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

eyes filled with the
tears she would not shed until the bereaved boy had gone. Clasping her two
hands in his—he could not trust himself to speak—Andy mounted his pony and the
three men set out for the scene of the tragedy, first calling at the bank,
where they learned that the murdered man had drawn out five thousand dollars.
                 Slumped
in his saddle, Bordene led the way at a fast lope. The shock of this, his first
real rebuff in life, had driven the youthfulness from his face, leaving a
grimness mingled with the grief. The marshal and his deputy followed in
silence.
                 Less
than an hour’s riding brought them to the Old Mine, a little group of low,
rocky mounds shrouded in small timber and brush through which the trail passed.
A saddled horse was tied to a tree, but there was no body.
                 “I
carried him into that hut,” Bordene explained, pointing to a rude cabin at the
foot of one of the hillocks, the pathway to which was almost obscured by undergrowth.
                 Pushing
their way through they came upon the murdered man. Green stopped and made a
quick examination. “Shot in the back—twice,” he said. “An’ the cash is missin’,
though there is some small change in the pockets; a Greaser wouldn’t ‘a’ left
that.” He rose and looked round.
                 Two
shining objects attracted his attention—used shells. “Forty-fives,” he
commented, slipping them into the pocket of his chaps. “Pistol-work. Whereabout did yu find him, Andy?”
                 The
young man pointed to where a bit of the trail lay in plain view, and Green
began to examine the floor of the hut, which was of packed sand. Presently he
stood up.
                 “I
figure it was this way,” he said. “The bushwhacker hid in here by the door—yu
can see the marks of his heels—an’ when the old man passed, he got him. Musta
waited some time too, for he smoked three cigarettes.” He picked up the ends
and broke one open. “Good Bull Durham,” he added, sniffing the tobacco. “No
Mexican trash. We gotta find where he left his hoss.”
                 “What’s
the use of all this, marshal?” broke in Bordene querulously. “We know who did
it.”
                 “Do
we? Any fella can call hisself Sudden,” Green retorted, and his tone was so
harsh that Pete looked at him in surprise. “It would be a damn easy way o’
blottin’ a trail.”
                 The
young man bit his lips. “I didn’t think o’ that,” he admitted.
                 It
did not take them long to find where the killer had hidden his horse. Just
behind the hut the lower foliage of a tree had been nibbled, and a branch bore
traces of having been chafed.
                 Moreover,
in the bark of the trunk, Green’s quick eye discerned several hairs and the
hoofprints showed that the animal had .. been restive. The hairs were black.
                 “Sudden
is said to ride a black, ain’t he?” Andy questioned.
                 “Yeah,”
the marshal replied.
                 He
was on his knees, studying the hoofprints carefully. Presently he stood up, and
they went to the spot where the body had been found. The ground here was matted
with the marks of both men and horses. Green pored over them for some time,
gradually picked out the ones he wanted—those of the murderer’s mount—and noted
that they went south. Then he announced his decision.
                 “I’m
goin’ to follow his tracks,” he said. “Pete, yu’ll stay here while Andy goes to
the Box B for a wagon an’ some of his boys to take the old man to town:
there’ll have to be an enquiry.”
                 When
the boy had gone, the marshal rolled and lighted a cigarette, and selecting a small rock, squatted and smoked in silence. His deputy stood it
for a while, and