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

face lost its jovial expression. “His best move is to fork a cayuse
an’ ride straight ahead till he forgets the notion,” he said seriously. “Bein’
marshal o’ Lawless is just plain sooicide.” He saw that his advice would not be
taken and added, “Well, ‘The Vulture’ is the king-pin; if he gives it yu, the
job’s yores.”
                 “That’s
Raven—who runs the Red Ace, huh?” Green asked. “Is he white?”
                 “Claims
to be on his father’s side, though I reckon it’s on’y
Mex white at that,” Durley replied. “His mother was a Comanche squaw.”
                 “Why
for the fancy name?” asked Barsay.
                 “Chap
Seth had treated mean give it him,” Durley explained. “Said a vulture was the
on’y sort o’ bird he resembled. Yu don’t wanta overlook no bets when yo’re
dealin’ with him.”
                 “Guess
I’ll call on the gent right now; I’m needin’ that
job,” Green said. “Yu stay put, Pete,” he added, as Barsay rose. “Back soon.”
                 He
went out, and Durley’s eyes followed him reflectively. “Knowed yore friend long?”
he enquired.
                 “Never
seed him till ‘bout an hour ago, but, believe me, I met him at the right mink,”
the plump puncher replied, and proceeded to tell of his recent predicament.
                 Meanwhile
the subject of their conversation had reached and entered the Red Ace; the
expression on the bartender’s face was still anything but a welcome.
Nevertheless he reached for a bottle. The customer waved it away.
                 “Yo’re
pullin’ the wrong card, ol’timer,” he grinned. “Business before pleasure is my
motto; I wanta see Mister Raven.”
                 “What
for?” came the surly question.
                 The
grin disappeared from the puncher’s face. “If yu’d do I wouldn’t be askin’ for
yore boss,” he said acidly.
                 Jude’s
bluster left him. Sullenly he went to a door marked “Private,” stuck his head in
for a moment, and then beckoned to the visitor. Green stepped into what was
evidently the saloonkeeper’s office. It was plainly furnished with, a desk,
several chairs, a safe, and a shelf for books. Seth Raven was sitting at the
desk. He was about forty, and looked it. Slight of frame, his hunched shoulders
made him appear shorter than he really was and threw his head forward into a
curiously bird-like attitude, the impression being accentuated by a hooked
nose, small, close-set eyes, thin lips, and lank, black hair. His yellow skin
seemed tight-stretched over the high cheek-bones.
                 “Injun
an’ Mex or bad white, like Durley said, reg’lar devil’s brew,” was Green’s
unvoiced criticism.
                 “Well,
what vu want?” Raven asked curtly.
                 The
puncher leaned nonchalantly against the door, his thumbs hooked in his belt.
“I’m told this burg is shy a marshal,” he said. “I’m shy a job, an’ there yu
have it.”
                 The
saloonkeeper studied him in silence for a moment. He knew the applicant’s
history from the time he had arrived, including the incident of the wasted
whisky and the affair at Miguel’s. Little happened in Lawless
that did not come to the ears of The Vulture sooner or later—generally sooner.
                 “We don’t know nothin’ about yu,” he said.
                 “My
name is James Green, o’ Texas, an’ lately I’ve been livin’ mostly under my
hat,” the puncher told him.
                 “Which
don’t make us much wiser,” was Raven’s comment.
                 “Yore
last marshal, Perkins, lit outa Nevada a flea’s jump ahead o’ the Vigilantes,
an’
                 Dawlish, the man afore him, had been in the pen