Sudden The Marshal of Lawless

"Can't tell till round-up," the fat man replied. "Oughta be around four thousand head, I guess."

"An' if it all belongs to Tonia. She's of age, ain't she?"

Reuben Sarel nodded, trying to fathom what the other was driving at.

"It's a big property for a gal to manage," Raven said reflectively.

"She's got me," Sarel pointed out.

"Yeah, an' she had her dad," the saloon-keeper reminded him. "Somethin' might happen to yu too, Reub; we're all mortal."

The stout man's face lost a little of its colour and he took a swallow of whisky rather hastily. He did not like the suggestion, or the tone in which it was made.

"Cheerful chap, ain't you?" he said, with an attempt at jocularity. "Anyways, I s'pose Tonia will be gettin' married sooner or later."

"To Andy Bordene?"

"Looks like, though I dunno as anythin' is fixed."

"An' what happens to yu then, Reub?"

Sarel stared in surprise. "Why, I hadn't give it a thought," he said. "S'pose I'd stay put, or perhaps Andy would let me run the Box B if they decided to live here."

"Don't yu gamble on that," the visitor said quietly. "I happen to know that Andy don't think much o' yore business capacity--heard him say once that yu hadn't savvy enough to sell cold water in hell. Young blood, yu know, is apt to have ideas of its own an' ain't very patient with age. I'm bettin' yu get yore time."

The statement was made with conviction, and, moreover, though he had denied it, confirmed a fear that had already assailed Tonia's relation more than once. Raven's crafty eyes read all this, saw that the man was shaken to the core, and sneered inwardly.

"Tonia wouldn't turn me out," Reuben protested.

"Mebbe not, but her husband might, an' I figure she'll be a dutiful wife," Raven replied, and struck again, "I'm hopin' not, seein' yu still owe me four thousand."

"It ain't so much, Seth; yu had fifty cows."

"Which I gave yu twenty a head for--good price too for stolen stock," the saloon-keeper retorted, sneering when the other winced. "It was five thou., warn't it? More than I can afford to drop, Reub. If yu lose out here I'll have to go to Tonia."

The threat of exposure to the child he had robbed, but of whom he was genuinely fond, wilted the man. When he spoke it was in a husky whisper:

"Anythin' but that, Seth. Take some more cows; I can manage so they won't be missed."

Raven shook his head. "Too risky--for me. Think I wanta be pulled for rustlin'? I on'y took 'em before 'cause I was damn short an' to oblige yu. No, there's a better way."

Sarel. raised his head, a gleam of hope in his deep-sunk eyes.

"S'pose she married someone else?" Raven went on.

"Yu got anybody in yore mind?" Reuben queried.

The saloon-keeper hesitated, and then, "Yeah," he said firmly. "A fella who wouldn't send yu travellin' an' who might forget about that four thousand."

It took a moment or two for the significance of this to sink in, but when it did the fat man sat up in his chair as though he had been stung.

"Yu?" he cried. "Yu marry 'Ionia? Why, damn--" He clamped his lips suddenly.

"Yu were goin' to say--?" Raven suggested softly.

Sarel swallowed hard and looked uncomfortable. "I was goin' to say, damn me if I ever thought of it," he lied.

The man who had made the proposition smiled acidly; he knew better. But he was enjoying himself; to get a white man in his power, ride and rake him with the spurs, afforded his mean mind the keenest satisfaction. But having indulged this desire he must apply the soothing ointment; he did not wish to drive his victim to desperation.

"Why should yu 'a' thought of it, Reub?" he asked, smiling. "An' again, why shouldn't yu? I'm young yet, an' there's less important fellas than me in these parts. Is there any reason why I mustn't aspire to yore niece?"

The cold, beady eyes of the speaker bored into those of the man opposite, daring him to say what he knew was in his mind--that there was a reason, one no amount of argument could ever remove. Reuben Sarel squirmed in his chair, fearful of giving offence, as helpless as a hog-tied calf in the branding corral. When the words came they were no answer to the question.

"I expect she ain't never thought o' yu thataway, Seth. It's her say-so, yu know."

"Shore, but yu bein' her on'y relation, I reckoned it right to get yore--consent. No doubt it'll take time, but with yu on my side I got a chance."

To cover his perturbation, Sarel slopped some more whisky in his glass and took a long drink. "Tonia's fond o' Bordene," he said.

"Natural enough--they've been brought up together," Raven agreed. "But Andy's affairs are in bad shape, an' he's drinkin' an' gamblin' more'n a young fella should who's expectin' to settle down. Yu sabe?"

The Double S man nodded miserably; he was getting orders and hated it, but he could not help himself. At his invitation the visitor stayed for the midday meal, and made a surprising effort to be pleasant. He paid Tonia one or two little compliments, but was careful not to let any hint of his intentions escape him. When Bordene's name was mentioned, all he said was, "Andy's havin' a tough time; I'm hopin' he'll make the grade."

After he had gone, the girl turned to her uncle. "I don't think I ever disliked anyone as I do that man," she said. "He's--slimy."

"Oh, Seth's all right," Reuben muttered, and cursed the passion for poker which had put him in the saloon-keeper's power. He watched as she went to get her pony from the corral, stepping with a fine, swinging grace which, as so many things in her did, brought back her father. The thought that followed made him sick. How would Anthony have received the proposal to which he had tamely listened? He knew only too well--flung the maker of it headlong into the dust, at no matter what cost to himself. Anthony had been all a man, while he--With a bitter oath he turned into the house.

At the slow "Spanish trot" of the cowpuncher, Raven was returning to Lawless. He was well satisfied with the morning's work. Another instrument for the furtherance of his schemes had been created, a weak one, certainly, but--as he reflected grimly--all the more useful on that account.

Before his brooding eyes flashed a picture of the future as he had planned it: Seth Raven, offspring of a drunken prospector and his Comanche woman, owner of the three big ranches and husband of the prettiest girl in the south-west, rich, respected, and, above all, feared. He saw himself sent to Congress, even appointed Governor of the Territory, and at the thought of that he laughed harshly.

"By God! I'll make some o' these damn Yanks step around," he cried.

It was typical of the man that he did not long indulge in these day-dreams. Almost immediately his mind was again milling over the problems he had to solve, and of these the most pressing was the marshal. Leeson had failed, and he cursed him for a clumsy fool. Then his scowl changed to a Satanic smile of satisfaction; he had hit on a plan, one which would achieve his object without any come-back, which was what he desired.

"That'll fix him," he exulted, and awoke his dozing pony by ripping it across the ribs with both spurs.

CHAPTER XV

It was two mornings later that Pete, who for once was first astir, found a somewhat grubby envelope thrust under the door. It was addressed to "The Marshul."

"Huh, one has come at last," he said. "I'm wonderin' which o' the damsels in this dog-hole of a town has fallen for yore fatal beauty?"

"Usin' yore intellects on an empty stomach'll put yu in a loco-house," the marshal told him.

He tore open the envelope, extracted a scrap of coarse paper, and read:

"Marshul.

If yu wanta here about Sudden, come to the Old Mine at nune.

A Frend."

"Writin' is pretty near good, but she's got her own notions o' spellin'," Pete commented.

"Yu supposin' it's a girl?"

"Shore am. One o' them female wimmen wants to meet yu on the quiet. Mebbe she's bashful, or got a husban', or somethin'."

"You ain't got brains enough to outfit a flea," the marshal said caustically. "Grab a skillet an' get breakfast, yu chunk o' grease."

The approach of noon found Green nearing the rendezvous. He recognized that he was taking a risk, and had no intention of riding blindly into an ambush. Therefore he turned off the trail and advanced cautiously under cover of the chaparral until he was able to see the open space where Bordene's body had been found. Squatting on the ground in the shade of a juniper was a man, smoking a cigarette, and from time to time casting an eye down the trail in the direction of Lawless. He was a Mexican of the poorest class, a peon, raggedly clad, with a knife and pistol thrust through the dirty scarf wound round his waist. For a while the marshal waited, and then rode out. Instantly the man got up, a gleam in his shifty eyes.

"Buenas dias, senor!" he greeted. "No spik here; I breeng horse."

He slipped like a snake into the brush, and a moment later, a cackle of merriment told the marshal that he was trapped.

"One leetle move, senor, and you die," said a familiar voice.

Green glanced round and saw Moraga covering him with a levelled carbine; saw, too, the dozen bandits with drawn guns closing in upon him from all sides, and realized that any attempt at resistance would be sheer suicide. His hands came away from his guns, and, disregarding the threat, he rolled and lighted a smoke. Then he turned to face the leader.

"Yu win--this time--little man," he said contemptuously. "Brought yore army too, I see."

Moraga spat out a sibilant Spanish oath; like most small men he was touchy about his stature. For an instant his hand hovered over a pistol butt, and then, with a cruel smile, he hissed, "I can wait, senor." Turning to his followers, he added, "Seize and tie him."

The marshal had made his preparations. While his hands had apparently been fumbling with his cigarette papers, he had deftly tied the reins to the horn of his saddle. As soon as he heard the command, he slid to the ground and uttered a shrill call. Nigger knew it for the signal that he was to go full speed, and bunching his great muscles he sprang forward, burst through the ring of astonished riders, and vanished down the trail. Green grinned scornfully as two of the guerrillas spurred after the runaway; he knew his horse. The return of the animal to town with the reins tied would tell Pete something was wrong, and they might be able to trail the bandits; it was his only chance.

