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

few yards wide, guarded by a
rough pole gate. On the other side was a tiny pocket of not more than a dozen
acres, covered with rich grass and walled in by cliff. At the far end a black
horse was grazing. On a bare patch of ground near the entrance, which his guide
carefully avoided, were several hoofmarks, some of which Green recognized; the
others had been made by a smaller horse.
                 “Good
work,” he said approvingly, and the Indian’s expressive eyes gleamed at the
praise.
                 “I
reckon there ain’t much doubt, but we’ll make shore.”
                 They
rode slowly into the valley, keeping away from the strange horse until they
were level with it, and then Green suddenly whirled his mount and jumped it at
the grazing animal, round the neck of which the noose dropped before the victim
could dodge. Slipping from his saddle, the marshal walked up the rope, coiling
it as he approached, but ready for a breakaway.
                 The
black, however, proved ropewise and docile; it allowed him to pull its head
down and discover, at the roots of the hair, little flakes of white. Lifting
the near foreleg, he found the same singularity.
                 “She’s
the hoss, shore enough,” he muttered. “All we gotta do now is find the owner.”
                 “Nothin’
here—me look,” Black Feather said.
                 “Huh!
Just uses it as a private corral. Rides here, changes mounts to do his dirty
work, an’ has the other hoss waitin’ to get away on,” mused the marshal. “That means he ain’t too far from here.”
                 Leaving
the gate exactly as they found it, they made their way back to the open range,
and then, having warned him not to talk—Pete would have deemed this
unnecessary—the marshal sent his companion back to town. He himself headed
east, following the line of the mountain.
                 Presently
he began to come on scattered groups of cattle. He had drawn near to one of
these and was endeavouring to decipher the brand when a bullet droned through
the air, followed by the flat report, and a hoarse shout of “Put ‘em up; the
next one drills yu.”
                 The
marshal did not comply—his hands were too busy subduing the evolutions of
Nigger, who, having decided objections to bullets whistling past his ears,
never failed to register a protest. When the rider had succeeded in calming the
black, he looked up into the gun of the man who had given the order. It was
Leeson. Despite the threatening weapon, the marshal laughed.
                 “Why,
if it ain’t Mister Wild Bill ‘Hiccup,’” he said. “Playin’
with firearms, too. What yu mean, scaring my hoss thataway?”
                 The
man glared at him, his finger itching to pull the trigger. But the marshal had
been appointed by Raven, and besides, although his own gun was already out, he
had an uneasy feeling that this jeering, confident devil would somehow get the
better of him. So he holstered his pistol and said sullenly:
                 “Didn’t know yu. Wondered what yore interest was in our
cows, that’s all.”
                 “Yore
cows?” the marshal repeated.
                 “Yeah,
I’m ridin’ for the 88,” the man explained.
                 “Raven’s
ranch, huh? How far away is it?”
                 Leeson
pointed east and said it was some three miles to the ranch-house.
                 “Who
put yu up to that fool play the other night?” Green asked.
                 The
man flushed. “Some o’ the boys,” he growled. “It was on’y a joke.”
                 “Well,
I hope yu laughed hearty,” the marshal said. “So long.”
                 He
turned his horse and rode in the direction indicated.
                 The
88 ranch-house was an