Sudden The Marshal of Lawless

The Marshal Of Lawless

Oliver Strange

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Sudden

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Chapter I

Out of a pale blue sky unflecked by the tiniest cloud, the sun, a disk of polished brass, blazed down, and perhaps for the fiftieth time the red-faced, grizzled driver of the stage-coach cursed it.

"If hell's any hotter'n this, damn me if I don't go an' get religion," he said to the express messenger who sat on the box beside him.

They were descending a narrow, winding defile, the weather-scarred, rock walls of which were bare save for scattered clumps of brush and cactus clinging precariously where an earth-filled crevice afforded root-hold, and the four wicked-eyed mules comprising the team required careful handling if the lumbering vehicle were to reach the end of the decline as a whole. None knew this better than Bill Eames, the driver; and though he talked, hands and eyes were concentrated on his job. Lurching, swaying, jolting over a rough road originally scoured out by torrents and enlivened by chunks of debris from the ridges on either side the coach went on, and presently, sweeping round a bend, the finish of the gully came in view. Eames eased his drag on the reins a little and gave a grunt of relief.

"Allus glad when I'm through Devil's Dip," he remarked. "Dunno why, but I got a feelin' that if anythin' does happen, it'll be here."

"Dandy place for a hold-up," said the messenger, who was making the trip for the first time.

"Yu said it," agreed the driver. "But we ain't never--"

"Stick 'em up, pronto," came the curt command.

With a curse, Eames flung all his weight on the lines, pulled his scared team to a standstill by main force and jammed his foot on the heavy brake. With a screech and a bump the coach stopped, and its driver, still holding the reins, promptly elevated his hands; he was not paid to fight. The express messenger was, and when his hands went up they gripped the gun which had lain across his thighs; it was loaded with buckshot, which would scatter, and was a deadly weapon at short range.

"Drop that, yu fool!"

The harsh voice appeared to come from a cluster of shrubs some ten yards away. It seemed to be the only cover near, and the guard, realizing that this was his sole chance against an unseen foe, fired plump into it. The roar of the report was instantly followed by the lesser detonation of a pistol-shot and the messenger slumped forward in his seat to sprawl across the footboard, his weapon hitting a wheel of the coach and bouncing into the roadway.

The driver, no stranger to scenes of violence, looked at the stricken man, saw the puncture in the forehead, with its tiny trickle of blood, and swore through his clenched teeth; and he did a good job, for when it comes to comprehensive and highly ornamental vituperation, your Western mule-skinner is gifted above his fellows. At the same time, risking a like fate, he dropped his arms and strove to subdue his mules, which, driven out of their senses by the shooting, were doing their level best to overturn the vehicle.

He was still busy with the task when a horseman emerged from the bushes. His face was masked by a common bandana handkerchief slitted for the eyes, further concealment being afforded by the pulled-down brim of a Stetson. In his right hand hung a revolver from the muzzle of which a wisp of blue smoke curled. He was mounted on a big black, with a white blaze between the eyes and a white stocking on the near foreleg.

"Don't try no tricks, driver," the unknown said, and though his voice had a hard, metallic ring, the mask muffled and disguised it "I'm sudden by nature as well as name." He paused for a moment as if to let the remark sink in, and then, "Tie yore lines. Whyfor did that fool fixe? I gave him his chance."

Eames, having got his team into subjection, looped the reins round the hook at his side and hoisted his hands again without delay. Even had he meditated making a dash for it, the avowed identity of the marauder would have negatived the notion. So this was Sudden, the man whose wizard-like gun-play and daredevil exploits had made his name a terror in the South-west. He did not doubt it; the ruthless slaying of the guard and the holding-up of the stage single-handed were in keeping with the outlaw's reputation. The rider paced leisurely up to the coach.

"Heave the box over," he ordered.

Eames reached down and from under the seat lately occupied by the murdered messenger drew out a small, iron-clamped chest which thudded deeply into the dust of the trail. The stranger nodded approvingly.

"Sounds good," he said, and then, "Go on prayin'."

He dismounted, and keeping a wary eye on the driver, raised the box and methodically tied it to the cantle of his saddle. Then he turned to the body of the coach.

"Yu can come out, keepin' yore paws up," he called.

Three passengers crept out from the dark interior and stood blinking in the glare of the sun. They were a sorry-looking trio. They had heard the shooting, the clatter of the messenger's gun as it fell, the curses of the driver, and had guessed the rest. Their trembling hands, thrust stiffly upwards, betrayed their fear. The outlaw surveyed them sardonically. Two were obviously drummers from the East, while the third, a man of middle age, dressed in shabby black with a soiled white collar, might have passed for a minister of some denomination, though his coarse, bloated face was hardly in keeping. It was to him the outlaw addressed himself.

"Parson, huh?" he asked.

"I am a poor servant of the Lord, brother," the man in black replied unctuously.

"An' a mighty poor one at that, I'm bettin'," was the sneering comment. "Well, yu oughta know how to take up a collection anyways--first thing yu fellas learn--so go through 'em, an' don't yu miss anythin' or yore flock'll be shy a shepherd."

He gestured with his pistol, and aware that protest would be futile, the man proceeded to despoil his fellow-passengers. The result was meagre enough; a small amount of currency and a little flash jewellery. Their grips, which the collector had to fetch from the coach and open, contained only clothing and samples. The road-agent shrugged his shoulders.

"Chicken-feed," he said, and pointed to several flat boxes in one of the grips. "What's them?"

The question awoke the business instinct in the quaking breast of the owner of the boxes. Possibly he hoped to placate this grim devil who might at any moment take it into his head to shoot them down.

"Say, sport," he quavered, "dat's de finest smokin' proposition ever offered in de West for two bits a t'row. Try one an' tell me if I'm a liar."

The outlaw took out one of the cigars, smelt it, broke it in two and flung it away.

"Yu shore are," he said, and kicked the pile of samples broadcast. Turning to the other commercial, he growled, "What's yore line?"

"I sell soap," was the reply.

"Nobody'd never suspect yu of it," the outlaw said with heavy sarcasm, and faced round on the man in black. "Cough up," he ordered.

"I have no worldly wealth, friend," that worthy replied.

"Yu got a friend here?" asked the other acidly.

His fierce eyes studied the self-styled minister keenly for a moment. Then, with a swift motion he holstered his pistol, seized the lapels of the black frock-coat, jerked them up, and down over the wearer's shoulders, thus pinioning his arms. The victim smothered an unclerical expression, and the road-agent laughed.

"I'm a good guesser," he rasped.

From under the left armpit of the "minister" peeped the butt of a double-barrelled Derringer, hung in a shoulder holster. The stranger drew it out.

"What's a man o' peace doin' with this?" he asked.

"I go into wild places an' carry it for my protection," replied the owner evenly.

The outlaw stuck the weapon in his own belt and began to pass his hands lightly over the other's clothing. A bulge in a pocket attracted him; it proved to be a pack of cards. The possessor's face did not alter, but his voice was sullen when he explained:

"I took them from a gambler."

The road-agent had squared the pack up on the palm of his hand, delicately, using the tips of his fingers only.

"Mebbe--it's a "cold deck' anyways," he said. "We'll give it the 'loser's shuffle.""

With a vigorous sweep of his arm he flung the pack skyward, scattering the cards far and wide, and then resumed his investigation. Another bulge produced a fat roll of bills, at the sight of which the searcher gave vent to a throaty laugh.

"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.

CHAPTER II

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 new-comer's greeting was an elaborate sweep of his sombrero, and after chatting for a moment, they turned and went along the street together.

"She's certainly soothin' to the sight," the prostrate puncher murmured. "An' it looks like yu may be lucky, Mister Man, whoever yu are. She'll be Miss Antonia Sarel, o' course."

The door of the saloon opened, the posse from Sweetwater came out, and, humorously bewailing their fate, took saddle again. The sheriff followed their example, after one contemptuous glance at the hunched-up figure on the sidewalk. The latter watched until the visitors, with a shrill cowboy yell, vanished in a cloud of dust.

"Good huntin', sheriff," he muttered, for through the open window of the saloon he had heard the story of the stage robbery. "Wonder what yu'd 'a' said if I'd claimed to be Sudden? Called me a liar, I betcha, seein' I was in the Red Ace when the hold-up happened. But it would 'a' been the sober truth alla-same, though I ain't the man yo're lookin' for; he's Sudden the Second, an' I'm hopin' to meet him my own self." He climbed unsteadily to his feet, staggered round the corner of the building, and straightened up. "Guess I got this burg thinkin' what I want it to, but We'll play the hand right out," he continued. "Mebbe that jasper is still hankerin' for my hoss."

Dropping his shoulders, he lurched away to the corral behind the saloon. Here he found a short, stocky rancher saddling a horse, and studying the other animals in the enclosure. One of them, a big, rangy, black mustang seemed to get most of his attention. He looked up as the cowpuncher approached.

"Changed yore mind 'bout sellin'?" he asked, with a twinkle in his good-humoured eyes.

"Nope, but I'll gamble with yu," the puncher replied. "Yu put up fifty bucks agin the hoss an' we'll cut the cards--highest wins. What yu say?"

The rancher considered the proposition for a moment. He was a lover of horses, and he wanted the animal, but Andrew Bordene, of the Box B ranch, was a man of slow decisions. Cheap as good horseflesh was, he knew the black was worth twice the figure named. To give himself time, he asked a question:

"I don't know the brand. Where'd yu get him?"

"From a fella who catched him in Texas. I took him wild, broke him myself, an' branded him J. G.--my name bein' James Green," the cowpuncher told him. "Nigger is a good hoss."

He whistled, and the black came trotting to the corral bars and rubbed his velvety muzzle against his master's outstretched hand. Bordene hesitated no longer; he liked a gamble, and this was all in his favour. Still, if the puncher wanted the money...

"I'll go yu," he said, and diving into a pocket, produced a pack of cards.

The puncher shuffled them carelessly and held them out for his opponent to cut. Bordene's card was the knave of diamonds; Green cut the ten of hearts.

"I lose," he said, with a cheerful grin. "Say, I got a saddle an' bridle that set me back a hundred and twenty in Tucson not too long ago. I'll put 'em up against the hoss if you're willin'?"

The rancher nodded, shuffled, and proffered the pack. A look of relief appeared on the puncher's face when he turned up the queen of spades, only to vanish again when Bordene showed the king of diamonds. Nevertheless, he laughed.

"That busts me wide open," he said, and then, "No, it don't, mebbe. See here, the round-up'll be comin' along an' yu'll want more help. I'll stake two months o' my time against the saddle an' bridle. I know cattle."

Bordene looked at him in surprise, almost suspecting a jest; but though the puncher was grinning he was quite in earnest. Somehow, the rancher's heart warmed to this gay loser.

"I'm trustin' yu--like yu did me," he responded. "That deck might 'a' been phony."

"Shucks!" was the reply. "I know a white man when I see one."

The play was resumed. The puncher won the first cut, lost the next, and then won the two following, thus regaining both saddle and horse. He looked quizzically at his opponent.

"We ain't got nowhere," he remarked. "One more flip, fifty cash against the hoss, to finish it."

He cut and displayed the three of spades.

"Poor luck, friend," said the older man. "I'm thinkin' yu've lost yore mount."

With a grin of commiseration and confident of success he exposed his own card. His face changed with ludicrous rapidity as he saw it: he had cut the two of spades.

"Well, may I be teetotally damned if yu don't win!" he cried regretfully, and then his eyes twinkled. "No matter. I like the way yu play, an' if yo're huntin' a job in these parts come an' see me at the Box B."

"I certainly will, seh," the cowpuncher smiled. "I like the way yu lose."

He took the money the other tendered and waved a farewell as the rancher swung into the saddle and loped for the trail. Then he smiled contentedly. He knew the story would get around, and that he would be regarded as a stray puncher, who, having overdone his spree, had to risk losing his horse to rehabilitate himself.

"Reckon that will blind my tracks aplenty," he muttered, and made his way to the Red Ace.

The saloon was empty, save for the bartender, whose face at once assumed a surly expression when he recognized the visitor. Green walked to the bar, slammed down a twenty-dollar gold piece, and said sharply:

"Gimme my guns."

With some uneasiness of mind, Jude produced the pawned weapons--two forty-fives, the almost black walnut butts of which showed signs of much use.

"Whisky," came the next order, as the cowboy, examining the guns to make sure they were still loaded, thrust them into his holsters.

Jude pushed forward bottle and glass, concealing his satisfaction. The fellow would get soaked again and the guns would soon return behind the bar. He knew these range-riders; if they had a taste for liquor they would spend their last peso to satisfy it. With a saturnine smile he watched the customer pour his drink and raise the glass to his nose. Then the spirit was coolly tipped out on the sanded floor.

"Hey, yu, what's the matter with my whisky?" asked the astonished and outraged supplier of the drink.

"Didn't you take for it?" asked the customer; and when the other sullenly nodded, "then that makes it my whisky, don't it?--an' shorely a fella can do what he likes with his own."

The barkeeper could not refute the argument; this cold-eyed, firm-jawed person was a very different proposition from the limp, drink-sodden bum he had so unceremoniously flung out a few hours before. Pushing forward a coin from the change lying before him, the cowboy poured himself another dose. This he also smelt, then took a mouthful, rolling the liquor around his tongue before finally spitting it out.

"You see, fella, it can be did," he remarked to the astounded Jude. "Of Man Booze can be beat. Yu wanta get yore think-box workin' an' reorganize yore ideas some. Sabe?"

He strolled casually out of the saloon, leaving an almost petrified bartender giving a lifelike impersonation of a newly-caught codfish. After a visit to the barber, Green purchased a new shirt and kerchief, which he donned in the room behind the store, and emerged looking and feeling a very different individual. There were still some hours of daylight remaining, and having nothing else to do, he sauntered along to the eastern end of the town, which was also the Mexican quarter. Passing a dumpy adobe building, which he rightly guessed to be a drinking dive, he heard his own tongue.

"Well, yu got me fixed. Go ahead an' finish it, yu scum."

Noiselessly pushing open the swing-door he saw a curious sight. In the centre of the earthen floor a short, stout cow-puncher was standing, his gun out. In front of him, right and left, were two Mexicans with drawn knives. Behind him, leaning over the rough wooden bar, was another, an older man, who had a shotgun trained on the cowboy's back. Green entered just in time to see the hand of the fellow on the left flash up, and promptly fired. The bullet, shattering the thrower's elbow, spoiled his aim and sent the knife thudding into the front of the bar, where it quivered, winking wickedly in the sunlight.

"Drop it," Green said sharply to the other knife expert, and when the weapon tinkled on the floor and its owner had frozen into immobility, he turned to the man at the bar. "Push that gun over an' hoist yore paws, pronto!"

The command was obeyed with ludicrous promptitude. Green looked at the puncher.

"What's the trouble?" he asked.

"Friend, yo're as welcome as a fourth ace--these skunks shore had me cold," was the reply. "I was in here yestiddy, an' I don't just remember what happened. S'pose they hocussed my liquor. This mornin' I wakes up with a head like a balloon, way out on the desert under a mesquite, an' my roll was missin'. I walks in, an' nacherally calls to enquire. Bein' hoppin' mad, I don't look at my gun first; o' course, they'd drawed the shells an' if yu hadn't happened along I reckon I'd be tryin' to twang a harp about now. An' I never had no ear for music," he finished whimsically.

"Which of 'em, would yu say, has yore mazuma?" Green asked.

"They was all here, but I'm guessin' the old piker has it--he's the boss, the other two are just relations," the puncher explained.

Green looked at the proprietor. "Ante up," he said. "If this hombre don't get his roll, I'll have to ask yore widow about it."

" 'To be or not to be,' amigo," grinned the little puncher, busy stuffing cartridges into his gun.

Green looked at him in surprise and then chuckled inwardly. The Mexican, his beady eyes full of hate, reached into a drawer beneath the bar and threw out a roll of bills secured by a rubber band, the while he jabbered a string of excuses. The senor had been seized with illness; he had taken care of the money lest the senor be robbed; it would have been returned in due course; it was only a joke...

"Yore brand o' humour'll get yu fitted with a wooden suit one o' these fine days," Green grimly warned him, as he backed out of the door the puncher was holding ajar. They stood without for a moment, waiting, but there was no demonstration from the dive. As they turned up the street the rescued man said quietly:

"I'm obliged to yu."

"Shucks! Nothin' to that," Green returned hastily. "I'm bettin' that, like myself, yo're a stranger hereabouts."

"Yeah, drifted in coupla days back--just moseyin' round the country," explained the other. "I'm stayin' here; what about comin' in for a pow-wow?"