"Yu don't get the hoss," he said to Moraga. "He's too good for a Greaser."

The Mexican's face flamed at the epithet, but he said nothing. Two men removed the marshal's guns and directed him to mount a pony; his wrists were then secured and his ankles roped beneath the animal's belly. At a word from its leader, the party set out at a fast lope, headed for Mexico, one man remaining behind. They had covered several miles when two horses, one bearing a double burden, caught them up; Nigger had evidently got away.

The satisfaction the marshal derived from this did not make him unduly optimistic. The chance of deliverance was slim indeed, and he had little hope of seeing another day dawn. Some time must necessarily elapse before a rescue party could be organized, and the country on either side of the line was of the wildest description, making the following of a trail a slow and arduous affair. Still, it was not in the man's nature to despair, and he rode along with an air of sardonic indifference. This attitude palpably amazed his captors; in his predicament they would have been shivering with dread, for they knew that El Diablo was not so named without reason.

They crossed Lazy Creek at a point lower than the marshal had done and then plunged into a mass of low, flat-topped hills, through which they made their way by threading long narrow ravines, twisting and turning snake-like about the bases of the mesas.

On the far side of the hills they found a desert confronting them, stretching out in every direction save that from which they had come. Across this arid waste Moraga unhesitatingly led his men. The only break in the maddening monotony of sand was provided by what appeared to be a group of tiny black mounds, towards which they were heading.

Plodding on, the horses' feet sinking to the fetlocks in the hot, powdery sand, they at length reached the spot, and the leader called a halt. It was a curious place. The "mounds" resolved themselves into pieces of stone, set in a rude circle, some upright, pointing like fingers to the sky, others lying prone. Old, weather-scarred, they yet seemed to suggest humanity. The marshal had no thought for them; his mind was busy with the problem of why the stop had been made. It could not be to camp, for there was neither wood nor water; it must be that this was where he was to die. He looked at Moraga, as two of the men removed the rope from his feet and dragged him from the saddle, and saw that he had guessed correctly; the guerrilla leader's face was that of a devil. When he spoke his voice was soft, silky, but charged with menace:

"The senor understands? He will remain here, where nothing can live--long. It is the fate of those who cross El Diablo."

"Shucks! I didn't cross yu; it was the Injun did that," Green retorted. "How them scars healin' up?"

The reminder of his humiliation--one that nothing could ever wipe out--shattered the Mexican's self-control.

The unmoved demeanour of the man before him brought on another short spate of rage. "You Gringo dog!" he stormed. "You shall die by inches, slowly, horribly, with life a few paces away and yet out of reach." Again his voice dropped into a low, hateful purr, and the marshal was reminded of a cat playing with a mouse: "The senor has seen a man die of thirst--yes? He know how the tongue go black and swell up teel it too beeg for the mouth; how the body burn like--"

"Them scars on yore chest," the marshal suggested.

This time the gibe produced no outward effect. Moraga went on: "Like fire; the eyes lose their light; and the brain--melts. It is not nice, senor, as you weel learn--presently."

"Yu got me plumb scared," the prisoner replied, and if he was telling the truth his bearing did not show it.

At an order from the leader, Green's wrists were first freed and re-tied with a lariat, which was then fastened securely to one of the smaller horizontal stones. He was too near to the weight to turn round, but he could sit down, and did so, watching the rest of the preparations with a face of iron. Moraga, dismounting, inspected the bonds, and then stepped back a few paces to gloatingly survey his victim.

"I might wheep you, senor," he said, "but I want that you have all your strengt'; you weel suffer longer."

With a harsh laugh he turned away, and as he did so a knife slipped from his sash and dropped soundlessly upon the soft sand. To the marshal's surprise no one appeared to have noticed it. Moraga croaked another command, and one of the men unslung his gourd canteen and placed it in the shadow of a stone about ten paces from the bound man, who caught the swish of water as he put it down. The guerrilla leader waved to it.

"There is life, senor, if you can reach it," he jeered. "But the stone is a leetle heavy, I fear. Adios!"

With a snarling grin, he bowed to the man he was condemning to a cruel death, and leaping on the back of his horse, signed to his troop and followed them on the journey out of the desert. The marshal watched the riders vanish over a distant swell and then gazed around; he could see nothing but sand, ridges, humps, and flat levels, reaching unendingly to the horizon. His position appeared to be desperate; even if he got free, the task of making his way on foot out of this grim wilderness would be well-nigh hopeless.

The stillness of the desert wrapped him like a shroud. The sun, a ball of white flame, blazed out of a cloudless dome of pale blue. There was no movement in the air, no bird, reptile, or insect. Nature seemed to have called a halt in this desolate spot. With the departure of his captors, their low guttural voices and jingle of accoutrements, sound seemed to have gone also, leaving a silence which was that of a tomb. An instinctive desire to break this menacing, nerve-shattering quiet made him speak aloud:

"Wonder what kind o' hombres fetched these rocks? Sorta temple, looks like: been here a few thousand years too, I reckon. This fella I'm roped to might be an Aztec stone o' sacrifice. Well, it'll shore have another offering if I don't get busy."

The sound of his own voice amazed him: he hardly recognized it. He found a difficulty in forming the words; his throat was parched and his tongue already swollen. The scorching rays of the sun had sucked every atom of moisture from his body, and the desire to drink was becoming unbearable. Anxiously he peered through the dancing, quivering heat, but the surrounding desert was empty.

"Damnation! I'll beat the game yet," he said, and the fact that the words were a whisper only warned him that he had no time to lose.

Twisting his fingers round the lariat, he dug his heels into the sand and flung his weight forward. There seemed to be a slight movement, but whether it was the stone or a mere stretching of the rawhide he could not determine. Again he tried, and this time felt sure that the weight behind him rocked. It gave him an' idea. Turning as far as he could, with the toe of his boot he scraped the sand from under the stone, forming a hollow for it to fall into. This helped, but it was slow work, and at the end of an hour's digging and pulling he had advanced little more than a yard.

Panting for breath in that oven-like atmosphere, with every muscle aching and a throat which seemed to be on fire, he sat on the stone and gazed at the blade which meant freedom gleaming in the sunlight only a few feet away.

"It ain't possible, but I'm a-goin' to do it," he tried to say, but the sounds which issued from his tortured, puffed lips were unintelligible.

Doggedly he resumed his labours, a slight slope in the sand helping a little, but the terrific exertion, the hammering heat, and lack of liquid were taking their toll, and the next hour found his strength almost spent, with the goal still two yards distant. Grey with dust, speechless, staggering weakly, he fought on, creeping inch by inch towards the coveted bit of steel. His body was one huge throb of pain, but he battled with it, tensing his teeth and tugging until it seemed to him that his arms must leave their sockets.

He was still some five feet from the knife when he again sank gasping upon the stone, unable to move the monstrous burden another inch. It seemed to be the end; even the magnificent muscles and amazing vitality with which clean living and the great open spaces had endowed the puncher failed at a task which would have killed an ox. Glaring with haggard eyes, a sudden possibility occurred to him; it was his last hope. Resting all his weight on his hands, he arched his body and reached for the knife with one heel. The strain on his pulsing sinews was agonizing, but after one or two attempts he hooked his spur over the glittering blade and brought it nearer. Pausing for long moments between each effort, he at last had the thing at his feet, but tied as he was, could not get his hands to it. Kneeling in the sand, he contrived to grip the haft between his knees and stand up again; then his groping fingers touched the blade, and a moment later he was free. Staggering like a drunken man he lunged forward and snatched up the canteen, only to fling it down; it was empty!

A croak of mingled disappointment, rage, and despair broke from his strangled throat as the devilish cruelty of the trick seeped into his tortured brain. The knife left apparently by accident; the canteen of water, deliberately punctured when the man set it down, to deal a crushing blow to the reason of one already dying from thirst and the exhaustion of a punishing fight for freedom. And, in truth, the marshal was near to madness. Dimly he remembered stories of the ghastly tortures by the Holy Inquisition in the old days, and a grim thought saved his reason: Moraga had proved his boast that he was of Old Spain.

Instinctively he glanced round, almost expecting to hear mocking laughter, but there was no living thing in sight. The Mexican and his men had not waited--there was no need to put themselves to that discomfort. Even if the prisoner succeeded in getting free and retained his sanity, he would not have the strength to escape from the desert without water, food, and a horse.

Faint and wracked with pain, the American was not yet beaten. Picking up the knife, which he had dropped directly he had cut himself loose, he turned his face to the north. The sun's rays were no longer vertical, but the heat was still terrific. Nightfall would bring a bitter cold air, and though this would mean some relief, he knew that unless he found water he must die. Lurching from side to side he floundered on through the burning sand. Then his glazed, bloodshot eyes rested on a welcome sight, a grassy glade, trees waving in the breeze, and, leaping down from the rock-side into a little pool, a silver streak of crystal-clear water. So real did it seem that he fancied he could hear the gurgle and plash of the tiny cascade.

