Read Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) for Free Online Page B

attention
at once and they pulled their ponies to a stop, squattering the dust in every
direction.
                 “Merciful
Moses, they got a new marshal!” cried one. “Smoke him up, boys.”
                 With
the words he snatched out his six-shooter and sent a hail of bullets into the
signboard over the officer’s door. His companions followed his example, and
having thus evidenced their contempt for the law, and “run a blazer” on its
representative, they emitted a derisive shout and rode on to the Red Ace.
Inside the office the marshal and his deputy were straightening up. They heard
the tattoo of the bullets, and from the side of the window Green watched the
riders. Pete’s face plainly disapproved of his superior’s inactivity.
                 “Ain’t
yu goin’ to expostulate none with them playful people?” he asked.
                 Green
grinned at him quizzically. “Shucks, they’re on’y boys from the Box B,” he
said.
                 There
had been just light enough for him to read the brand on the flank of the
nearest pony.
                 “Wasn’t
yu ever young an’ wishful to let off steam on a night out?”
                 “Awright,
gran’pop, but they’re countin’ it a score agin yu,” retorted the little man.
                 “Betcha
five dollars they apologize ‘fore the night’s out,” the marshal offered. “An’
anyway, that sign needs repaintin’.”
                 Pete
took the bet, not that he felt sure of winning it—for he was beginning to
realize that this new friend of his was an uncommon person—but because he was a
born gambler, and curious. As to what the condition of the sign had to do with
it, he could form no conjecture.
                 Their
entry, a little later, into the bar of the Red Ace aroused small interest in
the crowded room. Here and there a card-player looked up, muttered something in
an undertone, and went on playing.
                 The
Box B boys, seated at a table near the bar with a bottle between them, took no
notice until a whisper reached their ears that it was the new marshal who had
come in. Then heads went together, and presently one of them, a merry-looking
youth whose red hair and profusely-freckled face had earned him the name of
“Rusty,” rose amid the laughter of the other three.
                 Green
was alone, leaning against the bar, his deputy being a few yards away, watching
the play at a poker-table. The Box B rider lurched up, planted himself so that
he faced his quarry, and, with a wink at his companions, opened the
conversation.
                 “Is
it true yo’re the new marshal?” he asked.
                 “It’s
a solemn fact, seh,” Green replied gravely.
                 The
young man teetered on his heels, eyeing the officer truculently. Had he been a
little less under the influence of liquor he would have recognized that this
quiet, lazy-looking man was not one to take liberties with.
                 “Me
an’ my friends don’t like marshals nohow—can’t see any need for ‘em,” he
pursued.
                 “But
if we gotta have one‘s important to make shore he’s good, yu unnerstan’? I’ve
made a li’l wager I c’n beat yu to the draw.” He suddenly crouched, his right
hand hovering over his weapon. “Flash it!” he cried.
                 Hardly
had the words left his lips when a gun-barrel jolted him rudely in the stomach,
while his hand, clawing at his holster, found it empty. Looking down, he saw
that the marshal’s weapons were still in his belt and that the gun now
threatening his internal economy was his own. Instantly the drink died out as
he realized that the man he had dared possessed every right to blow him into
eternity. His companions started up in alarm.
                 “Don’t
shoot, marshal,