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

his face
sobered.
                 “‘Fore
we go any further, there’s somethin’ yu have to know.” The sheriff looked at
him, surprised at the change of tone. “That black out there is Sudden’s hoss
with the blaze an’ stockin’ on the off fore dyed out.”
                 The
geniality faded from the sheriff’s face, to be replaced by a hard, bleak look;
his right hand, which had been resting on the table, dropped to his side. The
marshal, rolling a smoke, took no notice of the movement.
                 “Don’t
froth up, sheriff,” he warned. “I could beat yu to it. I’m Sudden, an’ I’m here
to find the skunk who’s fillin’ his pockets an’
puttin’ the blame on me. It’s bin done before, Strade, an’ while I don’t claim
to be no sort of a saint, I ain’t a thief, an’ I never shot a man who wasn’t
gunnin’ for me.”
                 Strade
listened with growing amazement; he had pictured the famous gunman as very
different to the cool, nonchalant young man who so calmly announced his
identity.
                 “Take
a squint at this,” the level voice proceeded. “I ain’t aimin’ to use it unless
I have to; this job concerns me personal’.”
                 Strade
took the proffered paper and saw that it was an official document, formally
appointing James Green a deputy-sheriff in the service of the Governor of the
Territory, by whom it was signed. For a long moment the sheriff pondered, two
points uppermost in his mind: that this could not be the man he was looking
for, and that Sudden was playing a straight game.
                 Handing
back the paper he pushed out a paw.
                 “Shake,”
he said. “I’m takin’ yore word.”
                 Green
gripped the hand, his eyes lighting up. “Even my friends allow I’m a poor
liar,” he smiled. “Ever hear of fellas named Peterson and Webb?”
                 Strade
shook his head. “What yu want ‘em for?” he asked.
                 “They’ve
lived too long,” was the grim reply, and the sheriff said no more.
                 Years
later, when the news of their finding1 filtered through from a distant part of
the country, he was to remember the question.
                 At
Strade’s suggestion, they went out to take a look at the town. It proved to be
another Lawless, but larger, and of a slightly less unsavoury reputation, due
to the efforts of a sheriff who took his duties seriously. In the course of the
evening, Green was presented to several of the leading citizens, played a
pleasant game of poker, and presently retired with his host. Back in the little
parlour, the sheriff talked business again.
                 “Bad
about Bordene,” he said, when he had heard the whole story. “He was a straight
man. Nothin’ distinctive ‘bout them two shells yu found, I s’pose?”
                 “They
were .45’s, an’ one of ‘em had a scratch along the side,” the marshal told him.
“I’d say one chamber of his gun was nicked someway.”
                 “Huh!
Might be helpful,” the sheriff said. “Sands an’ the messenger was drilled by
.45’s too, but the shells was clean, an’ that’s the common calibre round here.”
                 As
they gripped hands, the sheriff had a parting word:
                 “Glad
yu came over,” he said, and meant it. “Any time yu want help, I’ll come
a-runnin’.”
                 “I’m
obliged,” the marshal said. “Yu know the country.”
                 “I
know Lawless,” Strade warned him.

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