"Finish him off," someone urged.
The marshal smiled lopsidedly--that was not his way. Besides, he had some breathing to make up, and his neck felt as though he had been half-hanged. He watched his antagonist stagger to his feet and rub the grit from his bloodshot eyes. The spectators waited too, silent for the most part; they were witnessing something they had never seen before--a man holding back when he had his enemy almost hopelessly beaten. Few of them could comprehend it.
"Well, Mister Mullins, shall we continue our li'l argument or have yu had enough?" Sudden inquired.
"Enough? Not by a damn sight--I ain't started on you yet?" the other growled.
The onlookers closed in as the combatants moved forward. This time Jake made no swift advance; he had learned his lesson, and the pain of his swollen features--the work of that straight left--was a constant reminder. He knew well that but for a nearly fatal slip, he would have been knocked cold, but the brute in his nature buoyed him up with the hope of a similar mischance, and then ... So he held back, letting his foe come to him, tactics which his admirers misunderstood.
"Git yore paws on him," one advised. "He can't stand the rough stuff."
"Who's scrappin'--you or me?" Jake spat over his shoulder.
"Neither of us," was the disgusted retort, and the crowd laughed.
The pair circled the ring, the marshal following his man and driving a fist home whenever he was within reach, which, owing to his opponent's caution, was seldom.
"It's a runnin' match, an' Jake's got the legs of him," came another sarcastic comment.
For one second, the taunted man's gaze went in search of the speaker, and Sudden saw his chance. He flashed in, raining blows with both hands to the body and face in such rapid succession that Jake was forced to stand and fight back, and at once the nature of the contest had again changed. Drenched with perspiration, battered, bruised, and blood-smeared, the two men hammered away with beast-like ferocity, taking what punishment came, and with but one conscious thought--to inflict hurt. Slipping, staggering in the treacherous sand, hemmed in by the swaying ring of enthralled spectators who cheered as fists thudded on flesh or bone, they battled on. But the terrific strain was taking toll.
"Jake's weakenin'--his punches ain't got no power," Shorty muttered. "He's outa condition--too much liquor." It was true, and the marshal sensed it. He himself was in little better case; his frame felt as if it had been stretched on a rack for endless hours, and every movement brought a protest from tired muscles. But the spate of fury which had swept him away was past, and again he fought methodically, dourly determined to end the business at the first opportunity.
It came soon. Jake, with the same intention, finding his foe seeming to give way, tried one of his former bull-like charges. Sudden broke ground, avoiding the flailing arm, and darting in, sent an uppercut to the jaw. It was a devastating blow, perfectly timed, coming up from the hip with all the power of the moving body behind it. But once more Jake was lucky, it just missed the vital spot, and though flung to the floor as by a giant hand, he retained his senses. For a moment he lay there, murder in his mad eyes, and then slowly raised himself.
"By God, I'll git you if I hang for it," he mumbled thickly.
Half-crouching, he lurched to where the marshal, again disdaining to follow up his advantage, was standing, and suddenly straightening, leapt, right arm aloft. Swift as the action was, Sudden had glimpsed the gleam of steel, and catching the descending wrist, wrenched the weapon from his grasp, and struck--with the haft of the knife only; the assassin dropped like a pole-axed steer. The fight was over.
"If you'd put that sticker in his dirty neck it would 'a' saved a lot o' trouble," was Nippert's comment.
"I know it, but killin' skunks is a stinkin' job," the marshal replied. "I reckon he'll drift."
Chapter V
THE marshal was wrong; the beaten man remained--having other cards to play. For a few days, however, he deemed it wise to stay in his shack, nursing his hurts and what--to those who came to see him--he descrihed as grievances.
"The game ain't finished yet," he told them darkly. "I'm goin' to make some o' the smarties in thisyer burg look an' feel middlin' sick. you wait--it won't be long. You can leave that to me; all I want is for you to back my play." Late one evening, two riders arrived, and having put their horses in the pole corral behind the eating-house, went in by the back door. One was the awaited messenger, known as "Dutch," who assisted Mullins in the conduct of the business; his eyes widened when they rested on the damaged features of his employer."Hoss throw you?" he asked.
"None o' yore damn' business," Jake snapped. "You've taken long enough; s'pose you got soused on the money I gave you." Dutch grinned. "Yo're gittin' value," he replied, and waved a hand to his companion. "This is Mister Javert, o' Pinetown." Mullins studied the visitor : a medium-sized man, with a blank expressionless face, a mean mouth, and the well-tended hands of a professional gambler.
A bottle and glasses were produced, and when the contents had been generously sampled, the host looked up expectantly.
"I met Dutch on the way to Pinetown, learned his errand, an' saved him the trouble o' goin' on by comin' back with him," Javert began. "Is yore marshal a tall, well-built gent with blue eyes an' dark hair, who totes two guns an' rides a black branded J. G. ?"
"Describes him to a dot."
"Then he's the fella l'm lookin' for." This with deep satisfaction. "Listen : I left Pinetown a piece ago as one of a posse hot on this houn's heels. He'd shot a man in cold blood, givin' him no chance; if we'd catched him, he'd 'a' swung shore, but he diddled us. The rest went back, but I ain't so easy, an' I started searchin' the settlements around; that's how I run into Dutch."
"I guess we got him," Jake said. "An' some folks about here hey a jolt comin'." On the following morning, the proprietor of the Red Light, surveying the town from the vantage-point of his doorway, observed a considerable body of the inhabitants apparently making for his establishment. This, in itself, was not alarming, but when he noted that the gathering was headed by Mullins, and included the scum of the community, it was a relief to see that reputable citizens like Gowdy, Rapper, and the banker, Morley, were among them. Nevertheless, as a matter of precaution, he stepped inside and made sure that his gun was in working order. When they entered he was behind the bar, and his affectation of surprise appeared genuine.
"This place is lookin' up," was his genial greeting. "Wakin' up, you mean," Mullins corrected. "Where's that marshal?"
"In his office, I expect," Nippers replied, adding slyly, "You know the way--better go get him."
"We'll do that awright," was the retort. "When you app'inted him you didn't know he was wanted for murder, huh?"
"I don't know it now."
"I'm tellin' you."
"An' I still don't know it."
"Bluffin' won't buy you nothin', Nippen," Jake said. "Here's the fella can put you wise, Mister Javert, o' Pine-town." Without waiting for any further invitation, the stranger stepped forward and told his story, concluding modestly, "O' course, I ain't sayin' it is the same man, but the description goes mighty close." As he finished, Sloppy slid unnoticed from the saloon and hurried to the marshal's quarters. "Climb yore bronc an' beat it, Jim," he cried. "At the Red Light they're shapin' up to hang you." Sudden regarded him amusedly. "Thought yu'd quit redeye," he replied.
"I ain't drunk nor loco," the little man protested, and blurted his news. The marshal's face did not change, but he rose and put on his hat. "Will I get Nigger?" Sloppy asked eagerly.