He had halted before an unpretentious log and shingle two-storey building, above the door of which a rudely-lettered board announced, "Durley's Rest House. Good Food and Likker." Green read the notice and smiled.

"I hope he cooks better'n he spells," he said.

"Shore does, an' I reckon he's square at that," responded the stranger, as he thrust open the door.

CHAPTER III

The bar they entered was small but neat and clean. A man of middle age, with a round, red, jovial face greeted the smaller of the pair with a reproving shake of the head.

"Yore bed don't appear to 'a' bin used any last night," he said. "Sleepin' out in thisyer town ain't supposed to be healthy. No business o' mine, o' course, but--" He pushed forward the customary bottle and glasses. The little puncher shuddered visibly at the sight of them.

"Not if yu paid me, ol'-timer," he said earnestly. "I'm feelin' like a warmed-up corpse right now."

"Yu look it," the landlord told him. "Been to Miguel's, I s'pose? Yo're old enough to know better."

"I do know better, but I went there--wanted suthin with a kick in it." He grinned ruefully. "I got the kick awright, on my head from the way she aches. If you had a cup o' strong coffee now--" He looked enquiringly at Green.

"Coffee sounds good to me too," that young man replied. In a few moments they were seated at one of the small tables, and the rescuer had an opportunity to study the man whose life he had probably saved. The round, plump face, with its twinkling eyes and generous mouth suggested good-humour, and there was strength in the squat figure and slightly-bowed legs. Despite the fact that he must have passed the mid-thirties his manner showed the irresponsibility of a boy. He swallowed half the cup of thick, black beverage the landlord had just put before him.

"That's the stuff," he said appreciatively. "Now, s'pose we get acquainted; my name is Barsay, but my friends call me--"

"Tubby?" queried the other, with a grin.

The little man stopped rolling a cigarette and stared in open-mouthed astonishment. Then he grinned too.

"Hell! I was goin' to say 'Pete,'" he pointed out. "How'd yu guess 'bout that infernal nickname?"

"You told me yoreself--back there in the dive," Green smiled. " 'To be or not to be,' yu said, an', lookin' at yu, it was easy to find the answer."

The other man raised his hands in ludicrous despair. "Awright, I'll be good," he said. "Yu see, it's thisaway. Years back, I'm punchin' for the Bar 9 in Texas, an' I go to see a play by a fella named Shakespeare. That bit of it sticks in my noddle, but every while or so she slips out through my mouth. The boys plastered the name on me, an' I can't lose it. I reckon," he added sadly, "she does kinda fit my figure."

"Shore does," Green laughed; "but I wouldn't worry. That same fella, Shakespeare, also says, 'What's in a name?' Mine is Green, but I've been told I don't look it."

"An' that's terrible true," Barsay grinned. "If yu got any other I'm aimin' to use it."

"I answer to 'Jim' when the right fella says it," came the reply. "What yu doin' in this prairie-dog's hole of a town?"

"Well, I've punched cows from the Border to Montana an' back again. I s'pose I'd be chasin' a job right now if you hadn't rescued my roll for me."

"I've done considerable harassin' o' beef my own self, an' I want a change."

"This is cattle country."

"Shore it is, but I hear there's a vacancy for a town marshal."

The little man sat up suddenly. "Sufferin' serpents!" he cried. "Yu must be tired o' life; marshals here don't last as long as a dollar in a cowboy's pocket. Say, if yo're as broke as that, half o' what I got is yores."

"Thank yu, but I ain't busted, an' I come here a-purpose to land the job," the other told him. "What's more, I got my eye on the deputy I want--short, fat fella, 'bout yore size."

"Take that eye off," gasped the "fat fella." "Me a deputy? Why, I wouldn't fit nohow. I've bin a hold-up, hoss-thief, rustler--"

"I knowed I was right," Green interrupted. "Yu got all the qualifications. 'Set a thief to catch a thief,' they say. Yo're shore elected, amigo."

Barsay shrugged resignedly. "Why didn't yu let them Greasers finish?" he asked plaintively. Then his face brightened. "But yu ain't roped her yet," he added.

"I'm goin' to," Green said confidently. "Point is, how do we go about it?"

Barsay called the landlord over. "Hey, Durley, my friend here is hot on bein' marshal o' this burg. What's his best move?"

The innkeeper's face lost its jovial expression. "His best move is to fork a cayuse an' ride straight ahead till he forgets the notion," he said seriously. "Bein' marshal o' Lawless is just plain sooicide." He saw that his advice would not be taken and added, "Well, 'The Vulture' is the king-pin; if he gives it yu, the job's yores."

"That's Raven--who runs the Red Ace, huh?" Green asked. "Is he white?"

"Claims to be on his father's side, though I reckon it's on'y Mex white at that," Durley replied. "His mother was a Comanche squaw."

"Whyfor the fancy name?" asked Barsay.

"Chap Seth had treated mean give it him," Durley explained. "Said a vulture was the on'y sort o' bird he resembled. Yu don't wanta overlook no bets when yo're dealin' with him."

"Guess I'll call on the gent right now; I'm needin' that job," Green said. "Yu stay put, Pete," he added, as Barsay rose. "Back soon."

He went out, and Durley's eyes followed him reflectively. "Knowed yore friend long?" he enquired.

"Never seed him till 'bout an hour ago, but, believe me, I met him at the right mink," the plump puncher replied, and proceeded to tell of his recent predicament.

Meanwhile the subject of their conversation had reached and entered the Red Ace; the expression on the bartender's face was still anything but a welcome. Nevertheless he reached for a bottle. The customer waved it away.

"Yo're pullin' the wrong card, ol'timer," he grinned. "Business before pleasure is my motto; I wanta see Mister Raven."

"What for?" came the surly question.

The grin disappeared from the puncher's face. "If yu'd do I wouldn't be askin' for yore boss," he said acidly.

Jude's bluster left him. Sullenly he went to a door marked "Private," stuck his head in for a moment, and then beckoned to the visitor. Green stepped into what was evidently the saloonkeeper's office. It was plainly furnished with, a desk, several chairs, a safe, and a shelf for books. Seth Raven was sitting at the desk. He was about forty, and looked it. Slight of frame, his hunched shoulders made him appear shorter than he really was and threw his head forward into a curiously bird-like attitude, the impression being accentuated by a hooked nose, small, close-set eyes, thin lips, and lank, black hair. His yellow skin seemed tight-stretched over the high cheek-bones.

"Injun an' Mex or bad white, like Durley said, reg'lar devil's brew," was Green's unvoiced criticism.

"Well, what vu want?" Raven asked curtly.

The puncher leaned nonchalantly against the door, his thumbs hooked in his belt. "I'm told this burg is shy a marshal," he said. "I'm shy a job, an' there yu have it."

The saloon-keeper studied him in silence for a moment. He knew the applicant's history from the time he had arrived, including the incident of the wasted whisky and the affair at Miguel's. Little happened in Lawless that did not come to the ears of The Vulture sooner or later--generally sooner.

"We don't know nothin' about yu," he said.

"My name is James Green, o' Texas, an' lately I've been livin' mostly under my hat," the puncher told him.

"Which don't make us much wiser," was Raven's comment.

"Yore last marshal, Perkins, lit outa Nevada a flea's jump ahead o' the Vigilantes, an' Dawlish, the man afore him, had been in the pen for cattle-rustlin'. Ain't yu gettin' a mite particular?" Green asked sardonically.

The saloon-keeper's thin lips lengthened, which was his nearest approach to a smile. He had not expected to get any details of the fellow's past, and in reality he cared little. Lawless was a sanctuary for the law-breaker, and only a man of that type could hope to keep any semblance of order. The puncher's lean, hard face, level eyes, and firm lips were not those of a weakling.

"Yore kind o' young," Raven objected.

"Suffered from that since I was born," Green said lightly. "The doctors say I'll grow out of it. Well, what's the word?"

"The pay is two hundred dollars a month," the other said.

"Which ain't over generous," Green commented.

"An' pickin's, the same bein'--to the right man--considerable," Raven slowly added.

"With another hundred for a deputy," the puncher suggested, and when the saloon-keeper shook his head, "See here, I ain't a machine; there's times when I wanta sleep some."

"Awright, a deputy goes. Yu better pick a good one an' tell him to shoot first an' argue afterwards," Raven said. He dipped into a drawer of the desk. "It so happens I got a coupla stars, an' here's the key to yore quarters." Handing the articles to Green, he dismissed the new officer with a curt "See yu later."

For a little while Raven sat thinking, weighing up the man who had just left him. He recognized that Green was not the ordinary type of desperado; his cool, smiling confidence contrasted oddly with the blustering, bullying attitude of the average gun-fighter.

"A useful fella if he comes to heel--an' if he don't--" His lips twisted in a sneer. "But there's a sheriff somewheres who'd be glad to meet him."

And in this he was entirely right.

When Green returned to the Rest House he found the bar empty, save for Barsay sprawling in a chair with his feet on a table and snoring lustily. The marshal's face became that of an imp of mischief. Gently he pinned one of the stars he had received to the sleeping man's vest, and pulling one of his guns, fired into the floor. The violence of the slumberer's awaking start flung him to the ground but in a second he was on his feet, gun out, and eyes glaring. A moment later Durley came flying into the bar, only to find Green, weak with laughter, a smoking gun in his hand, leaning against the wall.

"Yu natural damn fool," the victim admonished, when he realized the joke. "Mighta broke my blamed neck."

"No fear--that's slated for a rope," Green retorted. "Fine deputy-marshal yu are--caught nappin' right away."

Barsay then noticed the decoration he had unconsciously acquired and his eyes widened. "Yu got it?" he cried, and when his new friend nodded, he turned to Durley and said, "Well, what d'yu know about that, huh?"

"I shore hope yu got a month's pay in advance," the landlord replied. "It's about yore one chance to draw any."

"Mother's cheery little comforter, ain't yu?" Green grinned. "Yu oughta be in the undertakin' business."

Durley laughed too, and then his face grew serious again. "Puttin' jokes aside, gents, I shore wish yu all the luck there is, but yu'll have to watch cases mighty close," he warned.

"We'er aimin' to do that same," the marshal assured him. "An' we're reckonin' on one friend anyways."

"You can reckon on more than that," the landlord said. "Quite a few of us would like this town to have a better reputation, but o' course, if yo're goin' to run with The Vulture--"

"I cut my own trail, ol'-timer," Green told him. "Say, Pete, what about takin' possession of our new home? Raven gave me the key."

The official quarters of the town marshal were situated alongside the Red Ace, and consisted of a one-storey 'dobe hut. Over the door was a board with the single word "Marshal" painted in large letters. This was sadly pockmarked by bullets; evidently festive visitors were in the habit of testifying their contempt for the law by peppering the outward and visible sign of its presence. Green surveyed the battered board sardonically and unlocked the door. The room they entered was clearly the office, scantily furnished with an old desk, three somewhat decrepit chairs, and a cupboard. Behind it was another containing two pallet-beds; adjoining it, but reached by a narrow passage from the office, was a third room, empty save for a bench, with a massive, padlocked door and small barred window.

Continuing their investigations, they found a side-door in the passage which led into a board shack containing a broken-down stove, a ditto chair, and a few battered culinary utensils.

"Don't think much o' the kitchen--we'll have to do most of our feedin' at Durley's," the marshal said. "I allus did hate cookin' anyways."

"Same here," responded his assistant. "This show won't be so bad once we got her tidied up an' our war-bags fetched in. We're nice an' handy to the boss," he finished, with a sly look at the other.

Green rose at the bait instantly. "See here, fella, bosses don't go with me, not any," he said acidly. "If that Vulture person thinks he can ride me he's got another guess comin'. Yu get that into the knob you hang yore hat on."

Barsay laughed delightedly at his success in drawing his chief. "Partner, I like yu most to death," he chortled. "I had an idea yu weren't exactly saddle-broke, but I wanted to be shore."

Whereupon Green joined in the laugh against himself and they departed in search of their belongings.

CHAPTER IV

"I certainly was lucky to catch yu in town to-day, Tonia," Andy Bordene remarked, as they jogged slowly along the trail. "It seems ages since I saw you."

The girl's eyes twinkled. "Yes, the Double S must be a good two hours' ride from the Box B," she said demurely.

The young man sensed the mild sarcasm and flushed. "I have to work for my livin' nowadays, Tonia," he defended. "Yu've no notion what a driver the old man is, an' we're short-handed at that."

"You ought not to be, when there are likely punchers in town with nothing better to do than swallow the poison sold at the Red Ace," she retorted, and went on to tell of her recent encounter with the stranger cowboy.

Bordene smiled. "Any puncher is apt to slip over the edge now an' then; I'll look him up when I get back to town." He shot a mischievous glance at her. "Mebbe it would be wiser to have him at the Box B."

The girl returned the look. She knew he was teasing her--it was an old trick of his--but this time she suspected a gravity under the playful words.

"Andy, you are a chump," she said, and smiled sweetly. "But you are a nice chump."

The Double S ranch lay some fifteen miles south-east of Lawless and about half-way between that town and Sweetwater, though not on the direct route. For the most part, the trail to it passed over the open range. At one point, however, it cut through a strip of broken country which jutted out like a great finger into the grassland, dipping down between the tree and brush-clad walls of a ravine. After the scorching sunshine of the open, the shade of the overhanging foliage was a welcome relief, and, therefore, Bordene was astonished when his companion spurred her mount and rocketed through the gorge at full speed. Wondering what was the matter, he did likewise, catching her up just as she emerged on the open plain again. She slowed down and turned to him, a somewhat shamed expression on her flushed face.

"I'm sorry, Andy," she said. "I dread that place, and I just cannot dawdle through it. If you hadn't been here I'd have gone round, though it's miles out of the way. Cowardly, I know, but you understand, don't you?"

He nodded, and his eyes were suddenly tender. Of course he understood, and it was not difficult, remembering that less than a twelvemonth before, Anthony Sard, her father, had been foully done to death somewhere in the ravine. Both he and Tonia had been away at college, but he knew that the rancher had been bushwhacked--shot in the back from ambush--and his slayer had never been discovered. The girl had returned home to find Reuben Sarel, her father's only brother, in charge of the ranch. For some time they rode in silence and then, as though she had been screwing up her courage, Tonia turned impulsively to her companion.

"Andy, would you be hurt if I asked you not to spend so much time at the Red Ace?" she asked.

"Who's been talkin'?" he countered.

"Oh, little birds chirp, you know," she replied lightly.

"Some little birds oughta have their little necks twisted," he replied. "Just because a fella drops into a place now an' again for a drink an' a game they figure he's headin' for hell right away."

"Is it only now and again, Andy?" she queried. "And isn't it true you have lost a lot at poker lately?"

"I've dropped a bit," he admitted. "Dad keeps me pretty close-hauled, but I'll get it back, an' Seth ain't in no hurry."

"I don't like that man--he makes me shudder," she said. "Whenever I meet him I think of something I saw years ago when I was a kid."

"Not so awful many years ago," smiled the boy.

She refused to be put off. "I was out riding with Dad and we came upon a poor little dead calf," she went on. "Perched on the carcase was a great black bird, its claws embedded in the body and its cruel beak tearing away the flesh. Ugh! It was horrible!"

Bordene laughed at her. "Well, they call him The Vulture, but he ain't a bad old scout," he replied. "Fella can't help his looks, yu know, an' he's too big a man in these parts to tangle with. Yore uncle thinks a lot of him."

"I know, but--"

She left the sentence unfinished, loth to admit distrust of her only relation, even to Andy. For the truth was that though she was fond of Reuben Sarel, and believed that he sincerely cared for her, she recognized his limitations, knew that he was weak, and that his great bulk inclined him to laziness. In the hands of a man like Raven...

Presently they reached the long, easy slope which wound up to the top of the little mesa where stood the Double S. It was a big place, the bunk-house, barns, store-houses, and corrals all constructed on a generous scale. The ranch-house, though of one storey only, was roomy. Solidly built of shaped logs and adobe bricks, it had a broad, covered veranda which overlooked the trail. In some ways the location was not a happy one, but the presence of a perpetual spring of cold, sweet water, in a land where that liquid was sometimes more precious than gold, compensated for other disadvantages. Three giant cottonwoods, survivors of the grove cut down when the buildings were erected, cast a welcome shade and relieved the bareness of the surroundings.

Lounging in a chair in a protected corner of the veranda, puffing a long black cigar, Reuben Sarel watched the approaching riders. Of middle age, his big, round, fleshy face, in which the tiny eyes twinkled, was so fashioned as to present a perpetual expression of good-humour, but there was a slackness and want of decision about the mouth which told a story; here was one who would take the easy way. His enormous breadth of body, coupled with his corpulency, made him appear almost as wide as he was long. With astonishing agility for so massive a man, he jumped up and waved to the girl and her companion as they loped up.