The marshal knew it was not real, that it was only a desert mirage, another trick--perpetrated by Nature, this time--to steal the last vestige of his sanity. He set his jaw savagely, and soon--as he had known it would--the vision vanished, leaving only the old desolation. He staggered on, frequently falling from sheer weakness, but always, after a time, rising to continue the fight. A great stain of crimson on the western horizon told him that the sun was sinking, and the air was already cooler. In the effort to retain his reason, he tried to keep his mind from the one thing his whole body cried out for. It was in vain; pictures of cool running streams into which he plunged insistently presented themselves, and the sound of the waterfall he had seen in the mirage was perpetually in his ears. With leaden feet he stumbled on and fell, a sharp pain stabbing his wrist. In the gathering gloom he saw that he had dropped close to a queer green growth, shaped like a cask, and defended by fierce spikes. It was a bisnaga, or barrel cactus.

Had he been able to utter a sound it would have been one of joy, for this fortunate find might mean life. Raising himself to his knees, he cut off the top of the cactus, and slicing out a portion of the pithy interior crushed it greedily against his swollen lips and tongue. The liquid so obtained was pure and slightly sweet. Repeating the operation until the plant was exhausted, he felt new energy stealing into his veins. Unfortunately, the cactus was a very small one, and though he searched diligently he could not discover another. Reinvigorated in some degree by this relief to his torture he pursued his way. Though there was no wind, it was now intensely cold. The moon came up and threw a softening silver radiance over the harshness of the desert. To the desperately worn man plodding through it, the sand seemed a malignant devil which clutched his ankles and held them. Each step was now an achievement, for his strength was gone. During twelve hours he had drunk less than half a pint of cactus-juice, and this in a land where a man needed two gallons of water per day. Moreover, for a great part of that time he had taxed his body to the uttermost. Weaving blindly onwards he fell again, made a last attempt to rise, and then lay supine...

CHAPTER XVI

The marshal awoke to a pleasant feeling of warmth and found that he was covered with a blanket and lying beside a fire of dead mesquite branches. Pete, with an anxious face, was kneeling over him, a canteen in his hands. Green made a feeble grab at it.

"No, yu don't," the deputy grinned. "That stuff's wuss'n whisky for yu just now, an' a damn sight more precious in this corner o' hell. Yu gotta be spoon-fed, fella, yet awhile."

Though he would have sold his soul for one deep drink, the sufferer submitted, knowing that the other was right. At the end of an hour he could sit up and use his tongue again, but he was still utterly played out. From behind a hummock of sand Black Feather now appeared and flung an armful of twigs on the fire.

"How'd yu find me?" the invalid enquired.

"Yu gotta thank the Injun for that," Pete told him. "Fact is, we didn't do no searchin' for rustled cattle; I played a hunch an' we followed yu 'bout an hour after; when we met yore hoss I knowed somethin' was wrong. We picked up the trail at the Old Mine. How the hell that copper-coloured cuss followed it I dunno, but he did, an' I'm bettin' we come just in time."

"That's whatever," the marshal agreed, and held out his hand to the redskin. "I'm mighty obliged to yu," he added.

Black Feather took the hand timidly. "White man my brother," he said in his low, husky tone. "My fault he here."

"Shucks!" Green said disgustedly. "My own damn stupidity. They played me for a sucker an' won--this time. Black Feather big chief; he trail bird in the air an' fish in river, huh?"

The Indian smiled at this extravagant tribute to his powers.

Water, warmth, and food gradually restored the marshal's strength, but the red rim of the sun was rising above the horizon before he was able to stand. Helped by the others, he mounted the Indian's horse, its owner electing to walk, and they set out. By this time he had managed to tell the full story; on the redskin it produced no visible effect, but the deputy was furious.

"By God!" he said. "If I find the fella that wrote that invite I'll make him curse his mother for bringin' him into the world. Who d'yu reckon it might be?"

"Ain't a notion," the marshal admitted. "Moraga sprung the trap, but I'm figurin' he didn't bait it. He speaks our lingo pretty good, but that don't mean he can write it."

"Leeson?" Barsay suggested.

Green shook his head. "Them mistakes was made a-purpose," he said. "Good writin' an' bad spellin' don't usually go together."

After a short silence, Barsay spoke again: "See here, Jim, I got an idea. I'll get back to town an' not let on yu've been found. Mebbe somebody'll give us a pointer."

"It's certainly a chance," Green allowed. "Yu see, nobody in town oughta know what's become o' me."

So when they had got clear of the desert and over the Border, the marshal and Black Feather struck out for the Box B ranch, and the deputy took the trail for Lawless. The evening found him in the bar of the Red Ace. He had already decided on his plan of action. Remembering his friend's dictum that a man in liquor may learn more than a sober one, he had resolved to try it out. Draping himself against the bar, he swallowed several drinks in rapid succession and then turned a scowling face on the company.

"'Lo, Pete, how they treatin' yu?" asked the store-keeper jovially.

"Mighty seldom--yu'll never have a better chanct," the deputy told him.

Loder laughed and ordered liquor. "What's come o' the marshal--ain't seen him all day?" he went on.

In a voice that could be heard all over the room Barsay related his own version of the mysterious missive, adding that, becoming uneasy, he had followed the marshal to the appointed spot only to discover the ample evidence of an ambush. The story gained him the attention of most present. Suddenly he darted a finger at Leeson.

"Ask that fella," he said. "Mebbe he can tell yu somethin'."

He watched the man closely as he spoke and noted the look of blank amazement. "What yu gittin' at?" Leeson protested. "How should I know anythin' of it?"

Pete, in fact, saw that he did not, but he had to justify his charge. "Huh! Yu tried to bump him off two-three days ago," he growled.

"I told yu it was a mistake," the 88 man explained quickly, for the statement produced a murmur from several.

"Shore was, an' one more o' the same'll be yore last," Pete threatened.

He poured himself another drink, took a mouthful, spat it out and turned wrathfully on the bartender: "Ain't yu never goin' to get some decent liquor?" he asked belligerently. "That stuff would poison a hawg."

"What's the trouble, Jude?" The saloon-keeper's spare, stooping figure injected itself into the group.

"Barsay's on the prod 'bout the nose-dye," the bartender explained.

Raven's sneering gaze swept the deputy. "Too strong for him, seemin'ly," he said.

The deputy cackled. "That's an insult to me an' a compliment to the dope yu call whisky," he said, with a slight stagger. "What I wanna know is what yu done with the marshal?"

The saloon-keeper's face was wooden. "Yo're either drunk or loco," he replied, and appealed to one of the bystanders: "What: the hell's he mean?" He heard the story with apparent indifference, but Pete, lolling against the bar, saw an expression in the narrowed eyes which might have been satisfaction.

"Looks like he's met up with Moraga," he commented. "I warned him the Mexican was bad medicine, but yu can't tell the marshal anythin'. I guess we won't see him no more."

Bar say nodded his head stupidly and fumbled with his glass.

"How'd yu know it was the Mexican?" he queried.

"I don't--I'm guessin'," Raven replied. "Green has twisted his tail two-three times, an' Greasers ain't a forgivin' sort." His' lips suddenly split in a feline grin: "Anyways, what yu belly-achin' about? Don't yu want his job?"

Pete blinked at him owlishly. "Hell's bells! I hadn't thought o' that."

So ludicrous was his expression that the onlookers laughed aloud, and Raven was quick to seize the opportunity. "Set 'em up, Jude," he cried. "We'll drink to the marshal."

"The new one?" someone questioned.

"There ain't a new one--yet," Raven told him, and lifting his glass added, "The marshal."

Pete grinned foolishly as he raised his glass with the rest, and said thickly, "Here's hopin'"--he paused a second and a man guffawed--"he comes back."

"O' course, we're all wishin' that," the saloon-keeper agreed, and smiled understandingly at the deputy.

The smile confirmed the little man's suspicions, and sent him back to his quarters in an unusually thoughtful frame of mind.

* * *

The marshal received an enthusiastic welcome at the Box B; in the eyes of its owner nothing was too good for the man who had rescued Tonia and punished her assailant. He had heard the details from the girl's own lips, and only her urgent entreaties had kept him from rounding up his outfit and going in search of the offender. He listened with amazement and growing anger to the marshal's account of Moraga's attempted vengeance.

"That Greaser's gettin' too brash whatever," he said. " 'Bout time he was abolished. Yu got that paper with yu? Mebbe I know the writin'."

When the marshal produced it the young man stared in puzzled bewilderment.

"If it didn't seem ridic'lous I'd have said Potter wrote that," he pronounced. "But he wouldn't be agin yu or for the Greaser."

"It ain't Raven's fist, I s'pose, or Leeson's?"

"Dunno 'bout Leeson--shouldn't think he could write so good, but it certainly ain't Raven. What's put them in yore mind?"

The marshal told of the 88 rider's attempt to bushwhack him, and the rancher's eyes widened.

"Yu think Seth put him up to it?"

"I dunno, Andy, an' that's a fact. I'm gropin' in the dark. Leeson is one o' Raven's men, an' unless he's been told different, he'd figure me the same, seein' that Raven made me marshal."

Both were silent for a few moments, and then Green said, "Don't think I'm hornin' in, Andy, but did yore dad owe Raven money?"

"Fifteen thousand, though I didn't know of it till I saw the note," Bordene replied. "I paid it off. Why?"

"When he drew out that five thousand the mornin' he was--got, he told Potter it was to square a debt, an' he went to the Red Ace," the marshal said quietly. "Raven was out--at the 88. Yu have the note?"

He studied the cancelled document carefully. "That figure one could 'a' been put in after it was wrote," he pointed out.

