If the marshal was interested he did not show it; his narrowed eyes continued to regard the ridiculous figure with cold contempt. So this was the guerrilla leader whose reputation for savage cruelty was unequalled in Northern Mexico, and who, at the head of his band of so-called revolutionaries, robbed, murdered, and ravaged along the Border, even crossing it at times to raid the ranches for cattle and horses. Though Green inwardly cursed the luck that had thrown the man in his way, he was determined to punish him.
"El Diablo, huh?" he sneered. "Well, if yu don't shuck that coat, I'll send yu home so fast yu'll get singed on the way."
That the guerrilla leader understood the grim witticism is doubtful, but the menacing movement of the speaker's gun could not be mistaken and he obeyed the order. The marshal turned to the Indian, impassively waiting, and pointed to the quirt lying beside the body of Lopez. A gleam of fire shone in the black eyes as the redskin realized the white man's intention. El Diablo also understood, and his dark face grew first pale with fear and then red with shame. His voice shrilled out as the Indian picked up the whip and came towards him.
"Senor, theenk what you do," he cried desperately. "I am a white man like yourself. I am not a peon, as he"--with a gesture towards Lopez--"but a caballero, a descendant of Old Spain."
"If yu don't keep them paws up yu won't be a descendant a-tall, yu'll be an ancestor."
Jocular as the voice was, no humour showed in the granite-hard features of the speaker, and the Mexican knew he might just as well hope for mercy from his late victim, who now stood before him, whip in hand, bitter hatred in his gaze. Reading that look, and recalling what he knew of a red man's ideas of revenge, the marshal was satisfied that the bandit was getting off somewhat lightly. He nodded to the redskin, the whip whistled through the air, and the Mexican shrieked as the knotted lash cut away the flimsy fabric of his shirt, leaving a bloody track from shoulder to hip. Again the marshal nodded, and again the whip fell, this time in the opposite direction, scoring the yellow flesh as though it had been slashed with a knife. Mad with agony, the stricken man clutched at his breast and rolled upon the ground, spitting out curses upon the man who had so shamed him. The marshal regarded him scornfully.
"Yu may be of Old Spain an' this fella on'y an Injun, but he's got yu skinned when it comes to takin' medicine," he commented. "Shut yore rank mouth an' keep mighty still 'less yu want some more o' yore own treatment."
He turned just in time to see the redskin take two stumbling steps and fall prone.
"Agua," he whispered as Green bent over him.
The marshal grabbed a canteen slung about the body of Lopez, marvelling at the enormous will-power which had enabled the Indian, though nearly dead with exhaustion, to stand' up and mete out terrible punishment to his foe.
"Damn it, I ain't got no affection for war-whoops, but they're men," he muttered.
The water proved effective, and in a few moments the Indian was able to stand up. The marshal pointed to the guerrilla leader's horse, which, elaborately saddled and bridled, was tied to a nearby bush.
"Fork that cayuse an' we'll punch the breeze," he said. "This hombre will have friends not so far off, an' it'll be healthier for us if we ain't around when they arrive."
The redskin climbed into the saddle, his set teeth showing what the effort cost him, and Green led the way to where he had left his own mount. From where he lay motionless on the ground the beady, venomous eyes of the Mexican followed them. Only when they had vanished in the thick foliage did he venture to rise and shake a vengeful fist in their direction.
"We shall meet again," he grated. "And then it will be the turn of El Diablo. Dios! but you shall pay."
Meanwhile the marshal and his companion were wasting no time in covering the ground to the Border. Not until they were on the far side of the river did Green attempt to learn anything of the man he had rescued. The redskin's eyes flashed as he answered the blunt question.
"Me Black Feather--Mohave chief--one time," he said slowly in a deep, guttural tone.
The marshal realized much of what lay behind the simple statement; he had lived with the red men. He knew that Black Feather was an outcast--willing or unwilling--from his tribe.
He had been guilty of some offence, had lost his "medicine," or was, perhaps, satisfying a private vengeance. Whatever the reason, for the time being, he had no lodge, no people, he was a wanderer. Further enquiry elicited that he had fallen into the clutches of the bandit and his follower by evil chance; they had shot his pony and, in common belief that the Indian always knows "the home of the gold," had tortured him.
Realizing that the trail of Bordene's murderer was now hopelessly lost, the marshal headed for home. They reached Lawless after dark, so that the citizens missed the rather amazing sight of their newly-appointed law-officer holding a drooping Indian in a silver-mounted saddle, on the back of a fine, Spanish-bred horse. When the pair arrived at the marshal's quarters, the sick man slumped to the ground in a dead faint. Pete, who was standing at the door, hurried forward.
"Yu ain't goin' to tell me this fella bumped off Bordene?" he said incredulously.
"I am not," the marshal said. "Push them broncs in the corral an' come help fix him up. He's all in."
He hoisted the slack form to his shoulder and went inside. When Pete returned he found the patient stretched on his bed and the marshal bandaging his hurts.
"This fella's pretty sick. See here, he's bin shot in the leg as well, an' never let out a chirp about that," Green said admiringly. "An' here's vu--a white man--yowlin' like a lost soul over a mangy bed."
"It ain't a mangy bed--or it wasn't till yu put that doggone aborigine in it," Pete retorted. He looked at the still senseless form. "Reckon he'll make it?"
"Shore thing. Injuns is hard to kill--as Uncle Sam knows," the marshal replied. "I've a hunch he'll pay for savin', an' anyways, I couldn't do nothin' else."
He went on to tell the story of his trailing, and Pete whistled when he heard of the guerrilla leader.
"El Diablo, huh?" he said. "Yu've stirred up a lively nest o' hornets there; he's rank pizen an' as vain as a peacock, they say. It's a safe bet he's got friends in Lawless too."
"Yu'll have me scared to death in a minit," his chief smiled.
Pete looked at him. "Fella can crowd his luck too close," he replied. "Wonder where that bushwhackin' coyote hid up?"
"Doubled back, likely as hot," the marshal opined. "Wouldn't astonish me none if he's right in Lawless now. Rustle some chuck; I've an idea our guest has missed meals lately."
CHAPTER VII
On the following morning the enquiry into the taking off of Andrew Bordene was held in the dance-hall attached to the Red Ace, where all public meetings of importance were convened. Nothing new transpired. Potter, the banker, deposed to the dead man having drawn out five thousand dollars, stating that he had a debt to pay. Andy related his story and the marshal told of his investigation, but he did not produce the empty shells he had picked up, nor make any reference to what had happened over the Border. The jury returned a verdict of wilful murder against the outlaw known as "Sudden," and the whole assembly adjourned to discuss the affair at the bar. Here the marshal found Raven, with two men he did not know. The saloon-keeper beckoned.
"Marshal," he said, "meet Reuben Sarel of the Double S, and Saul Jevons, foreman o' my ranch, the 88."
The fat man extended a moist, flabby hand, but Jevons merely nodded. He was about the same height as the marshal but older by ten years. He possessed a powerful but angular frame, a lean, hatchet face, and his dark, straggling moustache failed to hide a slit of a mouth. From ear to chin on his left cheek was a puckered white scar, relic of an old wound, which gave the impression of a perpetual sneer. The marshal disliked the fellow at sight.