"Sufferin' serpents! Here's a circus a-comin'."
The girl turned and saw a group of riders pacing slowly up the street. Their leader, who was mounted on a fine Spanish horse, was the most magnificently-attired person Lawless had ever beheld. His sombrero, bright scarlet tunic, and blue trousers were lavishly decorated with gold braid, the spurs on his polished boots were of silver, and a wealth of the same metal adorned saddle and bridle. The half-dozen men who followed him were Mexicans, dressed in nondescript ragged garments, but all well armed.
"Who the blazes is that spangled jay?" asked a bystander.
"El Diablo, the guerrilla, though what the hell he's doin' this side o' the line, I dunno," replied another. "Wonder where he stole that hoss?"
It was Andy's laugh which drew the Mexican's attention to the girl, and at the sight of her his eyes gleamed. With a wrench at the reins he forced his mount to pivot on its hindlegs, and pulling up at the sidewalk, swept off his hat and spoke to Bordene, using the American tongue.
"I am Moraga; present me to the senorita."
His voice was harsh, commanding, and the bold gaze rested on the girl possessively as it absorbed the slim, graceful beauty of her. The young rancher saw the lust in the look, and this, added to the insolence of the demand, made him careless of offence. Disdainfully he replied:
"Never heard o' yu, an' we ain't carin'."
The guerrilla's yellow face became suffused and his smile changed to a snarl. "Perhaps the senor has heard of El Diablo?" he said softly, and seeing the question in the young man's face, he added, "Si, senor, I am El Diablo."
Andy's cool gaze travelled slowly over the Mexican. "Well--yu--shore--look it," he drawled, and taking Tonia by the arm, turned away.
For an instant the man who had called himself Moraga glared murder, his claw-like fingers hovering over the butt of the pistol thrust through his brightly-coloured sash. But he knew it would be madness--a dozen men would shoot him down if he drew the weapon, and with a savage oath he wheeled his horse, scoring its sides until the cruel spurs showed red, and rejoined his waiting followers. The humiliation made the still unhealed stripes under the gay coat burn like fire.
"Andy has shore rubbed that Greaser the wrongest way," grinned one of the spectators of the scene. "S'pose he's goin' to visit Seth?"
His surmise was correct, for at the Red Ace the Mexican wrenched his horse to a stop, flung the reins over the hitch-rail, and with a wave of dismissal to his men, vanished inside. The escort rode back to the dive presided over by their countryman, Miguel.
Closeted with Raven in the letter's office, the visitor showed no sign of his recent rage. Smoking a long, black cigar and occasionally helping himself to wine from a bottle on the desk, he was suavity itself. The saloon-keeper had been explaining something at length.
"So now yu got it," he concluded. "There'll be five hundred steers--mebbe more. They won't be wearin' my brand--I'm takin' 'em for a debt, yu understand, but once they're over the line their monograms won't matter, I reckon."
Moraga's thin lips curled in a meaning smile; he understood perfectly. This was not the first transaction between them, though on previous occasions the saloon-keeper had apparently sold his own cattle. He drew reflectively at his cigar and asked a question, casually:
"It musta bin Tonia Sarel," Raven said, with a keen glance. "Owns the Double S; father was dry-gulched in The Cut a while ago."
"So," the Mexican said. "Ver' preety, that senorita," One finger of his right hand was idly drawing a figure on the desk--the letter S. He completed it and began again, but this time he continued the up-stroke and the S became an 8, He laughed quietly, shot a sly look at his host, and said again, "Ver' preety." The saloon-keeper was not to be drawn; he was wearing his poker face. Moraga harked back.
"Who was the man?" he asked.
"From yore description I'd say it was young Bordene o' the Box B," Raven told him.
"Whose father was also--removed," Moraga said reflectively; and then, "So the Box B weel provide the steers thees time, senor?"
Seth Raven looked at the malicious, sneering face and had hard work to keep his temper.
"See here, Moraga, better not horn in on what don't concern yu," he advised. "It was a fool play to come ridin' in at the head of a young army as if yu owned the town."
"Would you have me sleenk in and out like a cur, senor?" the Mexican returned haughtily. "I am El Diablo."
"Which is why I'm warnin' yu," Raven replied, a touch of acid in his tone, "On yore side o' the line yu may be ace-high, but this side"--he smiled sourly at his own humour--"yo're the deuce. If yu take my tip, yu'll git back to yore own bank o' the ditch, pronto."
"Moraga does not run away," the other said boastfully. "I stay till evening."
The saloon-keeper shrugged his shoulders and offered no further protest. Probably there would be no trouble, but knowing Lawless, he wished his guest on his way.
Raven was not present when, later on, the guerrilla chief made his appearance in the Red Ace. A few of Seth's friends nodded a greeting, but most of the men present either sniggered or scowled as the garishly-clad figure strutted arrogantly to the bar. He had almost reached it when he saw the marshal, who, chatting with Pete, had not noticed his arrival. For an instant Moraga stood motionless, his eyes distended, his lips working, and then he snatched out his pistol.
The marshal caught one glimpse of the scarlet-coated form and acted. A powerful thrust with his left hand sent Pete reeling away and at the same time a spurt of flame darted from his right hip. The bullet, striking Moraga's gun, tore it from his numbed fingers. His left hand was reaching for his second pistol when a warning came.
"Don't yu," the marshal said, and the cold threat in the words penetrated even the brain of the infuriated Mexican. He hesitated, and before he could make up his mind, two men had grabbed his arms, holding him, cursing and struggling, while others got out of the line of fire. In the midst of the uproar Raven came surging in.
"What in hell's broke loose?" he thundered.
A dozen excited voices told him the story, and as he listened his face settled into a heavy scowl. He turned to Green.
"I'll attend to this," he said, and signed the men to release the captive. Then, with a fierce whispered word, he led the Mexican into his private room.
Immediately they had disappeared the excitement broke out again. Threats against the "Greaser" were freely uttered, and the saloon-keeper was openly blamed for what was regarded as an insult to the whole town.
"What made him pick on vu, marshal?" the store-keeper, Loder, enquired.
"Spotted my badge, I reckon," Green evaded with a laugh.
Meanwhile, Seth Raven was listening to a story which brought disquietude even to his usually impassive features, for Moraga, mad with rage at his second discomfiture, blurted out the tale of his former meeting with the marshal, despite the fact that he thereby published his own shame. Striding up and down the room, gesticulating, his voice rose to a shrill shriek as he cursed and threatened.
"I'll keel him--keel him by inches!" he cried, and his claw-like fingers opened and shut as though he held his enemy's throat.
"I ain't sayin' yu mustn't," Raven said quietly, "but yu can't do it now or here. He's the marshal, an' the way the fellas out there look at it yu've tried to run a blazer on the town. Hark to 'em." Through the partition they could hear loud and angry voices. "If yu wasn't my guest, senor, yu'd be dancin' a fandango on nothin' right now, an' yu can stick a pin in that," the saloon-keeper went on. "Yu better slide outa the back door, climb yore cayuse, an' hike for the Border."
Possessed by passion as he was, the visitor knew that Raven was right. So when, in response to a message, the marshal entered the office, there was no sign of the Mexican. Raven, slumped in his chair, greeted him with a frowning brow.