"Shore could," Andy agreed. "I reckon the Old Man was some careless, but yu got Seth sized up wrong, marshal; he wouldn't play it that low on me."

Green laughed. "Well, seein' as yu've paid, I s'pose it don't do no good to worry about it," he said. "Aimin' to try another drive?"

"Yeah, an' it's goin' through this time, yu bet vu," Bordene said.

"Don't camp too near Shiverin' Sand," Green warned.

"Seth was tellin' me the same thing yestiddy," Andy smiled. "I said I hadn't made no plans."

"Let it be known yu expect to bed down in The Pocket again, an' then change yore mind," the marshal advised.

"Yo're a suspicious jigger, but it ain't a bad notion," the other agreed.

* * *

When his guests had departed on the following morning, Andy set out for the Double S to take Tonia riding. He soon noticed that Reuben Sarel was not his jovial self, and that there was a tiny crease between the girl's level eyebrows.

"What's troublin' Uncle this bright mornin'?" he asked as they trotted away. "Not losin' weight, is he?"

"Losing cows, Andy," she told him, "and we don't know how. I think, too, he's worrying about that Mexican."

The young man snorted. "That fella's becomin' a menace to the country," he said, and told of the guerrilla's latest exploit.

The girl shivered; she knew what the victim of it must have endured. "Are the men around here going to stand for that?" she asked indignantly.

"They ain't," Andy assured her. "When I get my drive through something goin' to be done; but, for now, the marshal wants it kept quiet."

"I shall be glad when you are back, Andy," the girl said. "I'm a bit scared, I think."

"Of that dirty Greaser?" he asked.

"No--not altogether," she said slowly. "I can't explain it, but I've had a 'breakers ahead' sort of feeling, and that man Raven has begun visiting the Double S."

Bordene laughed. "Nothin' to that, Tonia," he replied. "I s'pose he had business with Reuben."

"That's the excuse, of course, but if it weren't so absurd I'd say he came to see me," Tonia told him. "Yesterday he brought me a box of candy, and--he pays me compliments."

Andy's eyebrows rose. "Yu think he's courtin' yu?" he gasped incredulously. "Why, he's a breed. Ain't Reuben showed him the door?"

"He sings praises; I think he's afraid of him in some way," Tonia replied.

"My Gawd!" the young man exploded. "Seth Raven shinin' up to yu--a Sarel? Well, if that ain't the frozen limit." He looked at her closely. "Yu still don't like the fella, Tonia?"

"I detest him," was her emphatic reply. "To me he always suggests what they call him, 'The Vulture,' rapacious, cruel, a bird of prey."

For some time the rancher rode in moody silence; he was getting a new angle on the man he had hitherto regarded as a good sort. The seeds of doubt sown in his mind by the marshal were beginning to germinate, fed by this latest factor. Had the note been tampered with? Was the breaking up of his drive herd the word of the 88? He recalled the poker game, in which he had a shrewd suspicion that Green had saved him from being skinned--for he now knew that Pardoe was a not too scrupulous professional gambler. Were these all part of a plan to put a rival out of the running? The questions milled in his mind and he could find no satisfactory answers. It was the girl who spoke first:

"Too bad to bother you with my little troubles, Andy. Especially when you have bigger ones of your own."

"Shucks! I hope yu'll allus come to me, Tonia, Yu know I'd do anythin'."

There was an undercurrent of feeling in the voice and the girl steered from the subject. "You drive to-morrow?" she asked.

"Yeah. I've got a good bunch--all hand-picked--an' if I lose 'em this time I'll be comin' to yu for a job, Tonia."

For an instant she looked at him in startled surprise, but his grin reassured her, and she replied in the same vein: "What sort of job would you like, Andy? But there, you'll make it this trip; bad luck, like lightning, never strikes twice in the same place."

The soft, sweet voice and the heartening warm smile in her eyes were almost irresistible; he ached to take her in his arms and tell her that the job he wanted was to care for and shield her all the days of his life. But his man's pride kept him silent. When he came back, his ranch cleared of debt--

So the golden moment passed.

CHAPTER XVII

The marshal's return to Lawless excited a great deal of curiosity which had to remain unsatisfied. His own explanation was that he had been absent on business connected with his office, and he treated any suggestion that he had been kidnapped by El Diablo with a tolerant smile, an attitude which aroused Pete's personal wrath.

"What's the grand idea?" he enquired. "Here's me workin' up a case agin the Greaser an' yu percolate in an' knock it flat. Makes me look a fool."

"I can't see that yore appearance has altered the littlest bit," the marshal told him, with that disarming grin of his. "We gotta walk in the water, ol'-timer; yu watch Raven's face when I say my little piece."

They had not long to wait, for the saloon-keeper came in soon afterwards.

"'Lo, marshal, so yo're back again all safe an' sound," he began, with a crooked smile. "We've shore bin some worried 'bout yu. Barsay here, reckoned yu'd bin carried off by Moraga."

"Hold yore hosses, Raven, it sticks in my mind that suggestion come from yu," the deputy protested.

"That so? Well, mebbe yo're right," Raven admitted easily. "Yore high-falutin' yarn made it seem likely."

"Pete's a born romancer," the marshal said. "Hear him tell of his past an' yu look for his wings."

"So it warn't the Greaser?" Raven asked.

"Senor Moraga has not yet settled his little account with me," Green smiled, adding, "I've been at the Box B."

This was not all the truth, but it served, for the marshal saw the visitor's eyes widen. All he said, however, was:

"Andy's drivin' to-day, I hear. Where's he campin' this time?"

"Same place as before, I understand. It's a good beddin' ground an' he reckons there ain't no storms around."

Raven nodded. "Weather seems likely to stay put," he agreed.

When he had gone Pete turned aggressively on his chief. "Why d'yu tell him where Andy was campin'?" he asked.

"I didn't," the marshal grinned.

"But--" the deputy began, and then comprehension came to him and he grinned too.

"Awright, Solomon," the little man said. "What yu goin' to do now?"

"Put some money in the bank," Green told him.

Barsay dropped into the nearest chair. "Savin' coin, the hawg, an' me with a thirst," he ejaculated in mock horror. "Wonder which of us he can't trust, me or the Injun?"

To which query he got no reply, the marshal being already on the way to execute his financial errand. Arrived outside the bank he hung about until he saw the clerk emerge and then entered. As he had hoped, Potter was alone. He took the money Green tendered and wrote out a receipt.

"Ain't got on the track of that outlaw yet, I suppose?" he remarked, and when his customer admitted that his supposition was correct, he added, "I was saying to Raven yesterday that you hadn't much to go on, and that probably he's hundreds of miles away by now."

"Raven is a hard man to satisfy," the marshal stated.

"You are right," the banker agreed harshly. "He's--" he paused suddenly, and then, in an altered tone, went on, "a good customer, and I ought not to be discussing him, but I know you won't chatter, marshal."

Having assured him on that point, Green came away, wondering. A comparison of the receipt with the mysterious note showed a similarity in the writing; they might have been done by the same person, but why, Green asked himself, should the banker help Moraga? For the rest, all he had discovered was that Potter disliked but feared Raven, an attitude common to many of the citizens of Lawless. Additional proof of this was afforded that same evening. The marshal was nearing the bank when he heard Seth's voice, and, curious as to his business there so late, slipped round the corner of the building and waited. In a moment the door opened and he heard the banker say, in. a tone of abject humility:

"I'll do as you wish, sir."

"Yu'd better," the saloon-keeper said contemptuously, and went up the street.

From his door the banker watched until the other was out of hearing and then his pent-up bitterness burst its bonds:

"And may God damn your rotten soul," he hissed, and shook his fist at the retreating figure.

Not until the door slammed did the marshal resume his way. One thing the incident told him--Potter was in The Vulture's power, and might therefore have been compelled to write the decoy message.

"Odd number that," he ruminated. "The banker is a bet I mustn't overlook."

* * *

A week slid by and the marshal was no nearer the solution of the problem he had set himself to solve. Though there had been no further activity on the part of Sudden the Second, Green did not agree with Potter's suggestion that the outlaw had departed for fresh pastures; the black horse was still in its hiding-place. In the meanwhile, he had plenty to occupy his mind. Two attempts had been made on his life, and though he believed that the saloon-keeper had something to do with them, he had no proof. Since his escape from death in the desert, the autocrat of Lawless had treated him with jovial friendliness, a circumstance which aroused suspicion in the object of it. So marked indeed was the change that Pete was moved to caustic comment.

"If yu was a turkey I'd say he was fattenin' yu up for the killin'," the deputy said. "Looks like Andy has made it this time."

The marshal nodded. "Jevons was at the Red Ace last night," he said. "An' his boss didn't seem none pleased 'bout somethin'."

Green's guess was a good one. The 88 foreman had come on an unpleasant errand--the admission of his own failure, and that this was due to wrong information supplied by his employer, though it would have excused him with most men, did not do so with Raven.

"Well, how many d'yu get?" was his opening question, as the foreman entered the private room.

"Not a hoof," Jevons replied. "Whoever told yu they aimed to bed down in The Pocket got it wrong."

The half-breed gritted out an oath as he remembered where he got the information. Always, by accident or design,, the marshal hampered him.

"Green again, blast him," he muttered. "He's allus in the way."

"Put him outa business," the foreman suggested callously.

"Tell me how," snapped the other. "Yu can't--he's got yu all buffaloed."

