"You told me yoreself--back there in the dive," Green smiled. " 'To be or not to be,' yu said, an', lookin' at yu, it was easy to find the answer."
The other man raised his hands in ludicrous despair. "Awright, I'll be good," he said. "Yu see, it's thisaway. Years back, I'm punchin' for the Bar 9 in Texas, an' I go to see a play by a fella named Shakespeare. That bit of it sticks in my noddle, but every while or so she slips out through my mouth. The boys plastered the name on me, an' I can't lose it. I reckon," he added sadly, "she does kinda fit my figure."
"Shore does," Green laughed; "but I wouldn't worry. That same fella, Shakespeare, also says, 'What's in a name?' Mine is Green, but I've been told I don't look it."
"An' that's terrible true," Barsay grinned. "If yu got any other I'm aimin' to use it."
"I answer to 'Jim' when the right fella says it," came the reply. "What yu doin' in this prairie-dog's hole of a town?"
"Well, I've punched cows from the Border to Montana an' back again. I s'pose I'd be chasin' a job right now if you hadn't rescued my roll for me."
"I've done considerable harassin' o' beef my own self, an' I want a change."
"This is cattle country."
"Shore it is, but I hear there's a vacancy for a town marshal."
The little man sat up suddenly. "Sufferin' serpents!" he cried. "Yu must be tired o' life; marshals here don't last as long as a dollar in a cowboy's pocket. Say, if yo're as broke as that, half o' what I got is yores."
"Thank yu, but I ain't busted, an' I come here a-purpose to land the job," the other told him. "What's more, I got my eye on the deputy I want--short, fat fella, 'bout yore size."
"Take that eye off," gasped the "fat fella." "Me a deputy? Why, I wouldn't fit nohow. I've bin a hold-up, hoss-thief, rustler--"
"I knowed I was right," Green interrupted. "Yu got all the qualifications. 'Set a thief to catch a thief,' they say. Yo're shore elected, amigo."
Barsay shrugged resignedly. "Why didn't yu let them Greasers finish?" he asked plaintively. Then his face brightened. "But yu ain't roped her yet," he added.
"I'm goin' to," Green said confidently. "Point is, how do we go about it?"
Barsay called the landlord over. "Hey, Durley, my friend here is hot on bein' marshal o' this burg. What's his best move?"
The innkeeper's face lost its jovial expression. "His best move is to fork a cayuse an' ride straight ahead till he forgets the notion," he said seriously. "Bein' marshal o' Lawless is just plain sooicide." He saw that his advice would not be taken and added, "Well, 'The Vulture' is the king-pin; if he gives it yu, the job's yores."
"That's Raven--who runs the Red Ace, huh?" Green asked. "Is he white?"
"Claims to be on his father's side, though I reckon it's on'y Mex white at that," Durley replied. "His mother was a Comanche squaw."
"Whyfor the fancy name?" asked Barsay.
"Chap Seth had treated mean give it him," Durley explained. "Said a vulture was the on'y sort o' bird he resembled. Yu don't wanta overlook no bets when yo're dealin' with him."
"Guess I'll call on the gent right now; I'm needin' that job," Green said. "Yu stay put, Pete," he added, as Barsay rose. "Back soon."
He went out, and Durley's eyes followed him reflectively. "Knowed yore friend long?" he enquired.
"Never seed him till 'bout an hour ago, but, believe me, I met him at the right mink," the plump puncher replied, and proceeded to tell of his recent predicament.
Meanwhile the subject of their conversation had reached and entered the Red Ace; the expression on the bartender's face was still anything but a welcome. Nevertheless he reached for a bottle. The customer waved it away.
"Yo're pullin' the wrong card, ol'timer," he grinned. "Business before pleasure is my motto; I wanta see Mister Raven."
"What for?" came the surly question.
The grin disappeared from the puncher's face. "If yu'd do I wouldn't be askin' for yore boss," he said acidly.
Jude's bluster left him. Sullenly he went to a door marked "Private," stuck his head in for a moment, and then beckoned to the visitor. Green stepped into what was evidently the saloonkeeper's office. It was plainly furnished with, a desk, several chairs, a safe, and a shelf for books. Seth Raven was sitting at the desk. He was about forty, and looked it. Slight of frame, his hunched shoulders made him appear shorter than he really was and threw his head forward into a curiously bird-like attitude, the impression being accentuated by a hooked nose, small, close-set eyes, thin lips, and lank, black hair. His yellow skin seemed tight-stretched over the high cheek-bones.
"Injun an' Mex or bad white, like Durley said, reg'lar devil's brew," was Green's unvoiced criticism.
"Well, what vu want?" Raven asked curtly.
The puncher leaned nonchalantly against the door, his thumbs hooked in his belt. "I'm told this burg is shy a marshal," he said. "I'm shy a job, an' there yu have it."
The saloon-keeper studied him in silence for a moment. He knew the applicant's history from the time he had arrived, including the incident of the wasted whisky and the affair at Miguel's. Little happened in Lawless that did not come to the ears of The Vulture sooner or later--generally sooner.
"We don't know nothin' about yu," he said.
"My name is James Green, o' Texas, an' lately I've been livin' mostly under my hat," the puncher told him.
"Which don't make us much wiser," was Raven's comment.
"Yore last marshal, Perkins, lit outa Nevada a flea's jump ahead o' the Vigilantes, an' Dawlish, the man afore him, had been in the pen for cattle-rustlin'. Ain't yu gettin' a mite particular?" Green asked sardonically.
The saloon-keeper's thin lips lengthened, which was his nearest approach to a smile. He had not expected to get any details of the fellow's past, and in reality he cared little. Lawless was a sanctuary for the law-breaker, and only a man of that type could hope to keep any semblance of order. The puncher's lean, hard face, level eyes, and firm lips were not those of a weakling.
"Yore kind o' young," Raven objected.
"Suffered from that since I was born," Green said lightly. "The doctors say I'll grow out of it. Well, what's the word?"
"The pay is two hundred dollars a month," the other said.
"Which ain't over generous," Green commented.
"An' pickin's, the same bein'--to the right man--considerable," Raven slowly added.
"With another hundred for a deputy," the puncher suggested, and when the saloon-keeper shook his head, "See here, I ain't a machine; there's times when I wanta sleep some."
"Awright, a deputy goes. Yu better pick a good one an' tell him to shoot first an' argue afterwards," Raven said. He dipped into a drawer of the desk. "It so happens I got a coupla stars, an' here's the key to yore quarters." Handing the articles to Green, he dismissed the new officer with a curt "See yu later."
For a little while Raven sat thinking, weighing up the man who had just left him. He recognized that Green was not the ordinary type of desperado; his cool, smiling confidence contrasted oddly with the blustering, bullying attitude of the average gun-fighter.
"A useful fella if he comes to heel--an' if he don't--" His lips twisted in a sneer. "But there's a sheriff somewheres who'd be glad to meet him."
And in this he was entirely right.
When Green returned to the Rest House he found the bar empty, save for Barsay sprawling in a chair with his feet on a table and snoring lustily. The marshal's face became that of an imp of mischief. Gently he pinned one of the stars he had received to the sleeping man's vest, and pulling one of his guns, fired into the floor. The violence of the slumberer's awaking start flung him to the ground but in a second he was on his feet, gun out, and eyes glaring. A moment later Durley came flying into the bar, only to find Green, weak with laughter, a smoking gun in his hand, leaning against the wall.