'I'm afraid he won't like it,' the marshal said. 'I'll be some grieved if that's so.'
'Like hell yu will,' grinned the deputy, undeceived by the sober tone which the twinkling eyes belied. 'Gripes! here he comes. It's me for the kitchen.'
Raven entered at the moment the deputy disappeared, storm signals flying on his visually impassive features. He did not beat about the bush.
'Hear yu've had another clash with Moraga.'
The marshal nodded. 'I found him tryin' to drag Miss Sarel from her saddle an' had to admonish him some.'
'I reckon I made a mistake over yu, Green,' the other scowled. 'Yu ain't exactly a shinin' success as a marshal, are yu? Sudden gets away with a stage robbery an' a murder, an' all yu do to get the town in bad with a fella strong enough to wipe it out if he takes the notion.'
'Yu tryin' to tell me that Lawless will lie down to be trampled on by that Greaser an' his band o' thieves?' the marshal asked.
'No, the damn idjuts would pant for war immediate,' Raven admitted crossly. 'What I'm drivin' at is that it's bad business. I ain't a fightin' fool. I'm here to make coin, an' I reckoned yu was too.'
'Shore, but I'm a mite particular where it comes from,' Green told him. 'Mexican money don't appeal to me.'
The saloon-keeper regarded him with puzzled exasperation. Was he simply stupid, or playing a part? Raven could not determine, but one point stood out plainly--the marshal was not a tool to be used.
'Mebbe yu won't like Mex bullets neither,' he sneered. 'Yu better tell the town to get organized', Moraga's got a good memory.'
'Then he'll stay on his own side o' the line, like I told him,' the marshal said. 'If he don't, you'll lose a customer for yore cows.'
The other made no reply, but his brows were bent in a heavy frown as he went out. When the coast was clear, the deputy sidled in, his face one broad grin.
'He ain't a bit pleased with his li'l marshal, is he? No, sir, li'l marshal has got him guessin', an' he's got li'l marshal guessin', an' there yu are.'
They went out, and on their way down the street turned into the largest store to get tobacco. Loder, the proprietor, an old but hard-bitten product of the West, welcomed them with an outstretched, hairy hand.
'Shake, marshal,' he said. 'I just bin hearin' how yu took the conceit outa that Greaser, an' I'm tellin' yu the town is plenty pleased.'
At Durley's they got a confirmation of the store-keeper's opinion, both from the owner of the place and from several citizens. The marshal's moderation only was criticized. 'Yu shore oughta shook some lead into him,' was Durley's comment. 'Allus scotch a snake is my motter.' Listening to this prudent sentiment, Green could not know that within a week or so he would be heartily wishing he had put it into practice, but so it was.
Following up the notion that had come to him on his way back from the Sarel ranch, the marshal spent the whole of the next morning exploring the country east of the 88, his interest being in the brands of such cattle as he encountered. Though he found nothing suspicious he persevered in his quest.
'It would be easy as takin' a drink, an' if Jevons is honest he's shore got a misleadin' face,' he muttered.
Though he was many miles from the Double S, he was working in that direction, passing over a level expanse of good grass, gashed here and there with little gullies. From one of these came the bellow of a steer, and forcing his way in, the marshal found that the trees ringed a grassy, saucer-like depression, in the middle of which was a rough corral. Riding down to the enclosure, one glance told him he had found what he sought--stolen stock. There were about a score of cows in the corral and the brand on them had been recently worked over, transforming a Double S into an 88. The dead ashes of a fire afforded further proof. Regaining the level, the marshal loped leisurely in the direction of the town, turning over his discovery. That Raven, as owner of the 88, was in on the steal, he had not the slightest doubt, but the trouble was to prove it.
'Cuss the luck,' he soliloquized. 'I'm findin' nothin' but loose ends.'
He was crossing a little tree-covered plateau from which a gravelly stretch of ground sloped gently down when a slug sang past his ear, followed by the report of a revolver. Instantly he flung himself headlong to the earth, falling so that he lay behind a convenient boulder. Some sixty yards down the decline wisps of blue smoke showed that the shot came from behind a low bush, apparently the only cover the spot offered. Nigger, smacked on the rump when his master dived for shelter, had retreated into the trees behind. At one side the chunk of rock did not touch the ground, and this provided the marshal with a peep-hole through which he could watch events. Motionless, with gun drawn, he waited, but nothing happened.
'He's wonderin' if he got me,' Green muttered. 'Well, I ain't tellin' him.'
Another ten minutes passed, and first the crown and then the brim of a black sombrero edged into view above the bush. The marshal chuckled softly; he knew there was no head inside the hat and declined to be drawn. The hat vanished and the bush became slightly agitated, but the silence remained unbroken. Another interval and abruptly from behind the bush, a man stood up, pistol in hand; it was Leeson.
He weapon ready for instant use, he stepped from his cover and began to mount the slope. The marshal waited until he was too far from the bush to regain it and then rose noiselessly to his feet.
'Reach for the sky, Leeson; I'm coverin' yu,' he called.
The man flung up his arms as ordered.
When he had sworn himself to a standstill, the marshal spoke:
'Chuck yore weapons ahead o' yu.'
He watched while a gun and a knife curved through the air towards him.
'What's the idea?' Leeson snarled, and then, as though he had just discovered the identity of his opponent, 'Why, damn me if it ain't the marshal.'
Green picked up the surrendered weapons. 'Yu didn't know, o' course,' he said sarcastically.
'An' that's a fact,' Leeson replied. 'I took yu for that road-agent fella, Sudden; that black hoss o' yores--'
'Ain't got a white face,' the marshal reminded.
'That's so. I oughta remembered,' the other agreed readily. 'Well, mistakes will happen, but there's no harm done; I'm glad I didn't get yu, marshal.'
'I'm a mite pleased about that my own self,' the officer admitted. 'I got yu instead, an' I'm takin' yu in.'
Leeson stared at him in anger and amazement, the latter well simulated. 'Ain't I explained it was a mistake?' he demanded.
'Folks have to pay for 'em in this hard world, fella,' the marshal told him. 'Where's yore hoss?'
'Bottom o' the slope--in the brush,' the man replied, and then, 'Lookit, marshal--'
'Get a-goin',' Green cut in. 'Yu can sing yore little song on the way.'
A low whistle brought Nigger stepping sedately towards them. The marshal climbed into the saddle and with his drawn pistol motioned the prisoner to proceed. They found the horse, and Leeson mounted.
'Seth'll have a word to say 'bout this,' he growled, and for the rest of the journey maintained a sullen silence. On reaching town, the marshal handed the captive over to his assistant and went in search of Raven. He found him in his private room at the saloon.
'Leeson tried to bushwhack me this afternoon,' he said bluntly. 'I fetched him in--alive.'
For one fleeting second the man's face betrayed an emotion, but whether it was surprise, anger, or disappointment, the marshal could not determine; then it was gone, and the cold, passionless mask was back again.
'Leeson shot at yu? Whatever for?' he asked.
'Pure affection, don't you reckon?' Green returned flippantly, and then, 'He claims he took me for Sudden.'
'Well, that's likely enough too,' Raven returned. 'Yu better get rid o' that black hoss. As for Leeson, I'd turn him loose, in yore place.'
'If yu want I should--' the marshal began.
'I don't give a damn; the fella's just one o' my hands--not too good a one at that,' Raven retorted, adding
