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

and
again the whip fell, this time in the opposite direction, scoring the yellow
flesh as though it had been slashed with a knife. Mad with agony, the stricken
man clutched at his breast and rolled upon the ground, spitting out curses upon
the man who had so shamed him. The marshal regarded him scornfully.
                 “Yu
may be of Old Spain an’ this fella on’y an Injun, but he’s got yu skinned when
it comes to takin’ medicine,” he commented. “Shut yore rank mouth an’ keep
mighty still ‘less yu want some more o’ yore own treatment.”
                 He
turned just in time to see the redskin take two stumbling steps and fall prone.
                 “Agua,”
he whispered as Green bent over him.
                 The
marshal grabbed a canteen slung about the body of Lopez, marvelling at the
enormous will-power which had enabled the Indian, though nearly dead with
exhaustion, to stand’ up and mete out terrible punishment to his foe.
                 “ Damn it, I ain’t got no affection for war-whoops, but
they’re men,” he muttered.
                 The
water proved effective, and in a few moments the Indian was able to stand up.
The marshal pointed to the guerrilla leader’s horse, which, elaborately saddled
and bridled, was tied to a nearby bush.
                 “Fork
that cayuse an’ we’ll punch the breeze,” he said. “This hombre will have
friends not so far off, an’ it’ll be healthier for us if we ain’t around when
they arrive.”
                 The
redskin climbed into the saddle, his set teeth showing what the effort cost
him, and Green led the way to where he had left his own mount. From where he lay motionless on the ground the beady, venomous eyes of the
Mexican followed them. Only when they had vanished in the thick foliage did he
venture to rise and shake a vengeful fist in their direction.
                 “We
shall meet again,” he grated. “And then it will be the turn of El Diablo. Dios! but you shall pay.”
                 Meanwhile
the marshal and his companion were wasting no time in covering the ground to
the Border. Not until they were on the far side of the river did Green attempt
to learn anything of the man he had rescued. The redskin’s eyes flashed as he
answered the blunt question.
                 “Me
Black Feather—Mohave chief—one time,” he said slowly in a deep, guttural tone.
                 The
marshal realized much of what lay behind the simple statement; he had lived
with the red men. He knew that Black Feather was an outcast—willing or
unwilling—from his tribe.
                 He
had been guilty of some offence, had lost his “medicine,” or was, perhaps,
satisfying a private vengeance. Whatever the reason, for the
time being, he had no lodge, no people, he was a wanderer. Further
enquiry elicited that he had fallen into the clutches of the bandit and his
follower by evil chance; they had shot his pony and, in common belief that the
Indian always knows “the home of the gold,” had tortured him.
                 Realizing
that the trail of Bordene’s murderer was now hopelessly lost, the marshal
headed for home. They reached Lawless after dark, so that the citizens missed
the rather amazing sight of their newly-appointed law-officer holding a
drooping Indian in a silver-mounted saddle, on the back of a fine, Spanish-bred
horse. When the pair arrived at the marshal’s quarters, the sick man slumped to
the ground in a dead faint. Pete, who was standing at the door, hurried
forward.
                 “Yu
ain’t goin’ to tell me this fella bumped off Bordene?” he said incredulously.
                 “I
am not,” the marshal said. “Push them broncs in the corral an’ come help fix
him up. He’s all in.”
                 He
hoisted the slack form to his shoulder and went