"'Lo, Andy, what's brung yu over?" he asked, with a grin which uncovered his strong, tobacco-stained teeth. "Light an' tell us the news."

"Just had to see Tonia safe home, but I can't stay," the young man smiled, as he dismounted and trailed the reins. "Heard about the Sweetwater stage bein' held up?"

"Yu don't say!" ejaculated the other. "When was it?"

"Yesterday mornin' in Devil's Dip. Strade an' his posse was in lookin' for the fella."

"The fella? One-man job, huh? Did he get anythin'?"

"He got the messenger--plumb through the head, the express box with ten thousand, an' one o' the passengers claims he lost two thousand more."

"Pretty good haul," Sard said. "Strade got anythin' to go on? Fella didn't look anyways like me, I s'pose?"

"I guess not," Bordene assured him. "Eames, the driver, said the hold-up claimed to be Sudden, an' the hoss tallied."

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 'simportant 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 saloon-keeper'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 new-comer, presented as "Mister Pardoe," and accepted the saloon-keeper'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."

"Oughta shot the coyote," Pete said.

"Well, mebbe he was lucky thataway," the other conceded. "They just took his clothes off, poured a barrel o' molasses over him, rolled him in the sand, an' rid him outa town on a rail. It oughta been a complete cure."

Pardoe was facing Bordene and the latter was astounded at the sudden flush on the gambler's bilious face and the vindictive look he cast at the speaker. In a second, however, his eyes were on his cards again. Andy glanced at Raven, but the saloonkeeper's features were an expressionless mask. All at once he looked up.

"Sit in, marshal," he invited.

Green shook his head. "I'm on duty," he said, and smiled.

"Huh! It's quiet to-night--there'll be nothin' startin'," Raven replied.

"Just the time to watch out," the officer said.

Even as he spoke, the door of the saloon was thrust open and a wild figure sprang in. Snaky black hair hung beneath the pushed-back hat, bloodshot eyes glared behind the levelled six-shooter, and a snarling mouth showed teeth like yellow fangs. For an instant the man stood, his head turning from side to side as he surveyed the room, and then he let out a savage screech; most of the hearers knew it for the Apache war-cry.

"I want a man," he shouted. "I ain't killed one to-day, an' I'm that pizenous that when rattlers bite me they crawl away an' die. Where's thisyer marshal I bin hearin' about?"

Green noted furtive smiles on some of the faces. Had this fellow been primed with drink and put up to this silly prank to try the new officer out? Such a notion was quite in keeping with Western humour, and if the fool forgot that it was a joke... He stepped forward.

"Yu wantin'me?" he asked quietly.

Silence fell upon the room; the flip of cards and the rattle of poker chips ceased; the hum of conversation died out; everyone was intent on what was taking place. The moment Green had spoken the stranger froze, his gun covering the marshal's broad chest. The latter, making no attempt to draw his own weapon, advanced until a bare three yards separated the pair.

"Git down an' say yore prayers," the intruder ordered. "I'm Wild Bill Hickok, an' a shootin' fool. I'm agoin' to send yu down the Long Trail."

The marshal's laugh rang out. "Yore name's 'Hiccup' an' yo're a shoutin' fool. Now"--with a speed that baffled the eye his gun swept up, the muzzle within a few inches of the one covering him--"shoot, yu false alarm!"

As though dazed by a blow the ruffian glared at him. How it had come about he did not know, but he realized that he had been outplayed. To fire now would be suicide; he might slay the marshal but assuredly before he did so, lead would be tearing through his own body. At the thought his nerve failed. Green saw the indecision in his eyes.

"Drop it," he rasped, and there was more than an order in the words.

For a second the fellow hesitated, and then the gun clattered on the board floor. At the same instant the marshal's left fist came round and up, landing on the jaw with all the force of his body behind it; the man dropped like a pole-axed steer. Sheathing his gun, Green set the door open, and gripping the senseless one by neck and belt, flung him headlong into the street.

"If that fella's got any friends here they'd better tell him to hit the trail 'bout daylight," he said, and walked back to the bar.

CHAPTER V

Pete Barsay sat on a tilted chair, his back against one jamb of the marshal's office door and his upraised feet on the other. Green had gone riding somewhere, and to lighten his solitude Pete sang as he rolled himself a smoke:

An' speakin' o' women, yu never can tell. Sometimes they's heaven, an' sometimes they's...

"Oh, sir!" reproved a low, sweet voice, before he could complete the verse.

The vocalist's heels thumped the floor and he grabbed his hat from his head as he swung round to face the prettiest girl he had ever seen. Her smile added to his confusion.

"What is the name of that song?" she asked. "I don't think I've heard it before."

The deputy was not surprised at this, but he did not say so. Instead, he lied nobly. "I dunno, ma'am; that's all of it I ever learned my own self." He grinned with returning courage. "I guess I'll have to leave that last bit out when yo're around."

"I'm afraid you are a flatterer, Mister--?" the girl said.

"My name's Barsay, an' my friends call me Pete," he volunteered. "I'm bettin' yo're Miss Tonia Sarel."

"You win," she replied. "Do you sing much?"

Pete regarded her with a suspicious eye, but save for a distracting dimple, she seemed quite serious. "I do not," he confessed. "Speakin' general, I on'y inflicts my vocal efforts on longhorns when they're a-beddin' down. Mebbe yu'd call it cruelty to animals, but cows ain't noways critical, an' my voice ain't started a stampede yet. Won't yu set down?"

"I just called to see the marshal," she said. "I suppose he is busy?"

"Not so as yu'd notice it," Pete said gloomily. "The durned town is dead--nothin' happens. Ever since me an' the marshal took office"--he grinned pridefully at the phrase--"folks here has been asleep. Yu'd think we were keepin' Sunday school. I'm tellin' yu, we got this town so tame we'll be losin' our jobs. If suthin' don't bust loose soon--"

He broke off suddenly as a rider dashed into view at the western end of the town. Bent low in the saddle, he was almost invisible in the clouds of dust which rose beneath the hammering hoofs of his horse. Barsay thrust the girl inside the door.

"That gent has pressin' business with somebody, an' mebbe it's me," he apologized. "Bullets ain't got no respect for beauty."

It appeared that he was correct in his surmise, for on reaching the marshal's office, the rider pulled down his panting pony and leapt off. Barsay then saw that it was Andy Bordene, his face grimed with dust and perspiration, drawn and haggard, his eyes wild.

"Where's the marshal?" he cried hoarsely.

At that moment Green came up, having just turned his mount into the Red Ace corral. "Who wants me?" he asked, and then, recognizing the young rancher. "What's the trouble, Bordene?"

"Dad's been shot--murdered!" came the broken answer. "Marshal, I want yu to help me find the dog who did it."

With a pitiful cry Tonia ran to the side of the stricken boy, striving to comfort as she forced him to sit down, for the shock and subsequent punishing ride had taken a heavy toll and he was all in. Green slipped into the saloon and came back with a glass.

"Drink this, and then tell us about it," he said.

The raw spirit gave Andy strength and steadied his shattered nerves. After a moment or two he looked up, and in a dull monotone, told his story.

"Dad started for town early this mornin'," he began. "I suppose he got here?"

"Yeah. I saw him myself, goin' into the bank," Green told him.

The boy. nodded. "He told me he was drawin' some money an' he intended to come back pretty prompt," Andy said. "I set out for Lawless 'bout two hours later, an' when I got to the Old Mine I found him lyin' in the trail. His hoss was grazing close by, an' at first I thought he'd been pitched or had a sunstroke. Then I saw the blood--he'd been shot in the back. Just as I stooped over him, he opened his eyes, said one word, an' was--gone."

His voice tailed away to a whisper, and as he finished his head dropped despairingly. Tonia's arm pressed his shoulders in silent sympathy. She knew how he felt; she herself had faced the same tragic happening.

"What was the word?" the marshal asked.

"Sudden," was the reply. "That damned outlaw has bushwhacked my dad for a few paltry dollars. Marshal, we gotta get him; I'll never rest till--" His voice rose hysterically as he strove to stand up. Green pressed him back into his seat.

"We'll get him, sooner or later," he promised, and his voice was stern. "Yu stay with Miss Tonia till we fetch our bosses."

They returned in a few moments to find Andy sitting tight-lipped, his dull gaze staring into vacancy. The girl stood silently by, her eyes filled with the tears she would not shed until the bereaved boy had gone. Clasping her two hands in his--he could not trust himself to speak--Andy mounted his pony and the three men set out for the scene of the tragedy, first calling at the bank, where they learned that the murdered man had drawn out five thousand dollars.

Slumped in his saddle, Bordene led the way at a fast lope. The shock of this, his first real rebuff in life, had driven the youthfulness from his face, leaving a grimness mingled with the grief. The marshal and his deputy followed in silence.

Less than an hour's riding brought them to the Old Mine, a little group of low, rocky mounds shrouded in small timber and brush through which the trail passed. A saddled horse was tied to a tree, but there was no body.

"I carried him into that hut," Bordene explained, pointing to a rude cabin at the foot of one of the hillocks, the pathway to which was almost obscured by undergrowth.

Pushing their way through they came upon the murdered man. Green stopped and made a quick examination. "Shot in the back--twice," he said. "An' the cash is missin', though there is some small change in the pockets; a Greaser wouldn't 'a' left that." He rose and looked round. Two shining objects attracted his attention--used shells. "Forty-fives," he commented, slipping them into the pocket of his chaps. "Pistol-work. Whereabout did yu find him, Andy?"

The young man pointed to where a bit of the trail lay in plain view, and Green began to examine the floor of the hut, which was of packed sand. Presently he stood up.

"I figure it was this way," he said. "The bushwhacker hid in here by the door--yu can see the marks of his heels--an' when the old man passed, he got him. Musta waited some time too, for he smoked three cigarettes." He picked up the ends and broke one open. "Good Bull Durham," he added, sniffing the tobacco. "No Mexican trash. We gotta find where he left his hoss."

"What's the use of ail this, marshal?" broke in Bordene querulously. "We know who did it."

"Do we? Any fella can call hisself Sudden," Green retorted, and his tone was so harsh that Pete looked at him in surprise. "It would be a damn easy way o' blottin' a trail."

The young man bit his lips. "I didn't think o' that," he admitted.

It did not take them long to find where the killer had hidden his horse. Just behind the hut the lower foliage of a tree had been nibbled, and a branch bore traces of having been chafed. Moreover, in the bark of the trunk, Green's quick eye discerned several hairs and the hoofprints showed that the animal had .. been restive. The hairs were black.

"Sudden is said to ride a black, ain't he?" Andy questioned.

"Yeah," the marshal replied.

He was on his knees, studying the hoofprints carefully. Presently he stood up, and they went to the spot where the body had been found. The ground here was matted with the marks of both men and horses. Green pored over them for some time, gradually picked out the ones he wanted--those of the murderer's mount--and noted that they went south. Then he announced his decision.

"I'm goin' to follow his tracks," he said. "Pete, yu'll stay here while Andy goes to the Box B for a wagon an' some of his boys to take the old man to town: there'll have to be an enquiry."

When the boy had gone, the marshal rolled and lighted a cigarette, and selecting a small rock, squatted and smoked in silence. His deputy stood it for a while, and then:

"Bordene is hard hit," he said.

"He'll get over it," Green replied. "Ol' Man Trouble sits lightly on the shoulders o' youth an' is easy shook off."

Silence again ensued, and presently the deputy tried once more:

"Ever run acrost this jasper, Sudden?" he asked, and this time he got a surprise.

"Yeah, I know him pretty well," the marshal returned. He looked at his assistant reflectively for a moment, and then, with the air of one who has at last come to a decision, he went on, "Pete, yu ain't got no more brain than a sage-hen, but I think yo're white, an' I'm goin' to gamble on it. Yu heard me pull up young Bordene pretty brisk just now an' mebbe wondered why?"

"Shore did," Pete agreed.

"Well, here's the reason," Green resumed. "The fella that did this job an' brought off the other plays in this part o' the country ain't the genuine Sudden; he's just shovin' the blame on another man, yu sabe?"

"How'd yu know?" queried the deputy.

"Because I happen to be the real Sudden," came the amazing answer.

For some moments Pete stared goggle-eyed at the man who had calmly claimed to be one of the most famous--or infamous--outlaws in the South-west, and then he shook his head knowingly and laughed.

"I'd never 'a' guessed it--me havin' no brain," he grinned. "Mighta suspected yu o' being Julius Caesar or OF King Cole, but--" He stopped short as he read the other's expression.

"May I be whittled to chips if he don't believe it hisself; musta bin eatin' loco-weed."

"I'm givin' yu the straight goods, yu idjut," the marshal said seriously. "I'm the man they call Sudden down in Texas an' New Mexico. I came here to find Mister Sudden the Second--the fella who's buildin' me a reputation an' doin' well out of it. I don't claim to be no plaster saint, but I've had too many things hung on me a'ready an' I aim to stop it. I reckoned yu had to know who yu were trailin' with."

Bar say got up, and if there was a smile on his face it was but an attempt to hide the feeling in his voice. "Jim," he said, "I don't care if yo're forty outlaws rolled into one; I'm backin' yore game to a fare-yu-well."

The marshal gripped the outthrust hand. "I knowed I wasn't makin' a mistake," he said. "I'm thankin' yu, Pete."

The plump little puncher scuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable. "Shucks!" he muttered.

The marshal's reply put them back on their old easy footing. "Awright, just listen to me. What I've told yu has gotta be kept tight behind yore teeth. If Lawless gets to know there'll be a necktie party an' we'll be the guests. Now, I'm goin' to trail Mister Bushwhacker. Yu go back with the body an' see if yu can learn anythin' in town."

This arrangement was not to Barsay's liking, but his chief smiled away all his objections and forthwith departed. He left the little man with plenty to occupy his mind. Remarkable as was the revelation to which he had listened, doubt of it never occurred to him.

"I just knowed he warn't no ordinary puncher," he muttered. "Sudden, huh? He's all o' that, I reckon."

CHAPTER VI

For a mile or more the marshal was able to maintain a fair pace, the tracks of the horse which had been tied behind the shack being plain. Presently, however, they turned off the beaten trail to the Box B, following a mere pathway which twisted tortuously through the brush. Green noted that the fugitive was heading south and making no effort to hide the fact. Pausing at the top of a slight ridge, he scanned the surrounding country.

There was no sign of his quarry, and, indeed, he had not expected there would be; in such country, the man might have been but a few hundred yards distant and still unseen. The marshal moved down the slope of the ridge, threaded a narrow arroyo, and pulled up again. In front lay an expanse of semi-desert, a broad stretch of sand relieved only by clumps of bunch-grass, cactus, and mesquite. The trail led straight on to this and abruptly vanished. For a moment the trailer was at a loss, and then he noticed that his hoof prints had also gone, the fine granular sand trickling back and filling up the depressions almost as soon as they were made.

"This fella ain't no stranger," the marshal muttered. "Well, Nig, if he's headin' for the Border we gotta go on."

Holding a straight line, he crossed the little desert, and after a short search picked up the trail again on the other side. Two miles brought him to a wide-banked, slow-moving river which he guessed must be Lazy Creek; the opposite bank was Mexico. At this time of the year the stream was shrunk to half its winter width and he had no difficulty in crossing. He found the familiar hoofprints on the other side only to lose them soon afterwards in a long narrow cleft, the floor of which consisted of weathered rock, detritus from the bare walls on either side.

He rode through the gully, emerging into a strip of park-like country interspersed with wooded knolls. Passing one of these, he heard a voice, harsh, speaking in Spanish.

"See if you can loosen his tongue, Lopez," it said.

Trailing his reins, the marshal crept cautiously up under cover of the chaparral. The sight was a singular one. At the side of a little glade an Indian was standing, his wrists tied behind him to a sapling. He was a tall fellow, of indeterminate age, his body emaciated by illness or starvation. He was naked save for a ragged pair of deerskin trousers. But for the fierce eyes he might have been a statue of bronze. Facing him was a yellow-skinned Mexican of the lowest type, in a huge sombrero, dirty blue shirt, and tattered overalls. He was holding a wicked-looking quirt, passing the lash through his fingers and eyeing the Indian gloatingly.