Jevons was silent for a while, and when he did speak his remark seemed to be irrelevant: " 'Split' Adam is at the 88," he said.

Raven reflected. "Think he'd tackle it?" he asked.

" 'Split' is mighty near sellin' his saddle," Jevons told him. "Five hundred dollars would listen good to him about now."

Since a saddle is the last thing a Western rider parts with the saloon-keeper knew that Adam must be at desperation point.

"Send him in," he said shortly.

Hard-looking strangers attracted little attention in Lawless, unless they invited it by their actions, and this Mister Adam was careful to avoid. In fact, he arrived after dark, pushed his bronc furtively into the Red Ace corral, himself into that place of entertainment by the side door, and so into the owner's private sanctum. Raven nodded towards a chair, shoved forward a box of cigars, and silently studied his visitor. Adam had small pretensions to beauty. On the wrong side of forty, he was thin--even weedy--in build. He had a long, narrow face, emphasized by a ginger goatee beard and a stringy, drooping moustache, and a sneer appeared to be his natural expression. His small eyes, cold, expressionless, were like polished stone. Two guns, the holsters tied down, hung low on his lips. He endured the other man's scrutiny for a moment or two, and then, in a harsh, rasping voice, he said:

"Jevons allowed vu wanted to see me. Well, yu done it, an' if that's all I'll be on my way."

The truculent, bullying tone did not appear to affect Raven. "How many men have yu killed, Mister Adam?" he asked. "There's a fella in this town we could git along without, but he won't take a hint."

The sneering question was plain in the other's eyes.

"Yeah. Natural for yu to think that, Mister Adam," Raven went on, "but I'm not a gun-fighter--don't even tote one. My weapons are brains and--dollars."

The killer smiled wolfishly. "How many--dollars?" he asked.

"Five hundred," Raven replied. "The fella happens to be the marshal too, so if he--left us--there'd be a vacancy."

"I'll go yu," Adam said. "I can use that mazuma, an' I've allus thought a star would look about right on me."

"Yu gotta earn 'em first," the other warned. "The chap ain't no pilgrim, an' yu'll need to play yore cards close. He calls hisself Green, but yu can risk a stack it don't describe him."

"I ain't exactly a beginner my own self," the gunman replied. "Nothin' will happen to-night--don't want it to look like I come in a-purpose--but I'll be takin' his measure. O' course, yu won't know me from--Adam."

He laughed hoarsely at his little joke, nodded to his host, and departed, again using the side door. Some time later he oozed into the Red Ace, posted himself at the bar, and called for the customary drink. Beyond a casual glance, no one took any notice of him, but his own eyes were busy. Presently Pete drifted in, and when he caught sight of the deputy's badge, Adam looked at Raven, who was playing cards at a nearby table. The saloon-keeper shook his head slightly.

When Green eventually made his appearance, Adam got from Raven the sign he was waiting for, and his cold gaze watched the marshal incessantly. He noted the tall, limber frame, the easy play of the muscles when their owner moved, and the youthfulness. But the little smile which crinkled the corners of the firm mouth and softened the square jaw misled him.

"Kinda young for his job an' liable to take chances," he reflected sneeringly. He turned to the bartender. "Ever heard o' Split Adam?" he asked loudly.

"Yeah, but I never seen him," Jude replied.

"Yu have now," came the answer. "Yessir, I'm that eedentical fella. Know how I got that label?"

The barkeep did not, and shook his head.

" 'Cause I c'n split a bullet on a knife edge at twelve paces," boasted the killer, and with an aggressive look at Green. "That's shootin', Mister Marshal."

"Shore is," the officer agreed mildly. "But if the knife-edge was bustlin' bullets in yore direction at the time it might make a difference."

"There's quite a few who found it didn't," Adam sneered.

"I'll have to take yore word for that, seh," the marshal replied. "I reckon theirs ain't available."

He turned away, ending the discussion, and the gunman's gaze followed him with malignant triumph. He did not want to clash yet; he was merely trying out his man. The marshal left the saloon early, and when Pete followed some time later he found him cleaning and oiling his revolvers.

"Know anythin' 'bout that hombre Adam?" asked the deputy casually.

"Heard of him," Green replied. "He's bad, all right--one o' the gunmen yu can hire. There's towns in Texas where they'd jerk him on the way to Paradise with considerable enthusiasm."

"He's after yu," Pete said.

The marshal grinned. "Ain't yu the cute little observer," he bantered, and then, "Yeah, I sort suspicioned it m'self, an' I'm wonderin'--who's payin'?"

"Well, seein' he's a buzzard I'd say it was a case of 'birds of a feather,' " the deputy opined. "I'm a-goin' to be yore shadder tomorrow."

To this decision he adhered; wherever the marshal went Pete was, unobtrusively, close at hand. It was about noon when the pair of them entered the Red Ace. Adam was there, talking and drinking with several of the toughest inhabitants. Raven was leaning against the far end of the bar, and the attendance was bigger than usual. Immediately the marshal entered all eyes turned upon him, and he guessed that the killer had been talking. With an evil look that advertised his intention to force a quarrel, Adam stepped towards his quarry.

"Marshal, yu ain't lookin' too good--kinda peaky 'bout the gills," he began. "I reckon this part o' the country don't suit yu."

The grating tones carried a plain threat, and the room waited in utter silence for the officer's reply to the challenge. The marshal sipped the drink he had ordered, noting grimly that men in his vicinity were edging away from him. Putting down his glass, he commenced to roll a cigarette.

"Yu think I'd better be goin'?" he asked in mild surprise.

"Don't be funny with me, fella," he warned. "I let yu git away with it las' night, but that don't happen twice. Savvy?"

Hands hanging over his gun-butts, teeth bared like a snarling dog's, he thrust his face within a few inches of his intended victim's, his narrowed eyes flaming with the lust to kill. The marshal straightened up and stepped back a pace, throwing his weight on his right foot.

"Mister Adam," he said quietly. "I don't like rubbin' noses with a rattlesnake. That face o' yores may look mighty near human two miles off, but at two inches it's an outrage. I'm movin' it."

With the words his right fist came up, and as the arm shot out, landed with terrific force on the out-thrust jaw of the killer. Driven home with all the power of perfect muscles, backed up by the forward fling of the body, the blow lifted the fellow from his feet and hurled him full length on the floor. He was still conscious, for Green's fist had just missed the point of the jaw, but he could not rise. Lying there, glaring his hatred, he poured out a stream of abuse, and clawed feebly for his gun. "I guess I wouldn't," the marshal warned, his hand on his own weapon. "Fade."

The ruffian scrambled to his feet, a fury of passion shaking him.

Staggering blindly like a drunken man, Adam went out, and the victor turned to face the advice and expostulations of his friends.

"Yu did oughta drilled him, marshal," Durley put in. "He shore asked for it."

"Oh, I reckon he'll drift," Green said.

"Drift nothin'--he'll hang around an' shoot yu from cover," Loder contributed. "Better leave here by the back door."

The marshal shook his head. He had noticed Raven's departure immediately after the killer's downfall, and was wondering whether his expression denoted contempt or disappointed anger. When the excitement had died down a little several of the spectators left the saloon, and one of them thrust the door open again to say there was no sign of Adam.

"Two-three of us'll come out with yu," Pete suggested. "No, I'll play her a lone hand," the marshal said firmly. Bunched together, the men went out into the sunshine, but halted a little way along the street. Evidently the news had spread, for there were other groups and heads protruded from windows and doors. Three tense minutes loitered past, and then the swing-door of the saloon was thrown back and the marshal stepped out. At the same instant a gun roared from the corner of a log building opposite and the onlookers saw Green pitch sideways, to lie prone on the footpath, his right arm outflung and his left bent across his hip. With a cackle of malignant triumph, Adam emerged from his shelter, both guns poised.

"Well, gents, I reckon I've sent yore marshal to hell. Any o' yu got notions?"

Muttered curses were the only response to his bravado. Pete, filled with a bitter rage, looked at the prostrate form of his friend and wondered if his eyes were playing tricks. Surely that left hand was moving, nearer and nearer to the holster. A moment later he knew, for the gun was out and spouting flame. The amazed spectators saw the killer crumple up and collapse in the dust, and by the time they reached the marshal, he was on his feet again. They found him untouched.

"Shore thought he'd got yu," Durley said. "How'd he come to miss?"

"I fell before he fired," Green explained. "I guessed he'd hide an' lay for me. Had to make him show hisself. Well, he had his chance."

"Why yu give him any has got me guessin'," the deputy grumbled.

Later on, in the privacy of their own shack, Green enlightened him. "Yu see, Pete," he argued. "Yu don't blame a gun for killin', yu blame the fella who pulls the trigger. This Adam jasper was just a gun, an' though I'm holdin' he warn't fit to go on livin', it's the man who used him who oughta be lyin' out there."

"Mebbe yo're right," the deputy conceded. "I'm just .is pleased things worked out as they did. Chewin' over these here fine distinctions'll end one day in yore bein' described as 'the late lamented.'"

CHAPTER XVIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

"'Lo, Andy, so yu fetched 'em through this time?" Green said.

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

"Good for yu," the marshal said. "No time like--hell! here comes a gent in a hurry."

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

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

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

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

"By God! if Moraga has dared to lay a finger on her I'll tear him in strips," Andy swore. "Guns an' hosses, marshal; we'll get that coyote if we have to foller him clear across Mexico."

