ain't the real Sudden pirootin' round in these parts?' he asked.
'Just that,' the visitor replied, and anticipating the inevitable question, he added, 'Take a squint at this.'
From his vest pocket he produced a folded paper. The sheriff saw that it was a printed bill, offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the capture of one 'Sudden.' A somewhat vague description followed: 'Young, dark hair and moustache, grey-blue eyes, dressed as a cowboy, wears two guns, and rides a black horse with a white blaze on face and white stocking on off fore-leg.' The bill had been issued by the sheriff of Fourways, Texas.
Strade looked up and nodded. 'That agrees with what we got,' he said. 'Neither Sands nor Eames could say much about the man--him bein' masked--but they got the hoss to a dot.'
'They couldn't both be wrong, an' Eames--a hoss-user--certainly wouldn't be.'
The sheriff looked puzzled. 'What's yore point?'
'Accordin' to this'--Green tapped the printed notice--'the real Sudden's hoss has a white stockin' on the off fore, but both yore men say the near. Ain't that so?'
Strade reached some papers from a drawer and referred to them. 'Yo're right,' he admitted. 'Funny I didn't spot that. Somebody's made a mistake.'
'Yeah, an' it's Mister Bushwhacker,' Green said. 'He's painted the wrong leg of his bronc.'
The Sweetwater sheriff scratched his head. 'It does shorely look like yu've hit the mark,' he said. 'We've bin searchin' for a stranger, but it might be anybody--'
He broke off suddenly and his eyes narrowed as they rested on the black horse hitched outside. Green saw the look and laughed.
'No use, ol'-timer,' he said. 'I was in the Red Ace when the stage was held up.'
The sheriff laughed too. 'Sorry, Green,' he apologized. 'This damn job makes a fella suspect hisself a'most. Yu stayin' over?'
'I was aimin' to.'
'Good, then yu'll dig in with me. Bachelor quarters, but I reckon yu'll prefer 'em. The hotel here stuffs its mattresses with rocks.'
'Bein' rocked to sleep don't appeal to me,' the visitor grinned, and then his face sobered. ''Fore we go any further, there's somethin' yu have to know.' The sheriff looked at him, surprised at the change of tone. 'That black out there is Sudden's hoss with the blaze an' stockin' on the off fore dyed out.'
The geniality faded from the sheriff's face, to be replaced by a hard, bleak look; his right hand, which had been resting on the table, dropped to his side. The marshal, rolling a smoke, took no notice of the movement.
'Don't froth up, sheriff,' he warned. 'I could beat yu to it. I'm Sudden, an' I'm here to find the skunk who's fillin' his pockets an' puttin' the blame on me. It's bin done before, Strade, an' while I don't claim to be no sort of a saint, I ain't a thief, an' I never shot a man who wasn't gunnin' for me.'
Strade listened with growing amazement; he had pictured the famous gunman as very different to the cool, nonchalant young man who so calmly announced his identity.
'Take a squint at this,' the level voice proceeded. 'I ain't aimin' to use it unless I have to; this job concerns me personal'.'
Strade took the proffered paper and saw that it was an official document, formally appointing James Green a deputy-sheriff in the service of the Governor of the Territory, by whom it was signed. For a long moment the sheriff pondered, two points uppermost in his mind: that this could not be the man he was looking for, and that Sudden was playing a straight game. Handing back the paper he pushed out a paw.
'Shake,' he said. 'I'm takin' yore word.'
Green gripped the hand, his eyes lighting up. 'Even my friends allow I'm a poor liar,' he smiled. 'Ever hear of fellas named Peterson and Webb?'
Strade shook his head. 'What yu want 'em for?' he asked.
'They've lived too long,' was the grim reply, and the sheriff said no more.
Years later, when the news of their finding1 filtered through from a distant part of the country, he was to remember the question.
At Strade's suggestion, they went out to take a look at the town. It proved to be another Lawless, but larger, and of a slightly less unsavoury reputation, due to the efforts of a sheriff who took his duties seriously. In the course of the evening, Green was presented to several of the leading citizens, played a pleasant game of poker, and presently retired with his host. Back in the little parlour, the sheriff talked business again.
'Bad about Bordene,' he said, when he had heard the whole story. 'He was a straight man. Nothin' distinctive 'bout them two shells yu found, I s'pose?'
'They were .45's, an' one of 'em had a scratch along the side,' the marshal told him. 'I'd say one chamber of his gun was nicked someway.'
'Huh! Might be helpful,' the sheriff said. 'Sands an' the messenger was drilled by .45's too, but the shells was clean, an' that's the common calibre round here.'
As they gripped hands, the sheriff had a parting word:
'Glad yu came over,' he said, and meant it. 'Any time yu want help, I'll come a-runnin'.'
'I'm obliged,' the marshal said. 'Yu know the country.'
'I know Lawless,' Strade warned him.
CHAPTER VIII
Several uneventful days followed the marshal's return. In truth, Lawless was wondering about its new custodian of the peace. Though his treatment of Rusty and Leeson savoured of leniency, the speed with which he 'got action' made even the toughest citizen dubious about challenging his authority.
Rest and regular food soon restored the Indian to health, but he showed no disposition to depart. He had relinquished Pete's bed and slept on the floor of the little kitchen, Green presenting him with a couple of blankets. With a shirt, an old pair of pants, and his moccasins carefully mended, Black Feather's wardrobe was complete. As soon as he was able he chopped wood for the stove and cleaned the place up generally. In spite of this evident desire to be useful, Pete continued to regard him with suspicion.
With the little man in this mood it was waste of time to argue, so the marshal did not explain that he had a use for their guest. But as soon as the Indian was able to sit a saddle, he took him to the Old Mine and showed him the hoofprints of the killer's horse, which, as there had been no rain, were still clear.
'I was followin' them when I run across vu,' he explained.
Black Feather studied the marks closely for a few moments and then swung into his saddle again. 'Me find,' he said gravely, and rode away.
The marshal returned to Lawless, and in reply to Pete's enquiry as to the whereabouts of their guest, told him of the incident. The deputy was plainly pessimistic.
'Betcha five dollars he fades,' he offered, and chortled when the other took the wager. 'Easy money, ol'- timer, easy money.'
'Yeah, for me,' the marshal retorted.
And so it proved, for, to Pete's chagrin, the Indian returned late in the evening. Standing for a moment before the marshal, he said, 'No find--yet,' and stalked solemnly into the kitchen.
'Chatty devil, ain't he?' Barsay said. 'Double or quits he don't locate the hoss.'
'I'll go yu,' Green smiled. 'Easy money, ol'-timer.'
When they rose the next morning, the Indian had already vanished, and they saw no sign of him until the evening. Though he was obviously tired out, there was a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
'Me find um,' he said, and that was all.
Peeping into the kitchen a little later, they saw him, rolled in his blankets, fast asleep, his precious carbine beside him.
'Bet he's had one punishin' day trailin' that hoss,' Green said. 'Wonder where he found him?'
'S'pose he'll show yu to-morrow,' the deputy said. 'Yu want me along?'
'No use both goin',' Green replied. 'Yu better stay here to see that no festive cow-person ropes the office an' drags it into the desert.'
The sun was not yet up and there was a keen bite in the air when the marshal and the Mohave set out. Once clear of the town, the redskin turned his horse's head to the north-west, in the direction of Tepee Mountain, and for an hour they loped over miles of level range, sandy soil thickly dotted with bunch-grass, creosote, and mesquite.