A few yards distant was the man who had spoken, a dark, swarthy fellow of middle age and stature, whose straight black hair framed one of the cruellest faces Green had ever seen. The nose was almost flat, the eyes narrow and near, and the thick, sensual lips were drawn back in a snarl, disclosing big, stained teeth. His attire was a parody of a uniform; a slouched hat pinned up at one side with a silver brooch; a flaming red tunic loaded with gold braid; faded blue pants tucked into high boots garnished with huge wheel spurs. From the gaudy sash round his middle peeped the butts of two pistols and the haft of a dagger.

At a nod from this man, and before the marshal could interfere, the peon swung his quirt and lashed the Indian savagely across the chest, the thong, knotted at the end, cutting an open weal from which the blood flew. Before the force of the blow the victim staggered, but instantly drew himself up and became again an inanimate thing. Only the clamped lips and bunched jaw-muscles betrayed his agony.

"Speak, dog, where is the gold?" thundered the man in uniform.

The Indian remained silent, his face a mask of pride, hatred, and contempt. The man in uniform read the expression aright, and it goaded him to fury.

"Continue, Lopez," he hissed. "I'll find his tongue if I have to strip the flesh off his bones to do it."

With an eager grin the peon swished his bloodstained lash round his shoulder, but ere he could bring it down Green's gun crashed and he dropped in a huddled heap; his torturing days were ended. At the sound of the shot, the other man's hand went to his belt but came away empty at the sight of the newcomer's blazing eyes and levelled weapon.

"Reach, yu yellow skunk," came the terse order.

The man complied, but his expression was poisonous. "May I point out, senor, that you are on the wrong side of the line?" he observed.

"I'm on the right side o' this gun," Green grimly retorted. "What are yu up to? "

The Mexican shrugged his shoulders. "Bah! Only an Indian," he sneered. "He knows where there ees much gold, senor, but the dog ees obstinate."

The marshal did not reply. Stepping up to the man he drew the pistols from his sash and flung them, one after the other, into the brush. The dagger he used to free the captive and then turned again to the Mexican.

"Take off yore coat," he ordered.

An expression of surprise showed in the sallow face. It was not like an Americano to rob a man of his clothes, though, of course, the garment was a desirable one, and as he did not wish to lose it, the wearer ventured a protest.

"It may interest the senor to learn that I am El Diablo," he said softly. "He weel have heard of me?"

If the marshal was interested he did not show it; his narrowed eyes continued to regard the ridiculous figure with cold contempt. So this was the guerrilla leader whose reputation for savage cruelty was unequalled in Northern Mexico, and who, at the head of his band of so-called revolutionaries, robbed, murdered, and ravaged along the Border, even crossing it at times to raid the ranches for cattle and horses. Though Green inwardly cursed the luck that had thrown the man in his way, he was determined to punish him.

"El Diablo, huh?" he sneered. "Well, if yu don't shuck that coat, I'll send yu home so fast yu'll get singed on the way."

That the guerrilla leader understood the grim witticism is doubtful, but the menacing movement of the speaker's gun could not be mistaken and he obeyed the order. The marshal turned to the Indian, impassively waiting, and pointed to the quirt lying beside the body of Lopez. A gleam of fire shone in the black eyes as the redskin realized the white man's intention. El Diablo also understood, and his dark face grew first pale with fear and then red with shame. His voice shrilled out as the Indian picked up the whip and came towards him.

"Senor, theenk what you do," he cried desperately. "I am a white man like yourself. I am not a peon, as he"--with a gesture towards Lopez--"but a caballero, a descendant of Old Spain."

"If yu don't keep them paws up yu won't be a descendant a-tall, yu'll be an ancestor."

Jocular as the voice was, no humour showed in the granite-hard features of the speaker, and the Mexican knew he might just as well hope for mercy from his late victim, who now stood before him, whip in hand, bitter hatred in his gaze. Reading that look, and recalling what he knew of a red man's ideas of revenge, the marshal was satisfied that the bandit was getting off somewhat lightly. He nodded to the redskin, the whip whistled through the air, and the Mexican shrieked as the knotted lash cut away the flimsy fabric of his shirt, leaving a bloody track from shoulder to hip. Again the marshal nodded, and again the whip fell, this time in the opposite direction, scoring the yellow flesh as though it had been slashed with a knife. Mad with agony, the stricken man clutched at his breast and rolled upon the ground, spitting out curses upon the man who had so shamed him. The marshal regarded him scornfully.

"Yu may be of Old Spain an' this fella on'y an Injun, but he's got yu skinned when it comes to takin' medicine," he commented. "Shut yore rank mouth an' keep mighty still 'less yu want some more o' yore own treatment."

He turned just in time to see the redskin take two stumbling steps and fall prone.

"Agua," he whispered as Green bent over him.

The marshal grabbed a canteen slung about the body of Lopez, marvelling at the enormous will-power which had enabled the Indian, though nearly dead with exhaustion, to stand' up and mete out terrible punishment to his foe.

"Damn it, I ain't got no affection for war-whoops, but they're men," he muttered.

The water proved effective, and in a few moments the Indian was able to stand up. The marshal pointed to the guerrilla leader's horse, which, elaborately saddled and bridled, was tied to a nearby bush.

"Fork that cayuse an' we'll punch the breeze," he said. "This hombre will have friends not so far off, an' it'll be healthier for us if we ain't around when they arrive."

The redskin climbed into the saddle, his set teeth showing what the effort cost him, and Green led the way to where he had left his own mount. From where he lay motionless on the ground the beady, venomous eyes of the Mexican followed them. Only when they had vanished in the thick foliage did he venture to rise and shake a vengeful fist in their direction.

"We shall meet again," he grated. "And then it will be the turn of El Diablo. Dios! but you shall pay."

Meanwhile the marshal and his companion were wasting no time in covering the ground to the Border. Not until they were on the far side of the river did Green attempt to learn anything of the man he had rescued. The redskin's eyes flashed as he answered the blunt question.

"Me Black Feather--Mohave chief--one time," he said slowly in a deep, guttural tone.

The marshal realized much of what lay behind the simple statement; he had lived with the red men. He knew that Black Feather was an outcast--willing or unwilling--from his tribe.

He had been guilty of some offence, had lost his "medicine," or was, perhaps, satisfying a private vengeance. Whatever the reason, for the time being, he had no lodge, no people, he was a wanderer. Further enquiry elicited that he had fallen into the clutches of the bandit and his follower by evil chance; they had shot his pony and, in common belief that the Indian always knows "the home of the gold," had tortured him.

Realizing that the trail of Bordene's murderer was now hopelessly lost, the marshal headed for home. They reached Lawless after dark, so that the citizens missed the rather amazing sight of their newly-appointed law-officer holding a drooping Indian in a silver-mounted saddle, on the back of a fine, Spanish-bred horse. When the pair arrived at the marshal's quarters, the sick man slumped to the ground in a dead faint. Pete, who was standing at the door, hurried forward.

"Yu ain't goin' to tell me this fella bumped off Bordene?" he said incredulously.

"I am not," the marshal said. "Push them broncs in the corral an' come help fix him up. He's all in."

He hoisted the slack form to his shoulder and went inside. When Pete returned he found the patient stretched on his bed and the marshal bandaging his hurts.

"This fella's pretty sick. See here, he's bin shot in the leg as well, an' never let out a chirp about that," Green said admiringly. "An' here's vu--a white man--yowlin' like a lost soul over a mangy bed."

"It ain't a mangy bed--or it wasn't till yu put that doggone aborigine in it," Pete retorted. He looked at the still senseless form. "Reckon he'll make it?"

"Shore thing. Injuns is hard to kill--as Uncle Sam knows," the marshal replied. "I've a hunch he'll pay for savin', an' anyways, I couldn't do nothin' else."

He went on to tell the story of his trailing, and Pete whistled when he heard of the guerrilla leader.

"El Diablo, huh?" he said. "Yu've stirred up a lively nest o' hornets there; he's rank pizen an' as vain as a peacock, they say. It's a safe bet he's got friends in Lawless too."

"Yu'll have me scared to death in a minit," his chief smiled.

Pete looked at him. "Fella can crowd his luck too close," he replied. "Wonder where that bushwhackin' coyote hid up?"

"Doubled back, likely as hot," the marshal opined. "Wouldn't astonish me none if he's right in Lawless now. Rustle some chuck; I've an idea our guest has missed meals lately."

CHAPTER VII

On the following morning the enquiry into the taking off of Andrew Bordene was held in the dance-hall attached to the Red Ace, where all public meetings of importance were convened. Nothing new transpired. Potter, the banker, deposed to the dead man having drawn out five thousand dollars, stating that he had a debt to pay. Andy related his story and the marshal told of his investigation, but he did not produce the empty shells he had picked up, nor make any reference to what had happened over the Border. The jury returned a verdict of wilful murder against the outlaw known as "Sudden," and the whole assembly adjourned to discuss the affair at the bar. Here the marshal found Raven, with two men he did not know. The saloon-keeper beckoned.

"Marshal," he said, "meet Reuben Sarel of the Double S, and Saul Jevons, foreman o' my ranch, the 88."

The fat man extended a moist, flabby hand, but Jevons merely nodded. He was about the same height as the marshal but older by ten years. He possessed a powerful but angular frame, a lean, hatchet face, and his dark, straggling moustache failed to hide a slit of a mouth. From ear to chin on his left cheek was a puckered white scar, relic of an old wound, which gave the impression of a perpetual sneer. The marshal disliked the fellow at sight.

"Bad business this, marshal," Sarel remarked. "Bordene was a white man an' a valued citizen. We're lookin' to yu to put a crimp in this fella Sudden."

"He's gotta be found first, Reub," Jevons said, and there was a suspicion of a jeer in his tone. "Yu ain't suspectin' that Injun yu toted in, are yu?" This to the marshal.

"Not any," that officer replied. "I picked him up on the trail; he'd bin shot, stripped, an' set afoot."

"What nation?" asked Raven.

"Claims to be Mohave, but I figure he's a stray," the marshal told him. "He ain't talked much yet."

"Bah! Better 'a' left him; I'd as soon fetch home a hurt rattler," Jevons said savagely. "Redskins is all liars an' thieves."

"Saul is a bit sore on war-paints just now," Raven explained. "He's bin losin' a few steers an' he's blamin' them for it."

"Well, I got no use for Injuns, but I reckon it's more likely them toughs in Tepee Mountain is liftin' yore beef, Raven," the Double S man offered.

After a while the other two sat down to play cards, and Raven led the marshal into his office.

"Yu got any private opinion 'bout this killin'?" he asked.

"I said all I had to say at the enquiry," was the reply.

"Young Andy could 'a' done it," the saloon-keeper suggested. Green shook his head. "Pete an' me checked up the times; we know when the old man left Lawless an' when Andy started from the Box B; he'd have had to ride mighty good to reach the Old Mine before his dad," he pointed out. " 'Nother thing, Andy carries a .44, which takes the same fodder as his Winchester."

Seth could not gainsay this. "O' course, I was on'y givin' yu a possible line. Andy is in pretty deep with me, an' the old man didn't know it."

"Anyways, he couldn't 'a' held up the stage, being at the Box B all that day."

"Huh! Bound to be the same fella, yu think?" "Shore as shootin'."

Raven picked up a large sheet of coarse paper. "What yu think o' this?" he queried.

It was a notice, printed in large capitals, offering a reward of one thousand dollars for the capture of the man known as "Sudden," or information leading thereto. No particulars of the outlaw were given, but the horse was described. The document was signed by the saloon-keeper.

"Might produce somethin'," the marshal agreed. "We gotta do somethin'. This is the fourth play he has put across in a short while. It's up to yu an' Barsay, marshal," Raven said.

"We'll get him," Green said confidently, and picking up the notice, went to nail it outside the saloon door.

Seth Raven puzzled him. Apparently a public-spirited citizen, anxious for the welfare of the community, there was an elusive something which evaded the marshal. With an innate feeling that the man was crooked, he had to admit that so far he was not justified in that belief. A little later, when he entered his quarters, and went in to see the sufferer he found him still occupying Barsay's bed, and awake. The black eyes, no longer fierce, looked up at him gratefully, reminding him of a devoted dog: and as any sort of sentiment rendered him uncomfortable, his tone was almost abrupt as he asked, "Feelin' better?" "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 fore-leg." 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.

CHAPTER VIII

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?"

"S'pose he'll show yu to-morrow," the deputy said. "Yu want me along?"

"No use both goin'," Green replied. "Yu better stay here to see that no festive cow-person ropes the office an' drags it into the desert."

The sun was not yet up and there was a keen bite in the air when the marshal and the Mohave set out. Once clear of the town, the redskin turned his horse's head to the north-west, in the direction of Tepee Mountain, and for an hour they loped over miles of level range, sandy soil thickly dotted with bunch-grass, creosote, and mesquite. Green guessed that his guide was taking him direct to the finish of his trailing; evidently the murderer had, as he suspected, doubled back after crossing the Border. Deep gorges, masked by black pine forests, slashed the lower slopes of the range, and above them towered the great grey granite peak.

Into one of these ravines the Indian led the way, his mount splashing along a small stream which swept smoothly over its stony bed. For about a quarter of a mile they rode in the water, and then the leader turned sharply to the left and vanished in the bordering bushes. The marshal followed, to find an unexpected break in the wall of the gorge, an opening only a few yards wide, guarded by a rough pole gate. On the other side was a tiny pocket of not more than a dozen acres, covered with rich grass and walled in by cliff. At the far end a black horse was grazing. On a bare patch of ground near the entrance, which his guide carefully avoided, were several hoofmarks, some of which Green recognized; the others had been made by a smaller horse.

"Good work," he said approvingly, and the Indian's expressive eyes gleamed at the praise. "I reckon there ain't much doubt, but we'll make shore."

They rode slowly into the valley, keeping away from the strange horse until they were level with it, and then Green suddenly whirled his mount and jumped it at the grazing animal, round the neck of which the noose dropped before the victim could dodge. Slipping from his saddle, the marshal walked up the rope, coiling it as he approached, but ready for a breakaway. The black, however, proved ropewise and docile; it allowed him to pull its head down and discover, at the roots of the hair, little flakes of white. Lifting the near foreleg, he found the same singularity.

"She's the hoss, shore enough," he muttered. "All we gotta do now is find the owner."

"Nothin' here--me look," Black Feather said.

"Huh! Just uses it as a private corral. Rides here, changes mounts to do his dirty work, an' has the other hoss waitin' to get away on," mused the marshal. "That means he ain't too far from here."

Leaving the gate exactly as they found it, they made their way back to the open range, and then, having warned him not to talk--Pete would have deemed this unnecessary--the marshal sent his companion back to town. He himself headed east, following the line of the mountain. Presently he began to come on scattered groups of cattle. He had drawn near to one of these and was endeavouring to decipher the brand when a bullet droned through the air, followed by the flat report, and a hoarse shout of "Put 'em up; the next one drills yu."

The marshal did not comply--his hands were too busy subduing the evolutions of Nigger, who, having decided objections to bullets whistling past his ears, never failed to register a protest. When the rider had succeeded in calming the black, he looked up into the gun of the man who had given the order. It was Leeson. Despite the threatening weapon, the marshal laughed.

"Why, if it ain't Mister Wild Bill 'Hiccup,'" he said. "Playin' with fire-arms, too. What yu mean, scaring my hoss thataway?"

The man glared at him, his finger itching to pull the trigger. But the marshal had been appointed by Raven, and besides, although his own gun was already out, he had an uneasy feeling that this jeering, confident devil would somehow get the better of him. So he holstered his pistol and said sullenly:

"Didn't know yu. Wondered what yore interest was in our cows, that's all."

"Yore cows?" the marshal repeated.

"Yeah, I'm ridin' for the 88," the man explained.

"Raven's ranch, huh? How far away is it?"

Leeson pointed east and said it was some three miles to the ranch-house.

"Who put yu up to that fool play the other night?" Green asked.

The man flushed. "Some o' the boys," he growled. "It was on'y a joke."

"Well, I hope yu laughed hearty," the marshal said. "So long."

He turned his horse and rode in the direction indicated.

The 88 ranch-house was an unpretentious log building of no great size and somewhat slovenly appearance. The bunk-house and corrals were rough, and conveyed the impression of being temporary structures. The rear of the ranch was protected by the lower slopes of the mountain, a jumbled, precipitous piece of country which made the open range in front the only means of approach. The place appeared to be deserted, but Green's shout of "Hello, the house," brought Jevons to the door. His eyes narrowed when he saw who the visitor was, but he forced an unwilling grin to his lips.

" 'Lo, marshal," he said. "What's brung yu out so far?"

"Just havin' a look round," Green said easily. "New territory to me, you see."