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

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

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

"We'll find her," Green said, and turned to Bordene. "Better hurry up yore business with Potter."

"That must wait," the rancher replied. "I'll leave the coin with him an' settle when I come back. Tonia--"

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

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

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

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

"We'll get him," the officer promised, inwardly marvelling at the vindictive emphasis on the last words.

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

"Durn glad yu've come, marshal," he said, and his tone showed relief. "Thisyer business has shore got me bothered. Grub's 'bout ready; we can talk as we eat."

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

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

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

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

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

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

The marshal nodded comprehendingly.

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

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

"They got too big a start for us to catch 'em up," Andy remarked. "We'll have to smoke 'em outa their hole."

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

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

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

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

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

"No catch--find urn," the Indian said.

"He reckons they're still more than twelve hours ahead of us," the marshal explained. "Nothin' to do but keep on their tails."

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

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

When the cold light of the coming dawn showed above the eastern horizon the rescue party forded the stream and plunged into what was to all of them, save perhaps the Indian, unknown territory. The tracks they were following headed straight into what appeared to be an expanse of open country, but the guide turned sharply to the right, pointing his horse's head towards a jumble of rocky ridges, the valleys and gorges between which were hidden by close-growing timber.

"We're leavin' the trail; that's a risk, ain't it?" Andy asked. "The Injun is wise to his work," Green replied. "This way may be harder, but I'm bettin' he's got a reason, an' a good one."

Midday found them clear of the barrier of broken country and they saw ahead a broad, billowing stretch of semi-desert, walled in on the far horizon by a jagged line of purple hills.

"Git ready to be grilled, boys," Renton warned, his slitted eyes squinting at the view. "We're pointin' Pinacate way, seemin'ly--volcanic country--all lava an' cactus. I've heard of it. We'll need all the water we can carry; wells ain't any too frequent."

A meal was eaten, canteens filled at a neighbouring creek, and the journey resumed. Speed was out of the question in the soft sand, and before they had gone very far the Double S foreman's prophecy was being fulfilled. From the sun flaming in the turquoise sky came a stream of heat which burnt like a hot iron, and absorbed perspiration before it had time to form.

"I know now just how the steak feels in the pan," Rusty groaned. "All we want is a nice li'l dust-storrn."

Hour after hour they plodded on, halting only at long intervals for a brief meal and a gulp of the tepid contents of their canteens. The approach of night, with cooler air, afforded welcome relief after the sweltering heat. The character of the desert too was changing; the sand was thinning out and hummocks of vitreous rock began to appear. Presently, at the base of a pile of these, the. guide pulled up and slid from his saddle.

"Je-ru-sa-lem!" breathed one of the Double S riders. "Am I seein' things or is that real water?"

At the foot of the rocks lay a little pool, shining like a mirror in the last rays of the setting sun.

"It's water, shore enough," another assured him, and tugged on his reins. "Steady, yu son of a devil; vu ain't going to roll in it; we gotta use it too."

Black Feather, who had brought them to it, was a popular member of the party, despite his copper skin. Pete voiced the general opinion:

"Shore was a lucky day for us, Jim, when yu snatched that Injun back from the happy hunting-grounds," he said.

The horses were watered, hobbled, and turned loose to search for the scattered clumps of gramma grass, while their masters squatted round the fires--for desert nights are bitterly cold--and swallowed a much-needed meal. The marshal had a chat with their guide and then joined Andy, Pete, and Renton.

"We're pointin' for Moraga's headquarters, an' the Injun reckons we'll make it some time day after to-morrow," he told them. "Like I figured, this is a short cut, but if they've got the girl there ahead of us, we'll have to study the layout an' plan accordin'. Get all the sleep yu can; it'll be hard goin' the rest o' the way."

The morning light confirmed his statement. In front of them stretched an apparently endless expanse of black lava, fantastically fashioned into ridges, shelves, spires, and massed blocks as though a mighty molten sea had suddenly been frozen into immobility. The edges of the broken lava were as keen as knives.

"Good thing the Injun held out for shod hosses," the marshal remarked, as they commenced the journey. "A few miles o' this would peel the horn clean off their hoofs."

"Well, I dunno what the other trail's like, but I'm votin' for it," Pete said, as his horse slipped on a shining slope and fought furiously to recover its footing.

Helpless targets of a relentless sun, parched by a thirst they dared not satisfy, the riders slipped and slithered on across the burnt-out, forbidding wilderness. For the most part they rode in silence, for inattention to one's mount might mean an awkward accident, but occasionally a rider relieved his feelings with a fervent but humorous curse.

"Hell won't interest me none at all now," Rusty was heard to complain. "Guess I'll have to try for the other place."

Night found them still on the desert, camped at the base of a pinnacle of rock. They had found no more water, but by pulping the interiors of some barrel cactus they managed to supply the needs of themselves and their mounts. Dead mesquite branches provided a fire, but it was a miserable one, for fuel was hard to find. So that it was good news to hear that the next day would see them clear of the desert.

And so it proved. Early in the afternoon they halted in a long, deep arroyo which contained more vegetation than they had seen for two days. All of this meant water, and they soon found a tiny, sparkling creek.

"Moraga's settlement ain't far away from here," the marshal said. "Me an' Pete is goin' to prospect it some. If we ain't back in a coupla hours yu better come an' look for us. This is a good place to leave the hosses."

Discarding their own mounts and rifles, the two men traversed the arroyo and emerged, with due caution, into the open. Hidden behind lumps of storm-riven lava, they got their first view of the bandit settlement. It proved to be a mere collection of hovels, mostly with rock walls and sodded roofs, clustered beneath the shadow of a jagged cliff, the curving shape of which showed that it had once been part of the wall of a crater. Zigzagging steeply up the weathered face was a narrow path leading to a ledge about two-thirds of the way up. Only one building justifying the name was to be seen--a stout cabin of untrimmed logs standing in the centre of the other habitations.

"That'll be Mister Moraga's mansion, yu betcha," Pete observed. "Lie close--there's a fella who might come our way."

"I'm hopin' he does," the marshal said.

His wish was granted; the man, stepping jauntily and humming a song, passed close to their hiding-place. A quick clutch, which effectively closed his windpipe, and he was behind the boulder, a gun-barrel boring into his ribs.

"Silence, they say, is golden," a voice whispered. "Noise, for yu, amigo, will be leaden. Savvy?"

Apparently the prisoner did, for he submitted silently while his pistol and knife were removed from his belt. Seated on the ground with his back to the rock, he glared in amaze at the grinning cowboys.

"Now yu can talk, amigo, an' I'm advisin' yu to," the marshal said, "Where is El Diablo?"

"Senor Moraga ees in ze beeg cabeen," he said sullenly, adding with vicious emphasis, "he keel you for dees."

"Mebbe," the marshal agreed. "How many men has he got?"

The Mexican's eyes gleamed cunningly. "Ten," he said. Green shrugged his shoulders and glanced meaningly at the cactus patch. The effect was immediate. "Twenty," came the correction. The Mexican stood up. "Madre de Dios! I spik true, senor; I swear it," the captive cried, crossing himself fervently. "Twenty onlee--no count me."

"Yo're dead right to leave yoreself out," the marshal said. "Where's the girl?" The man looked at him stupidly. "The American senorita fetched in this mornin' by four o' yore men," Green added.

It was a guess, but a good one. The Mexican hesitated, but an impatient movement on the part of Pete decided him; these thrice-damned Gringos were not to be trifled with.

"In ze beeg cabeen," he muttered.

Marching the fellow back into the brush, they tied his hands and feet securely, using his own sash for the purpose, and left him there.

"If we don't make it back yu'll be in pore luck," the marshal told him. "Yu better pray--hard--for our success."

CHAPTER XIX

They found the rest of the party eagerly waiting for their return. After a short consultation with Andy and Renton, it was decided that the attack should be made at once. Moraga was known to control a numerous force, and more of his men might arrive at any moment. The marshal outlined a plan for the advance:

"We'll spread out in a half-circle, Injun up an' drive 'em into the big cabin; that'll give us the shacks for shelter. Leave the broncs here, split up into pairs, an' keep under cover all yu can. Rusty, yu an' Yates make for their corral an' turn the hosses loose. Shoot any fella that tries to get away--they may have help near."

Silently the men slipped away to their posts, with a final order not to shoot until they had a target. The marshal and his deputy returned to the point they had already visited, aiming from there to work up to Moraga's headquarters. From the shelter of the big boulder they could see the whole of the apology for a street. Several times men came out of the main hut and entered one or other of the shacks, but no shot shattered the silence; the marshal had warned his men to allow time for all to get into position.

Suddenly came a wild yell and a Mexican dashed from one of the dug-outs towards the cabin. Ere he had got half-way, however, a rifle crashed and he went down, sprawling grotesquely in the dust. Instantly the place came to life. Like rats from their holes, men popped out of the sordid dwellings and raced for the more solid haven of the log house. Their appearance drew a volley from the invaders, several dropped, but the rest gained their objective. The marshal smiled grimly.

They had been gradually advancing, crawling on their bellies and taking advantage of every stone or bush which offered protection. Foot by foot the attacking force advanced, closing in on the cabin, but still the problem of the open space in front of it had to be solved. Once the cowpunchers left the shelter of the shacks they would be at the mercy of Moraga's marksmen. Anxiously Green scanned the cliff, but it appeared to be unscalable save for the little path directly behind the cabin. They would have to rush the place, he decided, and in broad daylight, for it was hours yet to darkness and he dared not wait.

