Read Online Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) by Oliver Strange - Free Book Online

the Box B, following a mere pathway which
twisted tortuously through the brush. Green noted that the fugitive was heading
south and making no effort to hide the fact. Pausing at the top of a slight
ridge, he scanned the surrounding country.
                 There
was no sign of his quarry, and, indeed, he had not expected there would be; in
such country, the man might have been but a few hundred yards distant and still
unseen. The marshal moved down the slope of the ridge, threaded a narrow
arroyo, and pulled up again. In front lay an expanse of semi-desert, a broad
stretch of sand relieved only by clumps of bunch-grass, cactus, and mesquite.
The trail led straight on to this and abruptly vanished. For a moment the
trailer was at a loss, and then he noticed that his hoof prints had also gone,
the fine granular sand trickling back and filling up the depressions almost as
soon as they were made.
                 “This
fella ain’t no stranger,” the marshal muttered. “Well,
Nig, if he’s headin’ for the Border we gotta go on.”
                 Holding
a straight line, he crossed the little desert, and after a short search picked
up the trail again on the other side. Two miles brought him to a wide-banked,
slow-moving river which he guessed must be Lazy Creek; the opposite bank was
Mexico. At this time of the year the stream was shrunk to half its winter width
and he had no difficulty in crossing. He found the familiar hoofprints on the
other side only to lose them soon afterwards in a long narrow cleft, the floor
of which consisted of weathered rock, detritus from the bare walls on either
side.
                 He
rode through the gully, emerging into a strip of park-like country interspersed
with wooded knolls. Passing one of these, he heard a voice, harsh, speaking in
Spanish.
                 “See
if you can loosen his tongue, Lopez,” it said.
                 Trailing
his reins, the marshal crept cautiously up under cover of the chaparral. The sight
was a singular one. At the side of a little glade an Indian was standing, his
wrists tied behind him to a sapling. He was a tall fellow, of indeterminate
age, his body emaciated by illness or starvation. He was naked save for a
ragged pair of deerskin trousers. But for the fierce eyes he might have been a
statue of bronze. Facing him was a yellow-skinned Mexican of the lowest type,
in a huge sombrero, dirty blue shirt, and tattered overalls. He was holding a
wicked-looking quirt, passing the lash through his fingers and eyeing the
Indian gloatingly.
                 A
few yards distant was the man who had spoken, a dark, swarthy fellow of middle
age and stature, whose straight black hair framed one of the cruellest faces
Green had ever seen. The nose was almost flat, the eyes narrow and near, and
the thick, sensual lips were drawn back in a snarl, disclosing big, stained
teeth. His attire was a parody of a uniform; a slouched hat pinned up at one
side with a silver brooch; a flaming red tunic loaded with gold braid; faded
blue pants tucked into high boots garnished with huge wheel spurs. From the
gaudy sash round his middle peeped the butts of two pistols and the haft of a
dagger.
                 At
a nod from this man, and before the marshal could interfere, the peon swung his
quirt and lashed the Indian savagely across the chest, the thong, knotted at
the end, cutting an open weal from which the blood flew. Before the force of
the blow the victim staggered, but instantly drew himself up and became again
an inanimate thing. Only the clamped lips and bunched jaw-muscles betrayed his
agony.
                 “Speak,
dog, where is the gold?” thundered the man in uniform.
                 The Indian remained silent, his face a mask of pride, hatred, and
contempt. The man in uniform read the expression aright, and it goaded
him to fury.
                 “Continue,
Lopez,” he