Jevons suddenly remembered his duties as host, "Light an' rest yore saddle," he invited, adding, "That's a good hoss yu got; had him long?"

"Coupla years," Green told him carelessly. "Some folks don't like blacks--claim they're unlucky; me, I ain't fussy."

"Don't care for 'em myself," the foreman said, "Wouldn't own one as a gift."

The room they entered was rudely furnished with the barest necessities and littered with a medley of saddles, bridles, guns, and the various paraphernalia of ranch equipment. Jevons produced a bottle and glasses.

"Yu 'pear to be pretty well fixed here," the guest offered, meaning exactly the opposite. "Raven come out much?"

"The place serves its purpose," the foreman said: and, boastfully, "Seth leaves things to me--must be a'most a month since he drifted over; reckon he finds the Red Ace more comfortable."

"Can't blame him," the marshal agreed. "Yu got some fierce scenery back o' yu; I ain't surprised yo're losin' cows."

"We ain't shy many, an' if folks warn't so soft over warpaints we wouldn't be losin' them," Jevons said pointedly. "My men has orders to shoot any brave pirootin' round this range."

The marshal made a mental note to warn Black Feather, declined a second drink, and asked the nearest way back to Lawless.

"Bear off east an' three-four miles'll bring yu to the drive trail north," Jevons told him.

Until the visitor had become a mere speak on the plain the foreman watched him, his lips twisted into an ugly sneer. "Wonder what yu were after, Mister Man?" he muttered. "I've a hunch yu ain't exactly mother's little helper so far as Seth is concerned, an' that it's goin' to be worth while to keep cases on yu."

Meanwhile the subject of this speculation was proceeding leisurely homewards, his mind busy with the problem he had to solve. That the man masquerading as "Sudden" was one of the refugees in Tepee Mountain he did not believe. The fact that the crimes had been perpetrated at propitious times could not be mere coincidence, the miscreant must have bad inside knowledge. The location of the hidden horse so far from Sweetwater made Lawless the most likely place to look for the owner. He thought of Leeson, who had already adopted one famous alias.

"It don't need much nerve to shoot a fella from cover," he reflected. "If he thought I'd found an' collared the black it might explain his cuttin' loose on me so prompt, an' that shot was meant to hit--he warn't funnin'."

It was late in the afternoon when he reached the town, and putting his horse in the corral, joined his deputy in the little front room of their quarters.

Pete answered the marshal's question as to whether the Indian had returned.

"Sifted in two-three hours back," he said. "Couldn't git a word outa him. Gripes! a clam is one big chatterbox alongside that redskin."

"He's obeyin' orders," Green said, and told of the finding of the black horse and what followed.

"Leeson ain't got the brains," the deputy decided.

"Somebody else may be doin' the plannin'," Green argued.

"Who?" Pete asked unthinkingly, and instantly wanted to kick himself.

The marshal looked at him commiseratingly, "That's the worst o' them hair-trigger tongues," he said. "Fella's gotta say somethin' even when he's got nothin' to say."

This reasoning was too much for the deputy; with a snort of disgust he stamped out of the room. The marshal's smiling glance followed him.

"Tubby, yo're one good little man, white clean through," he apostrophized. "I'm shore glad I met up with yu."

But not for worlds would he have had his friend hear this eulogy.

CHAPTER IX

Unwonted tranquillity reigned in Lawless, and the popularity of the new marshal with the better type of citizen increased daily. Such realized that this steady-eyed, good-humoured young man knew his job and was a very different proposition to the hard-drinking, swaggering ruffians who had previously held the position. The rougher element, though it did not like the officer, feared him, sensing the possibilities of violence beneath the quiet exterior. Naturally there was a good deal of curiosity respecting him. Durley, chatting at his door with Timms, the blacksmith, stated his own opinion.

"He's a man. Give him a square deal an' yu'll get the same. Hello, there's Tonia Sarel; ain't she the prettiest thing that ever happened?"

The girl, who had just emerged from the store on the other side of the street, had stopped to speak with Andy Bordene. Lawless had seen little of the young owner of the Box B since his father had been laid to rest in the little cemetery by the creek, for there had been much to do at the ranch. Tonia's quick eye saw at once the change in him; grief and responsibility had brought manhood. There were lines about the mouth and eyes that she had never seen and a gravity she had not yet known. But it was Andy's old smile that greeted her.

"'Lo, Tonia, what good wind fetched yu in to-day?" he asked.

"A woman's usual excuse--shopping," she smiled. "We've been expecting you at the Double S."

"I know, but I've had stacks to do," he replied. "Dad, dear old boy, hadn't what they call a business head--he was straight himself an' trusted folks. His affairs were in a bit of a mess, an' I'll have to buckle in to put them right."

Tonia nodded. She knew he was telling her that the Box B was not as prosperous as he had expected to find it. Old Bordene, a bluff, out-of-doors specimen of the early pioneer, who regarded a given word binding as a written one, was the kind whose ranch might easily be in difficulties without his realizing it, if people whose promises he had carelessly accepted failed to redeem them.

"If we can do anything, Andy--" she began, and broke off at an exclamation from her companion.

"Sufferin' serpents! Here's a circus a-comin'."

The girl turned and saw a group of riders pacing slowly up the street. Their leader, who was mounted on a fine Spanish horse, was the most magnificently-attired person Lawless had ever beheld. His sombrero, bright scarlet tunic, and blue trousers were lavishly decorated with gold braid, the spurs on his polished boots were of silver, and a wealth of the same metal adorned saddle and bridle. The half-dozen men who followed him were Mexicans, dressed in nondescript ragged garments, but all well armed.

"Who the blazes is that spangled jay?" asked a bystander.

"El Diablo, the guerrilla, though what the hell he's doin' this side o' the line, I dunno," replied another. "Wonder where he stole that hoss?"

It was Andy's laugh which drew the Mexican's attention to the girl, and at the sight of her his eyes gleamed. With a wrench at the reins he forced his mount to pivot on its hindlegs, and pulling up at the sidewalk, swept off his hat and spoke to Bordene, using the American tongue.

"I am Moraga; present me to the senorita."

His voice was harsh, commanding, and the bold gaze rested on the girl possessively as it absorbed the slim, graceful beauty of her. The young rancher saw the lust in the look, and this, added to the insolence of the demand, made him careless of offence. Disdainfully he replied:

"Never heard o' yu, an' we ain't carin'."

The guerrilla's yellow face became suffused and his smile changed to a snarl. "Perhaps the senor has heard of El Diablo?" he said softly, and seeing the question in the young man's face, he added, "Si, senor, I am El Diablo."

Andy's cool gaze travelled slowly over the Mexican. "Well--yu--shore--look it," he drawled, and taking Tonia by the arm, turned away.

For an instant the man who had called himself Moraga glared murder, his claw-like fingers hovering over the butt of the pistol thrust through his brightly-coloured sash. But he knew it would be madness--a dozen men would shoot him down if he drew the weapon, and with a savage oath he wheeled his horse, scoring its sides until the cruel spurs showed red, and rejoined his waiting followers. The humiliation made the still unhealed stripes under the gay coat burn like fire.

"Andy has shore rubbed that Greaser the wrongest way," grinned one of the spectators of the scene. "S'pose he's goin' to visit Seth?"

His surmise was correct, for at the Red Ace the Mexican wrenched his horse to a stop, flung the reins over the hitch-rail, and with a wave of dismissal to his men, vanished inside. The escort rode back to the dive presided over by their countryman, Miguel.

Closeted with Raven in the letter's office, the visitor showed no sign of his recent rage. Smoking a long, black cigar and occasionally helping himself to wine from a bottle on the desk, he was suavity itself. The saloon-keeper had been explaining something at length.

"So now yu got it," he concluded. "There'll be five hundred steers--mebbe more. They won't be wearin' my brand--I'm takin' 'em for a debt, yu understand, but once they're over the line their monograms won't matter, I reckon."

Moraga's thin lips curled in a meaning smile; he understood perfectly. This was not the first transaction between them, though on previous occasions the saloon-keeper had apparently sold his own cattle. He drew reflectively at his cigar and asked a question, casually:

"It musta bin Tonia Sarel," Raven said, with a keen glance. "Owns the Double S; father was dry-gulched in The Cut a while ago."

"So," the Mexican said. "Ver' preety, that senorita," One finger of his right hand was idly drawing a figure on the desk--the letter S. He completed it and began again, but this time he continued the up-stroke and the S became an 8, He laughed quietly, shot a sly look at his host, and said again, "Ver' preety." The saloon-keeper was not to be drawn; he was wearing his poker face. Moraga harked back.

"Who was the man?" he asked.

"From yore description I'd say it was young Bordene o' the Box B," Raven told him.

"Whose father was also--removed," Moraga said reflectively; and then, "So the Box B weel provide the steers thees time, senor?"

Seth Raven looked at the malicious, sneering face and had hard work to keep his temper.

"See here, Moraga, better not horn in on what don't concern yu," he advised. "It was a fool play to come ridin' in at the head of a young army as if yu owned the town."

"Would you have me sleenk in and out like a cur, senor?" the Mexican returned haughtily. "I am El Diablo."

"Which is why I'm warnin' yu," Raven replied, a touch of acid in his tone, "On yore side o' the line yu may be ace-high, but this side"--he smiled sourly at his own humour--"yo're the deuce. If yu take my tip, yu'll git back to yore own bank o' the ditch, pronto."

"Moraga does not run away," the other said boastfully. "I stay till evening."

The saloon-keeper shrugged his shoulders and offered no further protest. Probably there would be no trouble, but knowing Lawless, he wished his guest on his way.

Raven was not present when, later on, the guerrilla chief made his appearance in the Red Ace. A few of Seth's friends nodded a greeting, but most of the men present either sniggered or scowled as the garishly-clad figure strutted arrogantly to the bar. He had almost reached it when he saw the marshal, who, chatting with Pete, had not noticed his arrival. For an instant Moraga stood motionless, his eyes distended, his lips working, and then he snatched out his pistol.

The marshal caught one glimpse of the scarlet-coated form and acted. A powerful thrust with his left hand sent Pete reeling away and at the same time a spurt of flame darted from his right hip. The bullet, striking Moraga's gun, tore it from his numbed fingers. His left hand was reaching for his second pistol when a warning came.

"Don't yu," the marshal said, and the cold threat in the words penetrated even the brain of the infuriated Mexican. He hesitated, and before he could make up his mind, two men had grabbed his arms, holding him, cursing and struggling, while others got out of the line of fire. In the midst of the uproar Raven came surging in.

"What in hell's broke loose?" he thundered.

A dozen excited voices told him the story, and as he listened his face settled into a heavy scowl. He turned to Green.

"I'll attend to this," he said, and signed the men to release the captive. Then, with a fierce whispered word, he led the Mexican into his private room.

Immediately they had disappeared the excitement broke out again. Threats against the "Greaser" were freely uttered, and the saloon-keeper was openly blamed for what was regarded as an insult to the whole town.

"What made him pick on vu, marshal?" the store-keeper, Loder, enquired.

"Spotted my badge, I reckon," Green evaded with a laugh.

Meanwhile, Seth Raven was listening to a story which brought disquietude even to his usually impassive features, for Moraga, mad with rage at his second discomfiture, blurted out the tale of his former meeting with the marshal, despite the fact that he thereby published his own shame. Striding up and down the room, gesticulating, his voice rose to a shrill shriek as he cursed and threatened.

"I'll keel him--keel him by inches!" he cried, and his claw-like fingers opened and shut as though he held his enemy's throat.

"I ain't sayin' yu mustn't," Raven said quietly, "but yu can't do it now or here. He's the marshal, an' the way the fellas out there look at it yu've tried to run a blazer on the town. Hark to 'em." Through the partition they could hear loud and angry voices. "If yu wasn't my guest, senor, yu'd be dancin' a fandango on nothin' right now, an' yu can stick a pin in that," the saloon-keeper went on. "Yu better slide outa the back door, climb yore cayuse, an' hike for the Border."

Possessed by passion as he was, the visitor knew that Raven was right. So when, in response to a message, the marshal entered the office, there was no sign of the Mexican. Raven, slumped in his chair, greeted him with a frowning brow.

"Pretty damn mess yore blasted Injun has got us into," he began. "What's the idea, shootin' strangers up thisaway?"

The marshal's eyes grew frosty and his jaw stiffened. "See here, Raven," he said, and his tone had an edge, "if yu think any yeller-skinned thief can pull a gun on me an' get away with if yu got another guess comin'. O' course"--and there was a suspicion of a sneer--"I didn't know he was a friend o' yores."

"Friend nothin'," the saloon-keeper replied testily. "He buys cows, pays a good price, an' saves me the trouble an' expense o' drivin' 'em to the rail-head. But it ain't that I'm thinkin' of. That hombre can raise more'n hundred men. S'pose he comes back an' stands the town up, what yu goin' to do?"

"Yo're scarin' me cold," Green said sarcastically. "Me? I should run like hell, o' course. Anythin' else yu wanta say to me?"

Raven shook his head, and for some time after Green had gone sat there deep in thought, inwardly cursing the new marshal and himself for having appointed him. It was becoming all too evident that this saturnine, self-reliant young puncher was not likely to "come to heel," and that--despite Raven's assertion to the contrary--he had quite a good notion of his responsibilities. Although he had given him the position, Raven knew he could not take it away without a very good excuse, and the fracas with Moraga, far from furnishing that, had only made the marshal more popular. When at length he got up there was an ugly expression on his face.

* * *

From the bunk-house of the Box B, Rusty watched the approach of a horseman along the trail, which, emerging from the thicket of spruce and cottonwood, zigzagged across the open stretch in front of the ranch. Presently the visitor was sufficiently near to be identified.

"The Vulture, huh?" murmured the cowboy. "I'm damned if he don't look like it too."

And, in fact, Raven, with his dark slouched hat, and long black coat-tails flapping in the light breeze, presented quite a resemblance to the bird he had been named after. He pulled up opposite the bunk-house.

"Andy around?" he asked curtly.

"I reckon," came the equally short reply.

Raven nodded and rode up to the ranch-house, a large one-storied log-building with a wide, roofed-in porch. His hail brought Bordene to the door.

" 'Lo, Seth," he greeted. "Get down an' spoil yore thirst. Takin' exercise to pull yore weight down, huh?"

The saloon-keeper joined in the laugh--though his contribution was a mere dry cackle--as he hoisted his spare body out of the saddle and climbed stiffly down.

He declined the drink, but accepted a cigar, and when this was alight to his satisfaction, he shot a sly glance at his host.

"Yu got a nice place here, Andy," he began, his eye taking in the solid, spacious bunk-house, barns, and corrals, and beyond them the level miles of grass, burnt brown and dead-looking by the summer heat, but, as he well knew, still the best of feed for cattle. Moreover, among the cottonwoods through which he had ridden was a little stream which later became a deep pool, worth in itself a small fortune in that arid land. "Yore range must mighty near reach the Double S."

"Our eastern line is their western," Andy told him, wondering what was coming. Was Raven about to make him an offer for the ranch? If so, he was doomed to disappointment; Andy would not have sold for twice the value.

Seth nodded reflectively. "Yore dad musta sunk a lot o' coin in it," he said. "This cattle business is a costly one, as I'm afindin' out; the 88 just eats money, spite of all Jevons can do to keep down expenses; which explains why I'm here."

Andy began to comprehend. "Yu want that five thousand I owe yu, is that it, Seth?" he asked.

"Partly, my boy, partly," the other assented. "I'm hatin' to press yu just now, but bein' up against it myself--" He paused a moment and went on, "Unfortunately, Andy, that ain't all; there's what yore old man had too."

"Dad? He owed yu some?" Bordene cried.

Satisfaction flickered for an instant in the visitor's eyes. He nodded and produced a paper. "Yu can see for yourself," he said.

The young rancher took the document and stared at it amazedly. It was a note of hand for fifteen thousand dollars, written out and signed by his father. Carelessly done by one who trusted others, the amount was in figures only and there was nothing to show that a deft stroke of the pen had trebled the indebtedness. For a moment he looked at it in stunned silence; it was a heavy blow, but he had enough of his sire in him to take it without wincing. He handed back the note, and said quietly:

"That's good enough, Seth. I dunno why Dad didn't tell me, but there it is. I'm payin' it, o' course, but yu'll have to wait a few weeks till I've sold the herd I'm roundin' up. I was goin' to make her a thousand strong, but it'll have to be fifteen hundred. There'll be a buyer waitin', an' I reckon they'll turn me in thirty thousand; that'll put things straight."

"Suits me," Raven returned. "I ain't aimin' to rush yu. When yu reckon to drive?"

"Soon as I can get the extra cows--say two-three days," the young man told him.