The firing now became spasmodic; a defender, fancying he saw a movement, would send a questing leaden messenger, and an attacker would instantly reply, aiming at the other's smoke. The stifling air was further polluted by the pungent smell of burnt powder.

Inside the cabin, Moraga and his men waited for the assault which they knew must come. Two .had been killed at the loop-holes and several nicked, but the defence still outnumbered the Americans, and although the guerrilla leader did not know this, he was unperturbed. Though the dispersal of the horses--for Rusty and Yates had done their work--prevented him sending for assistance, he was hourly expecting another of his raiding bands. That the invaders were Gringo punchers comprised his information of them, but he surmised that the abduction of the girl had brought them. With a smirk of satisfaction on his evil, brutish features he opened a door at the back of the main room of the building. On the right of the passage outside was a smaller room, when he entered. Seated on a chair to which her arms were bound was Tonia Sard. The bandit's eyes rested upon her possessively.

"I come to tell you not to be alarm," he said. "The shooting is jus' a leetle argument with some foolish folk who not like me." He drew up his gaudily-attired form with absurd dignity. "There are many such," he went on. "El Diablo is feared, not loved; he desire only, to be loved by one." He swept off his hat in a low bow, and though his keen little eyes must have seen the contempt in her face, his voice did not betray the fact. "I have sent for a padre."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's less'n forty yards an' that door ain't loopholed," he mused aloud. "If a man could get there--"

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

Green grinned at him. "That bit o' rock is the key to the situation--an' the door," he replied. "Mosey round to the boys an' tell 'em to fling lead regardless when I whistle."

The deputy departed unwillingly, and presently returned with the news that he had passed the word along, and that, beyond a graze or two, there were no casualties among the cowboys. The marshal stood his rifle against the wall, and made sure that his pistols came freely from their holsters.

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

"One more an' I reckon she'll cave," he muttered. "Better call the boys."

Uttering a shrill whistle, he lifted the missile once again and drove it at the obstacle. A sound of rending wood was drowned by the yell of the cowboys as they broke from cover and raced for the cabin. With both guns spurting lead, Green sprang through the breach he had made. Flashes lit up the dark interior, a bullet scorched his cheek, another tore off his hat, and then, clubbing his own empty guns, he leapt on the bandits, striking right and left. His men were close on his heels, swarming eagerly through the broken door and plunging into the combat. Driven back by the rush of the invaders, the Mexicans fought desperately, shooting, stabbing, and yelling out wild Spanish oaths and supplications. But they were no match for these hard riders of the plains who fought with a laugh on their lips and struck with an earnestness utterly out of keeping with it. Presently Green, in the medley of the fight, found himself beside Bordene.

"Where's that damn coyote, Moraga?" panted the rancher.

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

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

"C'mon, he can't get far," he cried, and began to climb.

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

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

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

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

"He's got us out on a limb, Andy," the marshal said.

The Mexican, of course, could not hear the words, but he evidently divined what their thoughts must be, for a jeering laugh floated down. The rancher gritted his teeth as he heard it. Moraga held all the cards, and knew it. He had recognized the marshal when he made his dash for the door and was amazed that he should have escaped death in the desert. It was then that he decided upon flight. His taunting tones reached them again:

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

"Can't we do nothin'?" Bordene growled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dropping the useless handle, the Indian resumed his slow, relentless advance. But the bandit dared not wait; one desperate chance had failed; he must try again. Gathering himself for the effort, he rushed in, hoping by the suddenness of the onslaught to hurl his foe from the ledge. But the claw-like brown fingers gripped like steel, and powerful as was his short, stocky form, Moraga found himself swung round with his back to the abyss. Savagely he struck at the fierce bronze mask with its bared teeth, and triumphant flaming eyes which bored into his own. Inch by inch he was forced nearer the edge; desperately he tried to clutch his enemy that both might die, but his fingers could get no purchase on the smooth, pigmented skin. His breath came in gulps, his face grew grey as he realized that the end was near, yet he fought on; he was a strong man and he did not want to die.

"I weel give you gold--much gold," he gasped.

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

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

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

"No good stay here," he said. "Some fella get away--bring more."

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

Led by the Indian, they descended from the crater rim by a longer but easier route, the one he himself had used. As Green had surmised, Black Feather had known that there was a way up and through the rock, and had guessed that if the fight went against him the guerrilla leader would make a bolt for it, leaving his followers to shift for themselves. When they reached the cabin again the fighting was finished. Renton, his left arm in a sling, hailed their appearance with a shout and hurried forward to greet his young mistress.

"Shore am glad to see yu again, Miss Tonia," he said, and to the marshal, "Where'd yu find her? We've looked all over."

Green gave a brief account of what had happened; the foreman looked wonderingly at the Indian for a moment and then stepped up to him.

"If yu ever want anythin', any time, come to the Double S an' yu get it," he said. "Shake."

The red man took the proffered hand. "Black Feather a chief, yellow dog have him whipped," he said, as though that explained all, and, from his point of view, it did.

"Well, I reckon yu've done squared the 'count," Renton replied, and turned to the marshal. "We've cleaned up here pretty complete, but a few got clear, an' I've a hunch we oughta be on our way."

"The Indian was saying the same. What's wrong with yore arm?"

"Fella tried to hide a knife in me an' got my wing. 'Bout half a dozen of us is damaged, nothin' serious. Soon as we've fed we better point for the hosses, an' go back the way we come, huh?"

The marshal agreed. The known dangers and hardships of the lava desert were preferable to the possibility of bumping into another bunch of bandits.

CHAPTER XX

The journey back to Lawless was uneventful. The cowboys, elated by the success of the expedition, endured discomfort with cheerful curses. The grave face of their guide alone gave no sign of satisfaction, though there was a deep content in his heart. He spoke seldom, a wave of the hand serving for words.

"Like a bloomin' image, ain't he?" Rusty said. "But I'll risk a stack he's more pleased than any of us; Injuns is plenty deep thataways."

But Rusty was wrong--there was a more contented man in the party than even Black Feather. For Andy Bordene, to be riding side by side with the girl he loved and had so nearly lost, turned even the terrible lava desert into a paradise. Together they watched the sun, a blaze of golden flame, drop behind the misty purple hills, and when its red rim peeped above the horizon they were in the saddle again on their way--home. And home--Andy told himself--was soon going to mean very much more to him than it had ever done, now that he had got his ranch back and was free to speak. Nevertheless, though he had plenty of opportunities--for the others, with knowing smiles, left them much to themselves--Andy could not screw up his courage, until they had crossed the Border and were nearing the Box B. They had lagged behind--a not infrequent occurrence--and a bend in the trail hid the rest of the party. Andy suddenly pulled up, and when the girl's mount instinctively did the same, the young man leaned forward, a look in his eyes which sent the warm blood to her cheeks.

"Tonia, do yu remember my sayin' I'd be comin' to yu for a job some day?" he began, and when she nodded, "the day's here, an' I'm askin'. Honey, the job I want is to look after, work for, an' make Life good for yu always."

His voice was low, husky, and revealed a depth of feeling she had never suspected in this gay, irresponsible playmate of her youth. A wave of happiness swept through her; she had long known the answer she must make, but, woman-like, she had to ask a question:

"Was that the job you were thinking of then, Andy?"

"Shore thing, Tonia; but I was in a money mess an' hadn't the right to speak. Now it's different. Do yu reckon yu could learn to love me, Tonia?"

The girl flashed a tremulous little smile at him. "You could have had that job then, Andy--for the asking," she whispered.

They were still missing when the rescue party rode up to the ranch-house of the Box B, where, as it was late, they had decided to spend the night. To their surprise, they were greeted by Reuben Sarel, who had ridden over in search of news. He had a jaded, worried expression, which increased when he saw that his niece was not with them.

"Ain't yu got her?" he asked.

"Well, we took her away from Moraga all right, but on the trip back somebody else done stole her again," Green said solemnly.

The fat man's face flushed with anger. "Pretty fine lot o' fellas yu must be--" he began, and then the errant pair, trotting leisurely, came in sight, and he understood. "Well, I'm damned! All right, marshal, that's a score to yu," he grinned.

At the sight of the waiting group, the young couple raced for the ranch-house. Tonia won, and jumping from her saddle, flung her arms impulsively round her uncle's neck.

"Well, well, burn me if bein' stole don't seem to suit yu," he said shyly. "I never seen yu look so bonny."

"Guess it depends on who does the Stealm'," Green put in, whereupon the girl got rosier than ever and retreated precipitately to "clean-up."

"Come an' eat, folks," Sarel suggested. "I wanta hear all about it."

In the big living-room the story was told, and Reuben's eyes lighted when he learned how the guerrilla chief had died.

"Served the skunk right," he commented. "I've allus regarded Injuns as pizen, but I'm a-goin' to make an exception; thisyer Black Feather can have my shirt if he wants it."

"Which would make two for him and then leave plenty for patching," Tonia said merrily. Her glance rested affectionately on her bulky relation, and she suddenly sobered. "Uncle, you're not looking well; what's troubling you?"

