"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.