"Comin' along to-night to win some o' that dinero back?" the saloon-keeper smiled.

Bordene shook his head. "I gotta hustle," he said. "Wait till I'm outa debt an' I'll have yore hide."

The visitor nodded agreement. "Well, s'long, Andy, an' good luck with the drive," he said.

Jogging leisurely back to Lawless he gave vent to a sneering chuckle. On the assumption that old Bordene would not tell his son all his business, he had put up a bluff, and it had come off. It had been easy. "Pie like mother made," he muttered, his covetous eyes sweeping the fine grazing over which he was passing.

CHAPTER X

The marshal and his deputy, after a day of ferreting in the Tepee Mountain region, turned their horses' heads towards home. They had discovered nothing; the black was still peacefully grazing in the little valley and there were no new hoof-prints. The wind was rising and getting colder.

"Well, we ain't done much, but I reckon we'll call it a day," Green remarked. "I wanted for yu to know where that cache is in case someone takes a chance at me an' gets away with it."

They were now nearing the broad cattle-trail which led north. In the fading light they saw a cloud of dust slowly approaching from the direction of Lawless.

"Herd a-comin'," Barsay announced. "I guess it'll be young Bordene."

"Yeah," the marshal agreed, and scanned the sky with distrust. "There's a storm a-comin' too. I'm for beddin' down with Andy to-night. We got all o' twenty miles to cover, an' the bosses is tired."

"Yo're whistlin'," Pete agreed. "Gee, they're gettin' a wiggle on that herd. I'm thinkin' Andy has seen that storm too."

"An' he wants them cows good an' tired before they beds down--they won't be so easy scared then," the marshal opined.

In fact, the herd was now coming on at a good gait, and very soon the shrill cries of the cowboys and the loud bellowing of the beasts could be heard. Beneath the smother of choking dust the cattle, a compact dark mass, came on at a clumsy trot. Ahead of them a single horseman whose right hand went to his gun when he discerned the two shadowy men waiting in the trail. The marshal held up his hand palm outwards, the Indian peace sign.

"'Lo, Bordene, we ain't holdin' yu up for nothin' 'cept a meal," he called out. "Lawless shore seems a long ways off. so we're aimin' to throw in with yu for the night."

"Glad to have yu, gents," the young man replied, riding aside to let the herd pass. "Fact is, I got a sorta feelin' we might have trouble an' two more men'd be plumb useful."

They sat and watched the cattle go lumbering by, the thud of thousands of hoofs shaking the ground beneath them. The horse-wrangler with the remuda followed, and the chuck-wagon, drawn by a team of mules, and driven by a dust-choked and vituperative cook, brought up the rear.

"A good gather," the marshal commented.

"The pick o' the ranch," Bordene told him. "Couldn't afford to run any risk; I gotta have the money."

"Where yu proposin' to camp?"

"In The Pocket, a little basin 'bout half a mile long; it's sheltered a bit an' there's wood, good grass, an' a pool o' water, though where that comes from the Lord on'y knows, for there ain't no stream."

"Sounds like it might 'a' bin made for yu," Pete put in.

"Shore does, but there's a string tied to it," Andy admitted. "A piece this side o' The Pocket the trail skirts Shiverin' Sand, an' if the herd stampedes an' takes the back track it'll be plain hell."

"Quicksand?" Green queried.

"Yeah, an' the oddest I ever saw," Bordene explained. "At a first glance she seems like any other bit o' desert--but when yu look close yu can see a sort o' movement, the grains o' sand slowly slippin' like there was somethin' stirrin' underneath; an' if yu shove yore arm in it seems to grip an' it's all yu can do to pull it out again. A fond farewell to any cow that gets bogged down in there, I'm tellin' yu."

"Mebbe the storm won't break," the marshal said, as they followed the herd.

Arrangements for the night were well forward when they reached the camping-place, which they did at leisure. The herd had been watered and now, under the ministrations of half a dozen circling riders, was quietly settling down at the far end of the valley. At the near end the cook had a big fire going and the busy rattle of pots and pans sent a cheerful message to tired and hungry men. Having given their mounts a drink, and picketed them, without removing the saddles, the visitors joined the loungers by the fireside.

The customary baiting of the cook was proceeding in a promising manner when a distant rumble of thunder put a sudden end to it. Anxious eyes turned skywards, where an inky, rolling mass of cloud was wiping out the stars in a steady advance. Then came a spot or two of rain.

"She's a-comin', boys, shore as shootin'," Andy said. "Better be ready for anythin' that breaks loose."

Scrambling hurriedly to, their feet, the men donned slickers, and got themselves mounted. The storm was travelling rapidly, straight towards them, each roll of thunder louder than the previous one.

"If the herd comes this way it's gotta be stopped, even if we build a wall o' cows to do it," Andy ordered. "Hell! they're getting panicky a'ready."

Between the peals of thunder they could hear the bawling of the frightened beasts and the voices of the riders striving desperately to keep them together. Andy decided that it was no use sending more men; if the six already there failed, three times the number could not succeed, and the others would be needed to stop the stampede.

"If they run north it won't be so bad," he said. "We can pick 'em up on our way."

Even as he spoke, a jagged finger of white flame split the sky, shattering the darkness for a second with a light that pained the eyes and made sight impossible. It was followed by a deafening crash overhead and a sudden deluge of frozen rain, so fast and furious that it was like a bombardment of steel rods. Huddled in their slickers, the hat-brims pulled down to shield their faces from the stinging pellets, the cowmen sat in their saddles, struggling to quiet their maddened mounts and waiting for the dreaded thunder of pounding hoofs. It did not come.

"Gosh!" Andy cried, "I believe we're a-goin' to make it."

For a moment it seemed he might be right; the storm was passing and a smaller flash of lightning showed them the herd, scared evidently and on the move, but milling. Then came something which dashed their new-born hopes. Above the howl of the wind and the bellowing of the cattle rang out a wild, eerie yell, shrill, penetrating, unmistakable, to anyone who had heard it before. And most of the men there had.

"That's a 'Pache war-cry; what the hell's doin'?" Barsay shouted.

Before anyone could answer, the blood-curdling screech was repeated, to be followed by pistol shots and the drumming beat of thousands of frenzied feet.

"By God! they're off, boys, an' comin' this way," Bordene yelled. "Line out an' drop the leaders; if that don't stop 'em, get outa the way or keep ahead."

The sky was clearing, the rain had ceased, and by the murky light of a few stars they could see the herd, like a great black wave, sweeping down upon them. The sharp crack of rifles and revolvers mingled with the bawling of the terrified brutes and the clash of their great horns as they strove with one another in the mad rush. Many of the front line went down, but this did not stop the others, and the cowmen were forced to spur desperately for the side of the valley to avoid being trampled to death. Green and Andy, who were in the centre of the line, adopted the only alternative and swinging their horses round, raced ahead of the herd.

They reached the exit from the valley with but a few scant yards to spare, just in time; another few seconds and they would have been under the avalanche of death-dealing hoofs. Dismounting at the top of a little knoll, they watched the stream of terror-besotted brutes, heads down and running blindly, vanish in the gloom. They had done all that was possible; there was no longer any hope of saving the herd.

"We can't do a thing till daylight," Andy said moodily. "Better go an' see how the boys are makin' it."

Riding double, they made their way back to the chuck-wagon. The rain had abolished the fire, but the cook had got it going again and was boiling coffee for the group of fagged, disgruntled riders who stood around. Rusty's raised voice came to them as they approached.

"It warn't the storm," he said. "We was holdin' 'em, even after that gran'daddy of a crash; the Injun whoop touched 'em off an' a stone wall wouldn't 'a' stopped 'em then."

" 'Lo, boys," Andy said. "All here?"

"Tod's missin'; we thought he was with yu," Rusty replied.

"He was, but I ain't seen him since the herd took charge. Get busy an' look around."

Gulping down their coffee, the men swung to their saddles and spread out. They soon found and brought him in, limp, battered almost beyond recognition. All knew how the tragedy had happened. Racing, like Andy and the marshal, to keep ahead of the herd, his pony had made a false step, and that was the end. Reverently they covered the still form of the boy--for he was no more--with a blanket, and turned in to snatch a few hours' needed rest.

At sunrise they were in the saddle again, seeking in all directions for survivors of the stampede. They rode in couples, Andy and the marshal again pairing up. The former's face was grey and drawn; the loss of the young puncher had hit him hard. The place from which the shot had been fired was easily found--a little group of scrub-oaks, with sufficient undergrowth to conceal a horseman. The trampled ground showed shod hoof-prints, and the ends of several cigarettes indicated that the watcher had waited there for some time.

"Don't tell us much, 'cept that he wasn't a redskin," Green grumbled. "We better go an' look for yore beef, Andy."

The tracks showed that on leaving the valley the herd had spread widely out. Green was heading his horse to the left when Bordene stopped him.

"Shiverin' Sands lays over there," he said. "Any cows what have gone that way would have to be dug out."

The country to the right of the trail was open range broken only by thickets and brush-filled arroyos. Emerging from one of the latter, they came upon a rider driving twenty Box B steers. The man turned at their hail, and they saw that it was Leeson. The marshal did not miss the start of alarm as he pulled up his mount and waited for them.

"Say, Bordene," he greeted, "what the hell's yore cows doin' around here? I just happened on this bunch an' was takin' 'em to the 88 'fore they rambled farther."

The explanation was plausible enough, but the marshal did not like the haste with which it was made, nor the accompanying half-grin. Andy, however, seemed to have no suspicion.

"Much obliged to yu, Leeson, for collectin' 'em," he replied. "My herd stampeded outa The Pocket in the storm last night. I reckon mebbe you'll find some more."

"Tough luck," Leeson commiserated. "Didn't know yu was drivin'. That storm was shore a cracker-jack."

"Seen any Injuns about here lately?" Green asked, and watched the man closely.

"Why, no," was the reply, and then, after a pause, "that is, I ain't actually seen any, but I come upon a fresh sign 'bout a mile or so north o' here yestiddy."

Green suspected the statement was an afterthought, concocted for the occasion, but he affected to accept it. Bordene pointed to the cattle.

"We'll take these off yore hands, Leeson," he said. "If yu get any more tell Saul to let me know an' I'll send for 'em."

The sullen eyes of the 88 man followed them as they drove the little herd away.

He jabbed his heels into the flanks of his horse, and rocketed away over the plain in the direction of Raven's ranch.

Dusk found Bordene and his men back in the valley. The day's hard riding had resulted in the recovery of about five hundred of the scattered cows.

"An' that's all we'll get," the owner said gloomily. "The rustlers an' that blasted quicksand have got the rest, an' we'll never see hide nor hair of 'em. No use makin' the drive with this handful, boys; we'll get back to the ranch an' gather another herd."

The night passed quietly but miserably, for the loss of a comrade and the disaster of the stampede had been too much for the usually buoyant natures of the outfit. In the early morning they started the depleted herd homewards, leaving behind them, beneath a beautiful palo verde, an oblong pile of rocks. The marshal and his deputy rode in the other direction, and, at the far end of the valley, found what they were seeking--the spot where the stampeders had been stationed. Behind a sharp ridge the soft ground was scored and trampled.

"Shod hosses an' men wearin' boots," Green commented. "I had a notion that Injun yell warn't just the genuine article."

Beyond a few spent shells there was nothing else, and though they tried to follow the tracks, they soon lost them in the welter of the main trail. Giving up the task as hopeless, they followed the herd. The marshal was very silent; he was remembering that Leeson had used the Apache cry that night in the Red Ace.

CHAPTER XI

Long before the remnant of the trail herd had got back to the Box B the news of the disaster had come to the Red Ace. On the afternoon following the stampede, a Mexican rider, who had approached the town by devious ways, slipped into the private office. Raven's small black eyes gleamed maliciously as he listened to the messenger's tale.

When the man had gone Raven sat thinking for a while, and then, taking his hat, sauntered down the street. Lawless boasted only one bank. Built of 'dobe bricks, with walls three feet in thickness, it presented an appearance, at least, of solidity. The manager, Lemuel Potter, who was commonly regarded as also the owner, possessed one of those curious neuter personalities which caused him to be neither liked nor disliked. He was a pompous person, fond of affecting a superiority which imposed on some and amused others, but he was reputed to be straight in his dealings. It was into this building that Raven turned, and, with a nod to the clerk behind the counter, walked through the door marked "Manager." At the sight of his visitor, Potter stood up, and then as suddenly sat down again.

"Afternoon, Potter," the saloon-keeper said, and, not troubling to remove his hat, took a seat and lit a cigar. "How's Andy Bordene's account stand?"

The manager's fleshy, clean-shaven face flushed, and with some attempt at dignity he replied: "It is against all rules, Mr. Raven, for a bank to disclose the affairs of a customer."

The saloon-keeper looked at him with an expression of amused contempt.

"Come down to earth, yu worm," he said cuttingly. "It suits me that folk should think yu own this place, but yu know better. Don't put any frills on with me or I'll trim yu good an' plenty, Mr. Rutson." The man's cheeks became deathly white and his portly form seemed to shrink in his clothes at the name he hated to hear. Raven chuckled at the effect he had produced. "I asked yu a question, Mr.--Potter," he added, and laughed again when the other winced at the pause. Utterly cowed, Potter went into the outer office and consulted a ledger.

"Bordene is overdrawn five thousand," he announced. "I saw him a few days ago and I understood that the sale of his herd would put him right."

Raven grinned sardonically. "Mebbe, but he's lost most of the cows in a stampede," he said. "Now listen to me. Bordene is in a hole an' he'll be comin' to yu. Let him have thirty thousand on his ranch but tie him up tight. Yu understand?"

"Yes--sir," the manager replied.

The title of respect only brought a sneer to the visitor's lips. "See to it then, an' keep yore mouth shut or--I'll open mine," he growled, and went out.

Potter paled again at the threat, but he said nothing; he knew he was hopelessly in the power of this man. With trembling hands he lighted a cigarette, and, as he had done so many times, sat there trying to find some means of escape.

* * *

Two days later Bordene, having brought his salvaged herd safely back to the Box B, was sitting in Raven's office, telling the story of the ill-fated drive. The elder man listened with a sympathetic expression.

"So yu saved 'bout a third of 'em," he commented. "Well, that's somethin'. But yu was shore playin' in pore luck, an' it hits us both. I told yu how I'm fixed, an' I was dependin' on yu gettin' that money. What yu aim to do?"

"Scratch up another bunch--it won't be such a good one--an' try again. I've sent word to my buyer."

"That means waitin'--which I can't do. Why not see Potter? He'll let yu have the ready on yore ranch, an' that'll give yu time to turn round; yu can easy get clear when yu sell yore cows. I don't want to ride yu, Andy, but I'm bein' rode myself."

So because it seemed the only way out, and to avoid letting down one whom he deemed to be a friend, Andy went to the bank, and the man who had advised him to do so grinned felinely when he was gone. Once he held the mortgage, he would see that Bordene got deeper in the mire, and in the end the Box B would his. Things had not quite come out as he had planned, but perhaps it was as well. It meant some delay, but his Indian blood had endowed him with patience. Andy had been profuse in his praise of his preserver, and presently the saloon-keeper went in search of him. He found the marshal and his deputy lolling in the door of their dwelling.

"Any news, marshal?" he asked.

"Bordene came from the Red Ace a piece ago, so I'm figurin' yu musta heard it all," Green told him.

"I got his account, but I thought yu might 'a' noticed some-thin' he missed," Raven replied.

"Andy didn't miss nothin' 'cept a visit to the next world, an' not that by so awful much," Green smiled. "Them war-whoops had it framed up pretty neat."

"Yu reckon it was Injuns?" the other asked casually.

"Seemed so, didn't it, Pete?" the marshal said.

"Shore did," the deputy lied with ready alacrity. He did not know what Green's game was, but he was prepared to back it to the limit.

"It's rough on Bordene, comin' on top o' the old man bein' rubbed out," the saloon-keeper said reflectively. "Yu ain't struck the trail o' Mister Sudden yet?"

"Somebody musta told yu," the marshal said satirically. "Me an' Pete was tryin' to keep that a secret."

If Raven appreciated the pleasantry his wooden face did not betray it. "What's come o' that no-'count Injun yu fetched in?" he enquired.

"Oh, he's around," the marshal said carelessly.

"Send him on his way; this town don't want his kind," Raven growled harshly.

At this order--for it was nothing else--the marshal's lounging form straightened. "He's workin' for me," he said quietly.

For an instant the black eyes tried to stare down the grey-blue ones--and failed. Nevertheless, no trace of rancour appeared in his voice as he replied:

"Oh, well, if yu can use him--but yu'll be responsible."