Reuben lifted his hands in surrender and turned to the marshal. "Fact is, I am bothered," he admitted. "We're losin' a lot o' cows; somebody's took advantage of our bein' short-handed to steal us blind, an' we can't figure it. Mebbe yu can help us?"

"If Andy'll lend me a hoss I'll look into it to-night," Green said; and when they protested, he explained: "Waitin' means losin' a chance; soon as they know we're all back, the rustlers will lay over for a spell." He shook his head at his deputy. "I'm on'y goin' to snoop around; it's a one-man job, ol'-timer."

* * *

The following morning found Andy, Pete, and the Indian--the latter with Nigger on a lead-rope--covering the trail to Lawless, the rancher's presence being due to an eagerness to conclude his business with the banker. The journey did not add to Pete's entertainment, for Andy was riding in a world of his own, and Black Feather--for conversational purposes--was a hopeless dawn.

"I'll have to get me a parrot," the deputy said, and then raised a whoop when he saw the marshal waiting for them.

The new-comer did nothing to add to the gaiety of the party. He looked tired, and having greeted them and transferred his saddle to Nigger, he relapsed into a moody silence, from which he emerged only once, when he noticed Pete peering anxiously around and asked him what he was looking for.

"The body," the deputy told him. "Thisyer's a funeral procession, ain't it?"

Their arrival in town brought Seth Raven quick-foot to the marshal's office. He halted at the door for an instant when he saw Andy, and then came in. His face apeared strained, and there was an eagerness in his tone.

"Yu got the girl--an' Moraga?" he blurted out.

"Miss Sarel is on her way to the Double S an' the Mexican won't trouble us again," the marshal replied, and gave a bald recital of the rescue.

"Yu done a good job; but why waste a cartridge on that coyote? I'd 'a' left him there for the buzzards to finish," Seth said savagely. "What I promised holds good, marshal."

"Forget it," Green replied. "All in the day's work, Raven. Town behaved itself while we been away?"

"Middlin', till last night, an' then"--he looked at Andy--"the bank was robbed. First we know of it the clerk can't get in this mornin'. We busts the door an' find Potter on the floor of his office an' the place cleaned to a fare-yu-well. Potter has been shot in the head, an' is as near dead as don't matter. Looks like Mister Sudden has turned another trick."

"Anythin' to show that?" Green asked.

"No, 'cept that I saw a fella on a black hoss tricklin' outa town mighty early this mornin'," the saloon-keeper said. "There wasn't much light, an' I took it yu were back again, marshal. It's shore tough luck for yu, Andy."

The young rancher, rudely awakened from his dream of happiness, shook himself like a dog. Fate had dealt him another bitter blow, but he was not yet beaten. Nevertheless, there was a tremor in his voice as he said:

"It's tougher still on Potter. S'pose the thief didn't take my mortgage, huh?"

"It warn't there, Andy," Raven said slowly. "As a matter o' fact, Potter came to me for money an' made over yore mortgage as security, askin' me not to say anythin' till he'd explained to yu. O' course, I ain't pressin' yu, though the bank robbery has hit me considerable."

The words did not ring true; try as he might, he could not keep the note of exultation out of his voice. The marshal sensed it, and a bitter smile on the rancher's lips showed that he too was not deceived. The half-breed turned to Green:

"Yu bein' away, I sent to Strade, an' I hear he's just come. Reckon you'll find him at the bank. 'Pills' is lookin' after Potter."

"Pills"--known by no other name--was the local medico. A small grey-haired man of perhaps twoscore, with a deeply lined face, he possessed a sharp tongue, which he did not scruple to use. When the saloon-keeper had gone, the marshal turned to Bordene.

"Keep a stiff upper-lip, Andy," he said. "Hills ain't never so steep as they look when you come to climb 'em. I'm a-goin' down to see Strade."

The Sweetwater sheriff opened the bank door himself. "Come right in, marshal," he invited. "I hear yu got that Greaser."

"Yeah. What do yu make o' this?"

"Just nothin'. It's like when the Sweetwater bank was looted four-five months ago, on'y no one was hurt then, the premises bein' unoccupied. Yu heard of it?"

"It fetched me here, bein' put to my account, though I dunno why."

"Stranger on a black hoss with a white face was seen sneakin' outa town, that's why."

"Huh! Raven says he saw the same thing this mornin'--heard the hoof-beats an' got up to look: he figured it was me."

"Sorta suggests our friend is still busy, don't it?" Strade mused. " 'Lo, doc, how's yore patient?"

"Couldn't be worse, and live," said the doctor, who had just come from the bedroom at the back to which the injured man had been removed.

"No chance o' gettin' a word out of him, I s'pose?"

"Don't talk like a fool, Strade," Pills snapped. "The shot fractured the back of the skull and it will be a miracle if he opens his eyes again, much less his mouth. If you are looking to him for help, you'd better forget it."

He bustled away, and the sheriff's eyes followed him. "Peppery little beggar, but he knows what he's talkin' about," he said, and added what few facts he had gleaned: Potter had been seen entering the bank soon after ten o'clock; the safe had been opened with the banker's own keys; a few strangers had visited the town, but their movements were known; no one had noticed the shot, which was not unlikely in Lawless. "In fact, there ain't a smidgin' o' evidence to go on," Strade concluded.

The marshal nodded; but his eyes were busy. Slowly they travelled from the ominous stain on the board floor to the books flung hastily from the rifled safe, and back to the desk in the centre of the room. Stooping, he raked beneath this with a ruler, bringing to light a little brass cylinder; it was a used shell, a Colt's .45, and along one side ran a horizontal scratch.

"On'y this," Green said.

The sheriff whistled. "That cinches it," he said; "but don't bring us no nearer; seems to me yu gotta catch this hombre in the act; he's too damn clever. Got a wad this time too; Raven reckons he's shy ten thousand hisself. Well, seein' yo're in the saddle agin, I'll be gettin' back to my lambs. Come over soon an' have a pow-wow."

When the sheriff had gone, Green sat in the banker's own chair pondering over this latest development. The robbery of the bank was another blow at Bordene, and again the saloonkeeper benefited, if, as the marshal more than suspected, he was scheming to obtain the Box B. A big ledger lying on the floor gave him an idea. He turned up Raven's account, only to find a credit balance of nearly ten thousand dollars. So that was true. His mind reverted to the envelope Potter had left with him. Had the man feared the visit of the mysterious outlaw who had laid him low, or--He wished he could open it, but Potter was still alive, and his word bound him.

When he saw Raven later in the evening he made no mention of the empty cartridge he had found. "She's a blind trail," he said, "but me an' Pete'll have a scout round to-morrow an' see if we can pick up anythin'."

He noted that the half-breed seemed to be in unusually good spirits for a man who had just lost a large sum of money, and the point puzzled him. Andy was not visible, having returned to his ranch.

The next day was but just born when the marshal, after giving certain instructions to Black Feather, set out with Pete along the western trail. There was a slight breeze and the air, as yet untempered by the rising sun, was like wine. For a mile or so they followed the trail, and then the marshal swung off to the right, heading for Tepee Mountain. His deputy, who had not yet been told the object of the expedition, now put the question.

"I want to ask the black hoss if he's been rid lately," the marshal informed him.

They found the hidden valley as silent and undisturbed as on the day Green had first seen it. The black horse was there, wild and skittish, but after a short chase they got their ropes on it, permitting a close examination. Both of them noted the absence of saddle-marks.

"Fat as butter--ain't been used for weeks," was Pete's comment. "What's that mean?"

"One o' two things: either that murderin' thief has another black hoss cached somewheres, an' that ain't likely, or he didn't need one for the bank play."

"Which last makes Raven a plain liar. But why--"

"The damn business is all 'whys?'" the marshal interrupted. "P'r'aps we'll have an answer to one of 'em to-morrow."

Pete waited for an explanation of this remark, but it was not forthcoming.

CHAPTER XXI

The arrival of Andy Bordene at the marshal's office next morning was followed by that of Renton and two of his men. With Green and his deputy they called at the Red Ace. Raven's eyebrows went up when he saw them.

"Climb a cayuse an' come along," Green said. "Got somethin' to show yu."

The saloon-keeper hesitated for a moment, looking from one to the other. Then he shrugged his shoulders and went for his mount. Five minutes later he was riding beside Bordene, his glance resting speculatively on the leading couple, the marshal and his man. Into his mind a spasm of uneasiness obtruded.

"Where we goin', Andy?" he enquired.

"I know as much as yu do," the young man replied. "Green sent word yestiddy for me to come along. As a shot in the dark I'd say he's mebbe located the rustlers."

"Rustlers?" Raven repeated. "Who's been losin' steers?"

"The Double S--so Reub was sayin'," Andy told him.

Raven rode in silence, his face indifferent, but inwardly he was damning the marshal for interfering. As their course took them farther away from the 88 ranch his suspicions evaporated. By casual but skilful questioning he got from Andy a more detailed account of the rescue of Tonia, and also a pretty accurate idea of how matters stood with the young couple. Moraga had served him a dirty trick there, he reflected, but it had compensations; the loss of his herd money had utterly crippled the owner of the Box B, putting him in the power of his rival.

The marshal and his deputy covered the first few miles in silence, and then Pete's patience was at an end. "Why don't yu chatter some?" he burst out. "Yu might put a fella wise to what's doin'."

"We're goin' to catch a cow-thief or two," Green replied, and told of a discovery he had made on the night they returned from the Border.