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

made even the
toughest citizen dubious about challenging his authority.
                 Rest
and regular food soon restored the Indian to health, but he showed no
disposition to depart. He had relinquished Pete’s bed and slept on the floor of
the little kitchen, Green presenting him with a couple of blankets. With a
shirt, an old pair of pants, and his moccasins carefully mended, Black
Feather’s wardrobe was complete. As soon as he was able he chopped wood for the
stove and cleaned the place up generally. In spite of this evident desire to be
useful, Pete continued to regard him with suspicion.
                 With
the little man in this mood it was waste of time to argue, so the marshal did
not explain that he had a use for their guest. But as soon as the Indian was
able to sit a saddle, he took him to the Old Mine and showed him the hoofprints
of the killer’s horse, which, as there had been no rain, were still clear.
                 “I
was followin’ them when I run across vu,” he explained.
                 Black
Feather studied the marks closely for a few moments and then swung into his
saddle again. “Me find,” he said gravely, and rode away.
                 The
marshal returned to Lawless, and in reply to Pete’s enquiry as to the
whereabouts of their guest, told him of the incident. The deputy was plainly
pessimistic.
                 “Betcha
five dollars he fades,” he offered, and chortled when the other took the wager.
                 “Easy money, ol’-timer, easy money.”
                 “Yeah,
for me,” the marshal retorted.
                 And
so it proved, for, to Pete’s chagrin, the Indian returned late in the evening.
Standing for a moment before the marshal, he said, “No find—yet,” and stalked
solemnly into the kitchen.
                 “Chatty
devil, ain’t he?” Barsay said. “Double or quits he don’t locate the hoss.”
                 “I’ll
go yu,” Green smiled. “Easy money, ol’-timer.”
                 When
they rose the next morning, the Indian had already vanished, and they saw no
sign of him until the evening. Though he was obviously tired out, there was a
gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
                 “Me
find um,” he said, and that was all.
                 Peeping
into the kitchen a little later, they saw him, rolled in his blankets, fast
asleep, his precious carbine beside him.
                 “Bet
he’s had one punishin’ day trailin’ that hoss,” Green said. “Wonder where he
found him?”
                 “S’pose
he’ll show yu tomorrow,” the deputy said. “Yu want me along?”
                 “No
use both goin’,” Green replied. “Yu better stay here to see that no festive
cow-person ropes the office an’ drags it into the desert.”
                 The
sun was not yet up and there was a keen bite in the air when the marshal and
the Mohave set out. Once clear of the town, the redskin turned his horse’s head
to the north-west, in the direction of Tepee Mountain, and for an hour they
loped over miles of level range, sandy soil thickly dotted with bunch-grass,
creosote, and mesquite. Green guessed that his guide was taking him direct to
the finish of his trailing; evidently the murderer had, as he suspected,
doubled back after crossing the Border. Deep gorges, masked by black pine
forests, slashed the lower slopes of the range, and above them towered the
great grey granite peak.
                 Into
one of these ravines the Indian led the way, his mount splashing along a small
stream which swept smoothly over its stony bed. For about a quarter of a mile
they rode in the water, and then the leader turned sharply to the left and
vanished in the bordering bushes. The marshal followed, to find an unexpected
break in the wall of the gorge, an opening only a