Pete spat disgustedly as his gaze followed the saloon-keeper down the street. "That damn war-whoop is shore gettin' yu some friends," he said. "What is he a-doin' anyways?"

For immediately they had reached Lawless again the Mohave had vanished, taking his horse and gun. The marshal's grin was provoking.

"Curiosity brought sin into the world, Tubby," he said. "If Eve hadn't wondered about that apple--"

"Oh, go to blazes," the deputy rudely retorted, and stamped into the kitchen to make coffee. He was enjoying this half an hour later when his friend strode into the office.

"Come an' get yore hoss. Black Feather is back an' we got some ridin' to do," the marshal told him.

"Ridin'? This time o' the day? Why, it'll be dark in two-three hours," the other expostulated. "Where we goin'?"

"All the way there an' back again," was the non-committal explanation. "Yo're gettin' fatter'n a hawg, loafin' around; yu want exercise."

"Yo're a trifler with the truth--I don't want nothin' o' the kind," Pete said. " 'Cause yu look like a scraped shin-bone yu think everybody oughta."

They found the Indian waiting for them at the corral, and having secured their own mounts, set out. Keeping, at the marshal's suggestion, behind the houses, they slipped out of town unobserved. The redskin led the way due west, riding at a smart clip. Several miles of semi-desert were covered in silence and then Pete's patience came to an end.

He shot an oblique glance at the long, silent figure riding beside him, and said: "S'pose yu spill some o' the beautiful thoughts millin' in yore majestic mind, an' tell us where we're at?"

"I'm hopin' to find some o' Bordene's cows for him," the marshal said. "Black Feather don't talk much."

"Yo're damn right, he don't," Pete agreed. "Yu'd think words was a dollar each he's that sparin' of 'em, an' yo're pretty near as bad."

The approach of night found them threading a tumbled tract of country which was new to both the white men. Their guide rode stolidly on, twisting and turning without hesitation, though they could see no trail. At length they emerged from an arroyo and saw a trampled track stretching away to the right and left. Black Feather slid down and examined the ground closely in the fading light. He rose with a grunt of satisfaction.

"No come--yet," he said. "We wait."

He pointed to the thick underbrush at the mouth of the arroyo out of which they had ridden, and, leading the horses, they ensconced themselves behind it. An hour passed and Green was beginning to fear that the Indian had made a mistake when the distant bellow of cattle broke the silence. The moon was rising now, and peering through the bushes, they could see on the plain a dark blur which was coming nearer. Then came the dull tramp of hoofs and the low calls of the riders. Mounting their horses, the watchers waited until the herd began to file past at a tired trot. The man riding point on the left of the cattle was Leeson. The marshal forced his horse into the open.

" 'Lo, Leeson," he said.

Like a flash the man twisted in the saddle, his hand streaking to his hip, but it came away as quickly when he recognized the officer. Under the flapping brim of his hat the narrowed eyes looked vicious, but for the moment he could find nothing to say. Then reflecting that the new-comer was apparently alone, he blurted out:

"What the hell yu doin' here?"

"I'm good an' lost," the marshal smiled. "Yu see, I ain't very acquainted with these parts yet." He raised his voice: "Yu can show yoreself, Pete; it's some o' the 88 boys."

Leeson's face lowered as the deputy and the Indian appeared. "What's the bright idea, hidin' yoreselves an' bustin' out thisaway?" he growled.

"We didn't know who yu was," the marshal explained sweetly. "Yu mighta been Greasers or--rustlers."

The cattle were still moving slowly on. There was a rider on the right point and two more behind. The marshal cast a casual glance at a passing beast.

"Box B, huh?" he commented. "Where'd yu find 'em?"

"Spraddled all over our range," the man said sullenly.

"An' yo're takin' 'em back to Andy, huh?" Green continued. "Well, that's right kind o' Jevons, I gotta admit, but ain't yu goin' a long ways round? Yu'll be over the Border 'fore yu know it."

"Thought yu didn't savvy the country," sneered the 88 man.

"Oh, I got a sort o' general idea. The Box B, I figure, lies well to the left o' here, don't it?"

Leeson nodded sulkily. "We turn off a piece along. This is an. easier way if mebbe a bit farther."

"Tricky drivin' at night," the marshal pursued, and his tone conveyed a question.

"I reckoned to make it in daylight, but we had trouble," the other explained. "Well, I gotta be movin'. So long." He spurred his horse after the herd, but in two jumps the marshal was beside him.

"We'll come an' give a hand," he said. "Four ain't enough for a bunch this size--must be all four hundred."

"We can handle 'em," Leeson said, his tone expressing anything but gratitude. "Yu needn't trouble."

"No trouble a-tall, ol'-timer," Green said pleasantly. "We're goin' yore way."

With a muttered curse the 88 man rode to the head of the herd. He had sensed that the marshal was playing with him, that his presence there was not accidental, but he could see no way of ridding himself of the unwelcome assistance. The cows must now be taken to their rightful owner instead of being handed over to El Diablo, whose men were waiting for them just across the line. Had the interloper been alone--His brows met in a heavy frown.

"Head 'em for Bordene's ranch," he called out to the man on the right, and gritted out an oath as he saw the marshal and his companions helping to swing the cows round so that they faced east instead of south.

"This'll shore be a joyful surprise for Bordene," Pete said genially. "He oughta be real grateful to yu fellas."

The journey was resumed in a silence broken only by the bawling of the cows and an occasional curse from one of the drivers when an animal tried to break away. But there was little of this, the poor brutes being too footsore and weary to do more than lurch along. Faint streaks of light behind the hills heralded the dawn, and the sun was rimming the ridges of the distant ranges with gold when the Box B was sighted. Leaving the herd in charge of the others, Leeson, with Green and Barsay, rode up to the ranch-house. A hail brought out the owner.

"Well, damn me!" he cried. "Whatever are yu doin' here?"

"I've fetched back some o' yore cattle, Bordene," the 88 man told him. "Found 'em mixed up with our'n. We picked up the marshal on the way."

The young rancher's face lighted up at the sight of the herd. "It's mighty decent o' Jevons," he said. "If he'd let me know I'd 'a' sent for 'em, an' glad o' the chance. 'Light an' eat, all o' yu; my boys'll take care o' the herd."

Green, his deputy, Leeson, and their host took breakfast at the ranch-house, the rest eating with the Box B riders. During the meal the 88 man gave again the explanation he had already given the marshal. Bordene was warm in his thanks.

"I'm a lot obliged to yu, Leeson," he said.

"Shucks! Couldn't do nothin' else," that worthy replied uncomfortably, and Green smothered a chuckle; the fellow was, unintentionally, speaking the sober truth.

"Yu ain't struck the trail o' any 'Paches, I'm guessin'?" the marshal asked.

Leeson looked at him with sudden suspicion. "Yore guessin's good," he returned. "Reckon they'd get away with the beef plenty quick."

As soon as the meal was over Leeson got up. "Have to be p'intin' for home--Jevons'll be lookin' for us," he said, and with an unpleasant grin, "an' we'll take the old road; them round-about routes don't seem to pay."

"Crooked trails rarely do, Leeson," the marshal told him.

They watched the 88 men disappear in the distance, and then the marshal leaned back in his chair and laughed. Barsay caught the infection, and the rancher regarded them in blank amazement.

"Let me in on the joke, boys," he pleaded. "I ain't had much to be merry about lately, yu know."

"Sorry, Andy, but it was just too funny to see yu squanderin' gratitude on that fella an' rubbin' a sore spot every time yu thanked him," Green explained. "Fact is, if it hadn't been for me, Pete, an' the Injun, yore cows would 'a' been over the Border hours back. Runnin' across Leeson an' that handful o' steers put the idea in my head, an' I sent Black Feather to keep an eye on the 88. He fetched us just in time."

"The damned skunks!" Andy exploded. "Do yu figure Jevons is in it?"

"Can't say," the marshal admitted. "Don't see how Leeson an' his men could get away with such a herd without the foreman knowin'."

"Seems hardly possible," Bordene agreed.

"Raven owns the 88, don't he?" Pete asked meaningly.

"Yeah, but I can't believe he'd have any hand in this," Andy replied. "Lots o' people don't like him, but he's my friend, an', besides, there was a good reason for him wantin' my drive to go through; I was sellin' to pay a debt to him, an' he wanted the money."

"Then he's still shy of it?" Green asked.

"Nope. I borrowed from the bank an' paid him," Bordene said. "He told me he had to have it."

The marshal was silent for a while, and then he said, "So he's got his coin, an' if he was in this steal he'd be the value o' those steers to the good, huh?"

"That's so, of course, but I can't think it of Seth," the young man replied. "He's hard, an' he wants his pound o' flesh, but he ain't crooked."

Green let it go at that. After all, he had no proof that the saloon-keeper was anything but what he seemed. He had plenty to think about on the journey back to Lawless, and Pete did not enjoy the ride.

CHAPTER XII

The marshal's doubts as to Raven's participation in the attempted rustling would have been speedily dissolved had he been present when the news arrived at the 88. Jevons was angry--for his own pocket was affected--but he was also alarmed. Two hours' riding brought him to the Red Ace. Entering by the back door, he sent in a message to the proprietor, who was playing poker. Raven rose instantly.

"Leave me out for a spell; got sornethin' to 'tend to," he excused, and went to his office.

Here he found his foreman waiting, and it needed no second glance to see that he had come in a hurry and on no pleasant errand. The cards had proved unkind to Raven and he was in an ill mood.

"What's the matter now, Jevons?" he growled.

The man told the story just as he had it from Leeson, and the saloon-keeper's usually impassive face grew stormy as he realized the possible consequences of the disaster.

"Yu blunderin' fool," he hissed. "Why didn't vu go yoreself instead o' sendin' that mutton-head?"

"What difference would that 'a' made anyhow?" Jevons retorted. "Lookit, the marshal finds us drivin' four hundred Box B steers; what else was there to tell him? Let's hear what yu'd 'a' done; shoot 'em down, huh?"

Raven sensed that he was going too far; the man was too useful a tool to lose. Moreover, looking at the problem Leeson had to face more coolly, he could not but admit the only possible solution had been found. Tactfully he turned his wrath in another direction.

"Blast that marshal, he's allus hornin' in on what don't concern him," he snarled. "What was he doin' over there?"

"Waitin' for the herd, Leeson reckons," the foreman said. "Some way he got on to it, though I'm blamed if I know how."

Raven was silent, remembering something. "I can tell yu," he said. "That pesky Indian nosed it out; Green said he was usin' him."

"Yu don't often make a mistake in pickin' a man, boss, but yu shore slipped up on that marshal," Jevons said acidly.

"Mistakes can frequently be rectified," his employer told him. "Leeson don't like Green much, does he?"

"Not that yu'd notice," returned the foreman, adding with an ugly smile as he read the other's mind, "I'm bettin' he'd like five hundred bucks a good deal more."

"He can choose between 'em," the saloon-keeper said meaningly. "Tell him I said so. Anybody see yu ride in?" The foreman shook his head. "Slip out quiet an' get back to the ranch," Raven added, and returned to his cards.

The 88 man was wrong in supposing he had not been seen. A pair of black, vigilant eyes, from a little depression fifty yards to the rear of the Red Ace, had watched both his arrival and departure. Black Feather was still working for the marshal.

* * *

Early on the following afternoon a musical call of "Hello, the house," appraised Bordene that he had a visitor. Stepping out on the veranda, he saw Tonia, astride a mettlesome little mustang. She jumped down and trailed the reins when he appeared.

"Why, Tonia, what good angel fetched you?" he cried.

She sat down in the chair he pushed forward, accepted a glass of water from the olla hanging in the porch, and then turned a serious face to her host.

"I haven't seen you since your drive failed, Andy," she said. "It was bad luck."

"Might 'a' been worse--barrin' Tod," the young man replied. "I got nearly two-thirds of 'em back in the end," and went on to relate the story of the strays from the 88.

"So your cows were headed for Mexico," she said thoughtfully. "Andy, what do you think of the marshal?"

"I reckon he's white," Bordene replied.

"I like him too," she said. "I went in once or twice to see that sick Indian he rescued; the man just worships him."

"Hey, Tonia, don't yu go lavishin' too much affection on Green," Bordene cried; and though he spoke in mock alarm, there was again an undertone of concern in his voice.

The girl detected it and was thrilled. Adopting his own manner of speech, she said teasingly, "I shorely gotta be grateful when a fella helps yu, ain't I?" Before he could reply, she was sober again. "Andy, how much do you owe Raven?"

"Who's been tellin' yu--" he began, and paused.

"The same little old bird," she smiled.

"Reg'lar poll-parrot, that bird," Bordene commented. "Well, here's the straight of it, Tonia. I did owe Seth money an' was aimin' to pay when I sold the herd. When the drive was busted I had to borrow from the bank on mortgage."

"I don't like that," she said. "Why didn't you come to us?"

Bordene shook his head and she rose to go. "It'll be all right, Tonia," he assured her. "Potter is straight, an' when I've sold my cows I can square up. I'll see yu a piece on the way."

The girl laughed at him. "Do you think I'm an Eastern miss to want shepherding?" she asked. Then she held out her hand. "Don't trust Raven too much, Andy," she said earnestly.

With a wave and a smile, she wheeled the pony and was off. The young rancher watched her, something more than admiration in his eyes. Then he looked at his dwelling-place and spoke aloud:

"It ain't good enough for her, an' I ain't good enough neither, but, by God, we're agoin' to be, both of us."

Meanwhile, the subject of this pious resolution was loping steadily in the direction of her own ranch. She had crossed the miles of open plain and reached a strip of rougher country which formed one of the boundaries of the Box B when, at the end of a long, narrow ravine, she saw a rider approaching. One glance was enough--there was no mistaking the flaming scarlet tunic, with its wealth of gold braid glittering in the bright sun. Though she had seen him but once, Tonia knew that it was El Diablo, the man whom Andy had treated so cavalierly in Lawless.

With a shiver of apprehension she sought a means of avoiding the meeting, but it was too late; he must already have seen her. So she rode on, endeavouring to appear unconcerned, hoping that by a display of indifference she might get past. But when she was a few yards distant the man pulled his mount across, barring her path, and swept the sombrero from his head.

"Buenos dias, senorita," he said, and in her own tongue he added, "Miss Sarel ride all alone, huh?"

"As you see, senor," the girl replied. "I must ask you to excuse me; I am in haste."

"The senorita was not hurrying when I see her," he replied meaningly. "A lady so beautiful must also be kind-hearted and grant a few meenits to her so great admirer."

"I have no time to spare, and--I do not know you, senor," Tonia returned.

The guerrilla captain bowed low over the neck of his magnificent mount. "No?" he smiled. "Then we must--how you say?--become acquaint. In the absence of Meester Bordene I present myself, Don Luis Moraga, a caballero of Old Spain, and at your feet."

" 'In my way' would be more correct, senor," the girl retorted. "As for Mr. Bordene, I am expecting him to overtake me, and he may have friends with him."

The man laughed mockingly. "I too have friends here, senorita," he said, and tapped the butts of the silver-mounted pistols thrust through his sash.

"I must repeat, senor, that I am in haste," she said coldly. "A caballero would not detain me."

Moraga grinned hatefully as he forced his horse to her side. "The senorita is at liberty to go--when she have paid, oh, so small a ransom," he said. "One leetle kees--"

Tonia's eyes and cheeks flamed at the insult. Heedless of her helplessness, she gripped the quirt dangling by a thong from her wrist, and cried:

"Lay a finger on me, you yellow dog, and I'll thrash you."

The contemptuous epithet stung the Mexican to fury; his face became that of a devil indeed. "Dios!" he hissed, "you shall pay for that." He snatched at her wrist, but she jumped her horse aside and swung the whip. Moraga cursed as the lash seared his cheek, but before she could strike again his claw-like hands were sinking into her flesh and he was dragging her from the saddle, his snarling lips, like a ravening wolf's, close to her own. Panting for breath, she fought on, but could not loosen that iron grip, and her strength was well-nigh spent when a cold, rasping voice said:

"Put 'em up, Greaser, an' pronto!"

Moraga flashed round, his hands going to his guns, but when he saw who had spoken they went above his head instead; he knew better than to try and beat the marshal of Lawless to the draw. Green, lounging in his saddle, surveyed the ruffian sardonically.

"Gettin' whipped seems to be a habit o' yours," he commented, his gaze on the angry crimson stripe across the man's face. Green turned to the girl. "Has he hurt yu?" he asked.

"No, I'm only frightened," she replied.

