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

hissed. “I’ll find his tongue if I have to strip the flesh off his
bones to do it.”
                 With
an eager grin the peon swished his bloodstained lash round his shoulder, but
ere he could bring it down Green’s gun crashed and he dropped in a huddled
heap; his torturing days were ended. At the sound of the shot, the other man’s
hand went to his belt but came away empty at the sight of the newcomer’s
blazing eyes and levelled weapon.
                 “Reach,
yu yellow skunk,” came the terse order.
                 The
man complied, but his expression was poisonous. “May I point out, senor, that
you are on the wrong side of the line?” he observed.
                 “I’m
on the right side o’ this gun,” Green grimly retorted. “What are yu up to ? ”
                 The
Mexican shrugged his shoulders. “Bah! Only an Indian,” he sneered. “He knows
where there ees much gold, senor, but the dog ees obstinate.”
                 The
marshal did not reply. Stepping up to the man he drew the pistols from his sash
and flung them, one after the other, into the brush. The dagger he used to free
the captive and then turned again to the Mexican.
                 “Take
off yore coat,” he ordered.
                 An
expression of surprise showed in the sallow face. It was not like an Americano
to rob a man of his clothes, though, of course, the garment was a desirable
one, and as he did not wish to lose it, the wearer ventured a protest.
                 “It
may interest the senor to learn that I am El Diablo,” he said softly. “He weel
have heard of me?”
                 If
the marshal was interested he did not show it; his narrowed eyes continued to
regard the ridiculous figure with cold contempt. So this was the guerrilla
leader whose reputation for savage cruelty was unequalled in Northern Mexico,
and who, at the head of his band of so-called revolutionaries, robbed,
murdered, and ravaged along the Border, even crossing it at times to raid the
ranches for cattle and horses. Though Green inwardly cursed the luck that had
thrown the man in his way, he was determined to punish him.
                 “El
Diablo, huh?” he sneered. “Well, if yu don’t shuck that coat, I’ll send yu home
so fast yu’ll get singed on the way.”
                 That
the guerrilla leader understood the grim witticism is doubtful, but the
menacing movement of the speaker’s gun could not be mistaken and he obeyed the
order. The marshal turned to the Indian, impassively waiting, and pointed to
the quirt lying beside the body of Lopez. A gleam of fire shone in the black
eyes as the redskin realized the white man’s intention.
                 El
Diablo also understood, and his dark face grew first pale with fear and then
red with shame.
                 His
voice shrilled out as the Indian picked up the whip and came towards him.
                 “Senor,
theenk what you do,” he cried desperately. “I am a white man like yourself . I am not a peon, as he”—with a gesture towards
Lopez—“but a caballero, a descendant of Old Spain.”
                 “If
yu don’t keep them paws up yu won’t be a descendant a-tall, yu’ll be an
ancestor.”
                 Jocular
as the voice was, no humour showed in the granite-hard features of the speaker,
and the Mexican knew he might just as well hope for mercy from his late victim,
who now stood before him, whip in hand, bitter hatred in his gaze. Reading that look, and recalling what he knew of a red man’s ideas
of revenge, the marshal was satisfied that the bandit was getting off somewhat
lightly. He nodded to the redskin, the whip whistled through the air, and the
Mexican shrieked as the knotted lash cut away the flimsy fabric of his shirt,
leaving a bloody track from shoulder to hip. Again the marshal nodded,