"Bad business this, marshal," Sarel remarked. "Bordene was a white man an' a valued citizen. We're lookin' to yu to put a crimp in this fella Sudden."
"He's gotta be found first, Reub," Jevons said, and there was a suspicion of a jeer in his tone. "Yu ain't suspectin' that Injun yu toted in, are yu?" This to the marshal.
"Not any," that officer replied. "I picked him up on the trail; he'd bin shot, stripped, an' set afoot."
"What nation?" asked Raven.
"Claims to be Mohave, but I figure he's a stray," the marshal told him. "He ain't talked much yet."
"Bah! Better 'a' left him; I'd as soon fetch home a hurt rattler," Jevons said savagely. "Redskins is all liars an' thieves."
"Saul is a bit sore on war-paints just now," Raven explained. "He's bin losin' a few steers an' he's blamin' them for it."
"Well, I got no use for Injuns, but I reckon it's more likely them toughs in Tepee Mountain is liftin' yore beef, Raven," the Double S man offered.
After a while the other two sat down to play cards, and Raven led the marshal into his office.
"Yu got any private opinion 'bout this killin'?" he asked.
"I said all I had to say at the enquiry," was the reply.
"Young Andy could 'a' done it," the saloon-keeper suggested. Green shook his head. "Pete an' me checked up the times; we know when the old man left Lawless an' when Andy started from the Box B; he'd have had to ride mighty good to reach the Old Mine before his dad," he pointed out. " 'Nother thing, Andy carries a .44, which takes the same fodder as his Winchester."
Seth could not gainsay this. "O' course, I was on'y givin' yu a possible line. Andy is in pretty deep with me, an' the old man didn't know it."
"Anyways, he couldn't 'a' held up the stage, being at the Box B all that day."
"Huh! Bound to be the same fella, yu think?" "Shore as shootin'."
Raven picked up a large sheet of coarse paper. "What yu think o' this?" he queried.
It was a notice, printed in large capitals, offering a reward of one thousand dollars for the capture of the man known as "Sudden," or information leading thereto. No particulars of the outlaw were given, but the horse was described. The document was signed by the saloon-keeper.
"Might produce somethin'," the marshal agreed. "We gotta do somethin'. This is the fourth play he has put across in a short while. It's up to yu an' Barsay, marshal," Raven said.
"We'll get him," Green said confidently, and picking up the notice, went to nail it outside the saloon door.
Seth Raven puzzled him. Apparently a public-spirited citizen, anxious for the welfare of the community, there was an elusive something which evaded the marshal. With an innate feeling that the man was crooked, he had to admit that so far he was not justified in that belief. A little later, when he entered his quarters, and went in to see the sufferer he found him still occupying Barsay's bed, and awake. The black eyes, no longer fierce, looked up at him gratefully, reminding him of a devoted dog: and as any sort of sentiment rendered him uncomfortable, his tone was almost abrupt as he asked, "Feelin' better?" "Me well now," the patient replied, and made to rise. The Indian is both proud and punctilious; he would crawl outside to die rather than remain an unwelcome guest. The marshal motioned him to lie down again.
"Make a job of it, amigo," he said, and his smile meant more than the words.
The sick man sank back with a grunt of relief; even that slight exertion had been too much for his exhausted frame. "Black Feather no forget," he whispered.
Pete looked up as the marshal re-entered the office. "When do we start?" he asked hopefully.
"We don't," Green said. "I'm agoin' to see Sheriff Strade over to Sweetwater, an' I'm leavin' yu in charge--o' the patient."
"Well, of all the hawgs," ejaculated Barsay. "Why can't yu nurse the nigger an' let me see Strade?"
"He might recognize yu," Green replied, his eyes twinkling. The appalling impudence of this remark struck the deputy dumb, and before he could recover, the marshal was on his way to the corral. Pete watched him saddle the big black, swing lightly to the saddle, and lope away. He grinned ruefully.
"Ain't he the aggravatin' cuss?" he asked himself. "An' I can't get mad at him neither--not real mad. I hope to Gawd the sheriff don't recognize him--for the sheriff's sake."
* * *
Pete's fear was due to be realized, though the consequences were not serious. To Strade, the tall man who walked into his office and, giving his name, announced himself as the new marshal of Lawless, seemed faintly familiar.
"Ain't I seen yu afore some place?" he asked.
"Yeah, lying outside the Red Ace," Green smiled. "Mebbe I wasn't as bad as yu figured. Yu savvy, sheriff, a drunken man'll get more information in two days than a sober one in that number o' weeks; folks take it he's too 'blind' to see or hear anythin'."
"Yu was layin' for the marshal's job then?" Strade queried.
Green grinned at him. "Yeah, I went to Lawless to get it; I'm after the fella who calls hisself Sudden."
There was emphasis on the concluding words and Strade straightened up with a jerk, "Yu tellin' me that it ain't the real Sudden pirootin' round in these parts?" he asked.
"Just that," the visitor replied, and anticipating the inevitable question, he added, "Take a squint at this."
From his vest pocket he produced a folded paper. The sheriff saw that it was a printed bill, offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the capture of one "Sudden." A somewhat vague description followed: "Young, dark hair and moustache, grey-blue eyes, dressed as a cowboy, wears two guns, and rides a black horse with a white blaze on face and white stocking on off fore-leg." The bill had been issued by the sheriff of Fourways, Texas.
Strade looked up and nodded. "That agrees with what we got," he said. "Neither Sands nor Eames could say much about the man--him bein' masked--but they got the hoss to a dot."
"They couldn't both be wrong, an' Eames--a hoss-user--certainly wouldn't be."
The sheriff looked puzzled. "What's yore point?"
"Accordin' to this"--Green tapped the printed notice--"the real Sudden's hoss has a white stockin' on the off fore, but both yore men say the near. Ain't that so?"
Strade reached some papers from a drawer and referred to them. "Yo're right," he admitted. "Funny I didn't spot that. Somebody's made a mistake."
"Yeah, an' it's Mister Bushwhacker," Green said. "He's painted the wrong leg of his bronc."
The Sweetwater sheriff scratched his head. "It does shorely look like yu've hit the mark," he said. "We've bin searchin' for a stranger, but it might be anybody--"
He broke off suddenly and his eyes narrowed as they rested on the black horse hitched outside. Green saw the look and laughed.
"No use, ol'-timer," he said. "I was in the Red Ace when the stage was held up."
The sheriff laughed too. "Sorry, Green," he apologized. "This damn job makes a fella suspect hisself a'most. Yu stayin' over?"
"I was aimin' to."
"Good, then yu'll dig in with me. Bachelor quarters, but I reckon yu'll prefer 'em. The hotel here stuffs its mattresses with rocks."
"Bein' rocked to sleep don't appeal to me," the visitor grinned, and then his face sobered. "'Fore we go any further, there's somethin' yu have to know." The sheriff looked at him, surprised at the change of tone. "That black out there is Sudden's hoss with the blaze an' stockin' on the off fore dyed out."
The geniality faded from the sheriff's face, to be replaced by a hard, bleak look; his right hand, which had been resting on the table, dropped to his side. The marshal, rolling a smoke, took no notice of the movement.
"Don't froth up, sheriff," he warned. "I could beat yu to it. I'm Sudden, an' I'm here to find the skunk who's fillin' his pockets an' puttin' the blame on me. It's bin done before, Strade, an' while I don't claim to be no sort of a saint, I ain't a thief, an' I never shot a man who wasn't gunnin' for me."