'I knowed I was right,' Green interrupted. 'Yu got all the qualifications. 'Set a thief to catch a thief,' they say. Yo're shore elected, amigo.'
Barsay shrugged resignedly. 'Why didn't yu let them Greasers finish?' he asked plaintively. Then his face brightened. 'But yu ain't roped her yet,' he added.
'I'm goin' to,' Green said confidently. 'Point is, how do we go about it?'
Barsay called the landlord over. 'Hey, Durley, my friend here is hot on bein' marshal o' this burg. What's his best move?'
The innkeeper's 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.'
'Whyfor 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 saloon-keeper 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 for cattle-rustlin'. Ain't yu gettin' a mite particular?' Green asked sardonically.
The saloon-keeper's thin lips lengthened, which was his nearest approach to a smile. He had not expected to get any details of the fellow's past, and in reality he cared little. Lawless was a sanctuary for the law-breaker, and only a man of that type could hope to keep any semblance of order. The puncher's lean, hard face, level eyes, and firm lips were not those of a weakling.
'Yore kind o' young,' Raven objected.
'Suffered from that since I was born,' Green said lightly. 'The doctors say I'll grow out of it. Well, what's the word?'
'The pay is two hundred dollars a month,' the other said.
'Which ain't over generous,' Green commented.
'An' pickin's, the same bein'--to the right man--considerable,' Raven slowly added.
'With another hundred for a deputy,' the puncher suggested, and when the saloon-keeper shook his head, 'See here, I ain't a machine; there's times when I wanta sleep some.'
'Awright, a deputy goes. Yu better pick a good one an' tell him to shoot first an' argue afterwards,' Raven said. He dipped into a drawer of the desk. 'It so happens I got a coupla stars, an' here's the key to yore quarters.' Handing the articles to Green, he dismissed the new officer with a curt 'See yu later.'
For a little while Raven sat thinking, weighing up the man who had just left him. He recognized that Green was not the ordinary type of desperado; his cool, smiling confidence contrasted oddly with the blustering, bullying attitude of the average gun-fighter.
'A useful fella if he comes to heel--an' if he don't--' His lips twisted in a sneer. 'But there's a sheriff somewheres who'd be glad to meet him.'
And in this he was entirely right.
When Green returned to the Rest House he found the bar empty, save for Barsay sprawling in a chair with his feet on a table and snoring lustily. The marshal's face became that of an imp of mischief. Gently he pinned one of the stars he had received to the sleeping man's vest, and pulling one of his guns, fired into the floor. The violence of the slumberer's awaking start flung him to the ground but in a second he was on his feet, gun out, and eyes glaring. A moment later Durley came flying into the bar, only to find Green, weak with laughter, a smoking gun in his hand, leaning against the wall.
'Yu natural damn fool,' the victim admonished, when he realized the joke. 'Mighta broke my blamed neck.'
'No fear--that's slated for a rope,' Green retorted. 'Fine deputy-marshal yu are--caught nappin' right away.'
Barsay then noticed the decoration he had unconsciously acquired and his eyes widened. 'Yu got it?' he cried, and when his new friend nodded, he turned to Durley and said, 'Well, what d'yu know about that, huh?'
'I shore hope yu got a month's pay in advance,' the landlord replied. 'It's about yore one chance to draw any.'
'Mother's cheery little comforter, ain't yu?' Green grinned. 'Yu oughta be in the undertakin' business.'
Durley laughed too, and then his face grew serious again. 'Puttin' jokes aside, gents, I shore wish yu all the luck there is, but yu'll have to watch cases mighty close,' he warned.
'We'er aimin' to do that same,' the marshal assured him. 'An' we're reckonin' on one friend anyways.'
'You can reckon on more than that,' the landlord said. 'Quite a few of us would like this town to have a better reputation, but o' course, if yo're goin' to run with The Vulture--'
'I cut my own trail, ol'-timer,' Green told him. 'Say, Pete, what about takin' possession of our new home? Raven gave me the key.'
The official quarters of the town marshal were situated alongside the Red Ace, and consisted of a one-storey 'dobe hut. Over the door was a board with the single word 'Marshal' painted in large letters. This was sadly pockmarked by bullets; evidently festive visitors were in the habit of testifying their contempt for the law by peppering the outward and visible sign of its presence. Green surveyed the battered board sardonically and unlocked the door. The room they entered was clearly the office, scantily furnished with an old desk, three somewhat decrepit chairs, and a cupboard. Behind it was another containing two pallet-beds; adjoining it, but reached by a narrow passage from the office, was a third room, empty save for a bench, with a massive, padlocked door and small barred window.
