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. Green guessed that his guide was taking him direct to the finish of his trailing; evidently the murderer had, as he suspected, doubled back after crossing the Border. Deep gorges, masked by black pine forests, slashed the lower slopes of the range, and above them towered the great grey granite peak.
Into one of these ravines the Indian led the way, his mount splashing along a small stream which swept smoothly over its stony bed. For about a quarter of a mile they rode in the water, and then the leader turned sharply to the left and vanished in the bordering bushes. The marshal followed, to find an unexpected break in the wall of the gorge, an opening only a few yards wide, guarded by a rough pole gate. On the other side was a tiny pocket of not more than a dozen acres, covered with rich grass and walled in by cliff. At the far end a black horse was grazing. On a bare patch of ground near the entrance, which his guide carefully avoided, were several hoofmarks, some of which Green recognized; the others had been made by a smaller horse.
"Good work," he said approvingly, and the Indian's expressive eyes gleamed at the praise. "I reckon there ain't much doubt, but we'll make shore."
They rode slowly into the valley, keeping away from the strange horse until they were level with it, and then Green suddenly whirled his mount and jumped it at the grazing animal, round the neck of which the noose dropped before the victim could dodge. Slipping from his saddle, the marshal walked up the rope, coiling it as he approached, but ready for a breakaway. The black, however, proved ropewise and docile; it allowed him to pull its head down and discover, at the roots of the hair, little flakes of white. Lifting the near foreleg, he found the same singularity.
"She's the hoss, shore enough," he muttered. "All we gotta do now is find the owner."
"Nothin' here--me look," Black Feather said.
"Huh! Just uses it as a private corral. Rides here, changes mounts to do his dirty work, an' has the other hoss waitin' to get away on," mused the marshal. "That means he ain't too far from here."
Leaving the gate exactly as they found it, they made their way back to the open range, and then, having warned him not to talk--Pete would have deemed this unnecessary--the marshal sent his companion back to town. He himself headed east, following the line of the mountain. Presently he began to come on scattered groups of cattle. He had drawn near to one of these and was endeavouring to decipher the brand when a bullet droned through the air, followed by the flat report, and a hoarse shout of "Put 'em up; the next one drills yu."