"Ride on a piece, Miss Sarel," he said. "I'll be along."

She divined the menace beneath the casual request. "What are you going to do?" she questioned.

"Kill a snake," he said coolly.

"No, no," she protested. "He's a Mexican and didn't understand. Please let him go."

The marshal shrugged his broad shoulders. "I oughta wiped him out the first time," he said. "Very well, ma'am, but he's gotta have a lesson. Get off yore hoss an' stand over there," he directed the Mexican, pointing to a spot about ten paces distant, and when the command had been sullenly obeyed, he added, "An' stand mighty still if yu want to see another sunrise."

He got down himself and drawing the two pistols from the bandit's sash, stepped back. For a moment he paused, weighing the weapons, and then the gun in his right hand roared and the brooch in Moraga's sombrero was torn from its place; a second shot ripped away the bullion band, while the third left the wearer bareheaded. Livid, but a statue of stone for stillness, the victim stood while, with incredible swiftness, shot followed shot in a continual stream. The golden epaulettes dropped from his shoulders; his belt, the buckle shattered by a bullet, fell away; the great silver spurs were wrenched from his heels. Having emptied the borrowed pistols the marshal flung them down and drew his own.

"Keep still," he warned, and stepped round so that he sighted his target sideways.

This time he used both guns, firing them alternately with such speed that the reports sounded like a roll of thunder. One by one the gilt buttons of the scarlet tunic leapt off, and only when the last dropped to the ground did the devilish tattoo cease. From the Mexican's chalky-white face, eyes in which fear and hate commingled glared at this smoke-wreathed, grim-lipped man who shot like a wizard. In those few moments Moraga had died twenty times, expecting each bullet to be the last, and his nerve-racked body was shivering despite the sun blazing overhead. The marshal reloaded his guns and slid them into the holsters.

"Yu can thank the senorita for yore life, Moraga," he said sternly. "Stay yore own side o' the line; she may not be there to beg yu off next time. Vamos!"

He swung into his saddle and joined Tonia.

"How can I thank you?" she asked. "I'm not easily scared, but that fellow was--horrible!"

"Just forget it," Green smiled. "This is part o' my job as marshal; but yu didn't oughta ride alone around here--it's too near the Border."

"Andy wanted to come, but I wouldn't let him," she explained. "He's busy--he has to be, after so much misfortune. Do you believe in luck, Mr. Green?"

"Shore, I've met her," was the reply. The girl's look of surprise brought a grin to his lips. "Luck must be a lady to play the pranks she does, yu know," he explained.

Tonia laughed with him. "I don't think Andy is one of her favourites," she speculated.

"Mebbe not, just now, but I've a hunch he's goin' to be one o' the luckiest fellas in Arizona," the marshal said, and smiled when he saw the colour in his companion's cheeks.

When they reached the Double S, Reuben Sarel emerged from his favoured corner on the veranda to greet them. "Glad to see yu, marshal," he cried. "Why, Tonia, what's the matter?"

In a few words she told of her adventure, and the fat man's expression became serious. "I'm thankin' yu, marshal," he said. "We'll have to keep an eye liftin' at the Double S. By all accounts, El Diablo is a poisonous piece o' work, an' he'll move heaven an' hell to square hisself. Gosh! I'd 'a' give somethin' to see yu strippin' off his finery."

"I never saw such shooting--it was wonderful," Tonia said.

"Well, mebbe yu put a scare into him, but I doubt it," Sarel went on. "These damn Greasers have their own sneaky ways o' gettin' back at yu. Wonder if he bumped off Bordene?"

"Possible, o' course, but I got no reason to think so," the marshal replied. "Yu losin' any cows?"

The fat man opened his eyes. "Yeah, but I ain't been advertisin' it," he said. "There seems to be a steady leak--few at a time, an' I can't trace it. Any reason for askin'?"

"Just a notion," Green assured him. "Tell yu later if I get to know anythin'."

On his way back to town he pondered over the bit of information. It had been purely a shot in the dark, but it opened up a new line of investigation for the morrow. Looking at the Double S brand on the rump of Miss Sarel's mount, it had suddenly struck him how very simply it could be changed, with the aid of a wet blanket and a running iron, into a passable 88. He slapped the neck of the black horse.

"Yu ol' son of a sweep," he told it. "Things is gettin' right interestin' in this neck o' the woods."

CHAPTER XIII

Riding along the street, the marshal noticed that his appearance was creating unusual interest; men he knew greeted him boisterously, and others, though silent, looked at him curiously. It was not until he reached his quarters that he learned the reason. Barsay's chubby countenance was one broad grin.

"So yu've had another fandango with Mister Moraga?" he burst out, and the marshal swore.

"Hell's bells! Has that got around?"

"Shore thing. I just slips into the Red Ace to see if they'd run outa whisky--which they hadn't--an' there's a Box B puncher called Fatty tellin' the town all about it. Seems he was up on one side o' the ravine, afraid to shoot in case he hit the gel, an' no way o' gettin' down. He sees Tonia use her quirt--which she ain't lackin' sand any--an' the Mexican grab her. Yu oughta seen them fellas when he told how yu stood that jay-bird up an' shot the clothes off'n him. Me, I'm hopin' yu remembered there was a lady present. 'Shoot?' sez Fatty. 'Gents, I never seen the like. They say Sudden is fast, but I'm bettin' the marshal would have to wait for him.' They all laughed at that, but not so hearty as I did. Fatty said yu shot all over him, an' with his own guns."

The marshal nodded. "He'll certainly have to steal another outfit; I plumb ruined that one," he admitted.

"That's the worst o' yu fancy gun-slingers," Pete said quizzically, "Now if I'd tried to lift his hat for him I'd 'a' bin inches too low. Say, Raven an' one or two others warn't exactly joinin' in the jubilation."

"I'm afraid he won't like it," the marshal said. "I'll be some grieved if that's so."

"Like hell yu will," grinned the deputy, undeceived by the sober tone which the twinkling eyes belied. "Gripes! here he comes. It's me for the kitchen."

Raven entered at the moment the deputy disappeared, storm signals flying on his visually impassive features. He did not beat about the bush.

"Hear yu've had another clash with Moraga."

The marshal nodded. "I found him tryin' to drag Miss Sarel from her saddle an' had to admonish him some."

"I reckon I made a mistake over yu, Green," the other scowled. "Yu ain't exactly a shinin' success as a marshal, are yu? Sudden gets away with a stage robbery an' a murder, an' all yu do to get the town in bad with a fella strong enough to wipe it out if he takes the notion."

"Yu tryin' to tell me that Lawless will lie down to be trampled on by that Greaser an' his band o' thieves?" the marshal asked.

"No, the damn idjuts would pant for war immediate," Raven admitted crossly. "What I'm drivin' at is that it's bad business. I ain't a fightin' fool. I'm here to make coin, an' I reckoned yu was too."

"Shore, but I'm a mite particular where it comes from," Green told him. "Mexican money don't appeal to me."

The saloon-keeper regarded him with puzzled exasperation. Was he simply stupid, or playing a part? Raven could not determine, but one point stood out plainly--the marshal was not a tool to be used.

"Mebbe yu won't like Mex bullets neither," he sneered. "Yu better tell the town to get organized', Moraga's got a good memory."

"Then he'll stay on his own side o' the line, like I told him," the marshal said. "If he don't, you'll lose a customer for yore cows."

The other made no reply, but his brows were bent in a heavy frown as he went out. When the coast was clear, the deputy sidled in, his face one broad grin.

"He ain't a bit pleased with his li'l marshal, is he? No, sir, li'l marshal has got him guessin', an' he's got li'l marshal guessin', an' there yu are."

They went out, and on their way down the street turned into the largest store to get tobacco. Loder, the proprietor, an old but hard-bitten product of the West, welcomed them with an outstretched, hairy hand.

"Shake, marshal," he said. "I just bin hearin' how yu took the conceit outa that Greaser, an' I'm tellin' yu the town is plenty pleased."

At Durley's they got a confirmation of the store-keeper's opinion, both from the owner of the place and from several citizens. The marshal's moderation only was criticized. "Yu shore oughta shook some lead into him," was Durley's comment. "Allus scotch a snake is my motter." Listening to this prudent sentiment, Green could not know that within a week or so he would be heartily wishing he had put it into practice, but so it was.

Following up the notion that had come to him on his way back from the Sarel ranch, the marshal spent the whole of the next morning exploring the country east of the 88, his interest being in the brands of such cattle as he encountered. Though he found nothing suspicious he persevered in his quest.

"It would be easy as takin' a drink, an' if Jevons is honest he's shore got a misleadin' face," he muttered.

Though he was many miles from the Double S, he was working in that direction, passing over a level expanse of good grass, gashed here and there with little gullies. From one of these came the bellow of a steer, and forcing his way in, the marshal found that the trees ringed a grassy, saucer-like depression, in the middle of which was a rough corral. Riding down to the enclosure, one glance told him he had found what he sought--stolen stock. There were about a score of cows in the corral and the brand on them had been recently worked over, transforming a Double S into an 88. The dead ashes of a fire afforded further proof. Regaining the level, the marshal loped leisurely in the direction of the town, turning over his discovery. That Raven, as owner of the 88, was in on the steal, he had not the slightest doubt, but the trouble was to prove it.

"Cuss the luck," he soliloquized. "I'm findin' nothin' but loose ends."

He was crossing a little tree-covered plateau from which a gravelly stretch of ground sloped gently down when a slug sang past his ear, followed by the report of a revolver. Instantly he flung himself headlong to the earth, falling so that he lay behind a convenient boulder. Some sixty yards down the decline wisps of blue smoke showed that the shot came from behind a low bush, apparently the only cover the spot offered. Nigger, smacked on the rump when his master dived for shelter, had retreated into the trees behind. At one side the chunk of rock did not touch the ground, and this provided the marshal with a peep-hole through which he could watch events. Motionless, with gun drawn, he waited, but nothing happened.

"He's wonderin' if he got me," Green muttered. "Well, I ain't tellin' him."

Another ten minutes passed, and first the crown and then the brim of a black sombrero edged into view above the bush. The marshal chuckled softly; he knew there was no head inside the hat and declined to be drawn. The hat vanished and the bush became slightly agitated, but the silence remained unbroken. Another interval and abruptly from behind the bush, a man stood up, pistol in hand; it was Leeson.

He weapon ready for instant use, he stepped from his cover and began to mount the slope. The marshal waited until he was too far from the bush to regain it and then rose noiselessly to his feet.

"Reach for the sky, Leeson; I'm coverin' yu," he called.

The man flung up his arms as ordered.

When he had sworn himself to a standstill, the marshal spoke:

"Chuck yore weapons ahead o' yu."

He watched while a gun and a knife curved through the air towards him.

"What's the idea?" Leeson snarled, and then, as though he had just discovered the identity of his opponent, "Why, damn me if it ain't the marshal."

Green picked up the surrendered weapons. "Yu didn't know, o' course," he said sarcastically.

"An' that's a fact," Leeson replied. "I took yu for that road-agent fella, Sudden; that black hoss o' yores--"

"Ain't got a white face," the marshal reminded.

"That's so. I oughta remembered," the other agreed readily. "Well, mistakes will happen, but there's no harm done; I'm glad I didn't get yu, marshal."

"I'm a mite pleased about that my own self," the officer admitted. "I got yu instead, an' I'm takin' yu in."

Leeson stared at him in anger and amazement, the latter well simulated. "Ain't I explained it was a mistake?" he demanded.

"Folks have to pay for 'em in this hard world, fella," the marshal told him. "Where's yore hoss?"

"Bottom o' the slope--in the brush," the man replied, and then, "Lookit, marshal--"

"Get a-goin'," Green cut in. "Yu can sing yore little song on the way."

A low whistle brought Nigger stepping sedately towards them. The marshal climbed into the saddle and with his drawn pistol motioned the prisoner to proceed. They found the horse, and Leeson mounted.

"Seth'll have a word to say 'bout this," he growled, and for the rest of the journey maintained a sullen silence. On reaching town, the marshal handed the captive over to his assistant and went in search of Raven. He found him in his private room at the saloon.

"Leeson tried to bushwhack me this afternoon," he said bluntly. "I fetched him in--alive."

For one fleeting second the man's face betrayed an emotion, but whether it was surprise, anger, or disappointment, the marshal could not determine; then it was gone, and the cold, passionless mask was back again.

"Leeson shot at yu? Whatever for?" he asked.

"Pure affection, don't you reckon?" Green returned flippantly, and then, "He claims he took me for Sudden."

"Well, that's likely enough too," Raven returned. "Yu better get rid o' that black hoss. As for Leeson, I'd turn him loose, in yore place."

"If yu want I should--" the marshal began.

"I don't give a damn; the fella's just one o' my hands--not too good a one at that," Raven retorted, adding carelessly, "His tale will clear him with most."

Green nodded and came away. At the office he found Pete and the prisoner chatting amiably. When handed his weapons and informed that he was at liberty to depart, a sneering grin further disfigured Leeson's features.

"Got yore orders from Seth, huh?" he said.

"Don't push yore luck too hard, fella," the marshal replied caustically.

When he had gone Barsay burst into a roar of merriment, and it was some moments before he could explain.

"He's bin tellin' me how yu turned the tables on him," he said. "An' he was as solemn as an undertaker at his own funeral; reckons yu got no right to monkey with citizens thataway, an' I had to listen without a smile; I near died."

"It was shorely funny," the marshal grinned. "Just the same, he damn near got me."

"You oughta abolished him right away," Pete said disgustedly. "Where's the sense in totin' him in?"

"Wanted to see what line Raven would take," Green replied. "But he warn't makin' presents to-day. As hard to catch as a greased snake, that fella. The 88 is rustlin' Double S cows. What yu make o' that?"

"I ain't surprised a-tall," Pete told him. "That gang at the 88 ain't got enough honesty to protect a plugged peso, I've a hunch Mister Raven is swingin' a wide loop."

In which conjecture Pete was undoubtedly correct, but as to how wide the said loop was neither of them had, as yet, the smallest conception.

CHAPTER XIV

Seth Raven was paying a visit, and though attired as usual, a careful observer might have noted that his sallow face was newly shaven, his shirt and collar clean, and his black coat and boots brushed. Slumped in his saddle, with a loose rein, he jogged steadily along the eastern trail on his way to the Double S. From every tree and shrub came the chatter and piping of the birds.

For the saloon-keeper the beauties of Nature had no appeal; his mind was wholly absorbed by material considerations. The move he was about to make was one he had long deliberated, being, in fact, the coping-stone of all his plannings. He would have to walk warily--to-day's expedition was merely the first step--but Raven had the patience of the red woman who had borne him; he could plant seed and wait, uncomplainingly, for it to mature and flower. Over-eagerness was the fault of a fool, and therefore, as he reflected sardonically, the weakness of the majority of mankind. Money, and the power that money provides, would put him in the position to treat white men as they had so often treated him--like dirt. And he thirsted for it. Cold, calculating, ruthless, this passion of prolonged hate made him inhuman.

By the time he had covered the open range and reached the ranch-house the sun's rays were slanting down like beams of flame and the shaded veranda was a comforting sight. An even more pleasant one was the girl standing upon it, though there was no welcoming smile on her face; she had early discovered the identity of the visitor.

"Mornin', Miss Tonia. No need to ask after yore health," the saloon-keeper greeted, as he got down and tied his steed.

The girl returned the salutation, adding, "You want to see my uncle, of course."

"No, 'of course' about it when yo're around," Raven replied with clumsy gallantry. "But, as a matter o' fact, there's a bit o' business I wanta talk over with him. Ah, here he is. 'Lo, Reub, how are yu?"

"Mornin', Seth. Hot, ain't it? Here, have a seat an' a 'smile.' Too bad I can't offer yu a decent drink. Tonia, fetch this fella some of his own poison."

The saloon-keeper was only half-listening. He was watching the girl, admiring the lithe grace of her every movement, savouring the appeal of her slim, rounded form, and feeling again the fury of hate stir in him as he reflected that she would regard him as little better than a full-blooded Apache, and somewhat lower in the scale of humanity than Moraga. Having set the liquor on the table she went away.

"Here's how," Sarel said, adding with a shade of anxiety in his tone, "What's brung yu, Seth?"

Raven did not reply at once; he was taking in his surroundings, noting the solidity and apparent comfort of the ranch buildings, and the good grazing which extended as far as the eye could reach, and farther. He had seen it all before, but to-day it took on a fresh aspect.

"Anthony knowed what he was about when he hit on this place--I reckon there ain't a better ranch in a hundred mile," he said slowly. "How much stock yu runnin', Reub?"