entry, a little later, into the bar of the Red Ace aroused small interest in
the crowded room. Here and there a card-player looked up, muttered something in
an undertone, and went on playing.

 
          
The
Box B boys, seated at a table near the bar with a bottle between them, took no
notice until a whisper reached their ears that it was the new marshal who had
come in. Then heads went together, and presently one of them, a merry-looking
youth whose red hair and profusely-freckled face had earned him the name of
“Rusty,” rose amid the laughter of the other three.

 
          
Green
was alone, leaning against the bar, his deputy being a few yards away, watching
the play at a poker-table. The Box B rider lurched up, planted himself so that
he faced his quarry, and, with a wink at his companions, opened the
conversation.

 
          
“Is
it true
yo’re
the new marshal?” he asked.

 
          
“It’s
a solemn fact, seh,” Green replied gravely.

 
          
The
young man teetered on his heels, eyeing the officer truculently. Had he been a
little less under the influence of liquor he would have recognized that this
quiet, lazy-looking man was not one to take liberties with.

 
          
“Me
an’ my friends don’t like marshals nohow—can’t see any need for ‘em,” he
pursued.

 
          
“But
if we gotta have one‘s important to make shore he’s good, yu unnerstan’? I’ve
made a li’l wager I c’n beat yu to the draw.” He suddenly crouched, his right
hand hovering over his weapon. “Flash it!” he cried.

 
          
Hardly
had the words left his lips when a gun-barrel jolted him rudely in the stomach,
while his hand, clawing at his holster, found it empty. Looking down, he saw
that the marshal’s weapons were still in his belt and that the gun now
threatening his internal economy was his own. Instantly the drink died out as
he realized that the man he had dared possessed every right to blow him into
eternity. His companions started up in alarm.

 
          
“Don’t
shoot, marshal, he was on’y joshin’,” one of them called out.

 
          
“Do
yu still think yu can beat me to it?” the marshal asked, and without waiting
for a reply slipped the borrowed pistol back into its place.
“If
yu do, well, have another try.”

 
          
There
was a sardonic smile on his lips, but his eyes were friendly, and the beaten
man was now sober enough to see it. He achieved a difficult grin.

 
          
“Not
any more for me, thank yu all the same,” he said. “I ain’t a hawg, an’ I wanta
say I’m sorry we shot up yore shingle this evenin’.”

 
          
Green’s
eyes twinkled. “Shucks!
a
coat o’ paint’ll put that
right,” he said meaningly.

 
          
Rusty
looked at his friends. “We shore owe him that,” he suggested. “I’m stayin’ in
town to-night, boys, an’ it’s up to me.”

 
          
After
a round of drinks the Box B party returned to its game, and Green found his
deputy beside him. Pete’s wide grin moved the marshal to mirth.

 
          
“If
it warn’t for yore ears that smile would go clean round yore haid,” he
commented.

 
          
Barsay
ignored the insult and produced a five-dollar bill. “Which yu shore earned it,
yu ol’ he-wizard,” he said. “How
d’yu
work it?”

 
          
“All
done by kindness,” Green told him. “Hello!
who’s
wantin’ me now?”

 
          
Andy,
who had just entered the saloon, was heading straight for the marshal. He
plunged at once into his business.

 
          
“I’m
Bordene o’ the Box B, an’ I’m supposin’ you’re the man Miss Sarel spoke to this
afternoon,” he began, and when Green nodded; “If yo’re still huntin’ that job—”

 
          
“I’m
obliged to her, an’ yu, but—” the marshal flipped aside his vest, disclosing
his badge.

 
          
The
young man’s eyebrows rose. “Yo’re the new marshal?” he asked, and then he
smiled.

 
          
“Congratulations,”
he added.

 
          
“Thank
yu, seh,” Green smiled back. “Yo’re the first; the others just asked which was
my favourite flower.”

 
          
“Well,
Lawless certainly takes a whole man to ride her, but I wish yu luck, an’ if yu
want help, yu’ll find it at the Box B,” Andy replied.

 
          
The
marshal thanked him, and meant it; Bordene might have all the recklessness and
inexperience of youth, but the stuff of which good men are made was there also.
The Box B boys greeted their young boss with a familiarity that showed he was
one of them.

 
          
“Say,
Andy, don’t yu get to presumin’ any with that marshal fella; he’s a friend of
ours, an’ bad medicine to fool with. Yo’re liable to lose out: ask Rusty,” said
one.

 
          
“This
fella’s white,” the culprit confessed. “I sized him up all wrong. I’m stayin’
in town to-night.”

 
          
The
young rancher nodded, and then, hearing his name called, turned to find Seth
Raven, with a stranger. The latter had ridden into town during the afternoon
and had at once proceeded to the Red Ace. Raven, seated in his office, did not
welcome the visitor too effusively.

 
          
“‘Lo,
Parson, what yu wantin’?” he asked.

 
          
“A
stake, Seth,” the man in shabby black replied. “That damned hold-up skunk
cleaned me out. But I’ll get
him,
curse his thievin’
hide, if I spend the rest o’ my life at it.”

 
          
He
snarled the words out savagely, and his little eyes gleamed with hatred. The
saloonkeeper’s thin lips curled contemptuously as he replied, “Better forget
it, Parson; yu’d stand one hell of a chance against Sudden, wouldn’t yu?”

 
          
“I’ll
get him,” the other repeated doggedly: “But to do that I gotta live. What about
it?”

 
          
“Oh,
I’ll stake yu,” Raven returned carelessly, as he took a wad of bills out of a
drawer, counted, and passed them over. “I’m givin’ yu a word o’ warnin’;
Lawless has got its growth an’ won’t stand for any raw stuff, see? Also, what I
say goes around here, an’
I won’t stand for it neither
.”

 
          
The
gambler sensed the covert threat in both words and tone. He knew that by
accepting the money he had made himself the creature of this hunched-up,
malignant devil, but he did not care; he was not a squeamish person.

 
          
“Anythin’
yu want to tell me?” was how he asked for orders.

 
          
“Why,
no,” Seth replied with affected surprise. “There’s a young fella I’ll introduce
yu to who fancies his brand o’ poker; it wouldn’t do him
no
harm to be educated some, but you’ll remember he’s a friend o’ mine.”

 
          
The
Parson nodded. “Don’t happen to have a spare gun, do yu?” he asked. “That swine
Sudden took mine.”

 
          
Raven
pulled out another drawer in the desk. “Yu can have this; I never carry one,”
he said.

 
          
The
gambler took the six-shooter and slipped it into his shoulder-holster. “All
right for yu,” he said. “Folks come an’ give yu their money; yu
don’t never
have to argue with ‘em. Pussonally, I don’t feel
dressed unless I’m heeled. Thanks, Seth; see yu later.”

 
          
So
it came about that Bordene met the newcomer, presented as “Mister Pardoe,” and
accepted the saloonkeeper’s proposal for a “little game.” Youth is rarely
critical, but he was not favourably impressed by the stranger. Moreover, as
they moved towards a vacant table, he saw the marshal was watching them, and
fancied he caught a slight shake of the head. Was it a warning? He looked
again, but Green was apparently no longer interested. Nevertheless, when a fourth
man had been found and the game had started Andy became aware of Green and
Barsay just behind him.

 
          
“Yessir,”
the marshal was saying. “It was in Tombstone, and they catched him dealin’ from
the bottom o’ the pack.”