Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935)

by Oliver Strange

  Idly he wondered how many of Bent’s “good men” were present. He did not quite know why he had thus invaded the headquarters of the Bartholomew faction; it was largely a gesture of defiance, a “grand-stand play”, as he defined it in his own mind. He did not expect anything to happen, but there was a chance of picking up information. Larry, after a vigorous protest, had declined to accompany him, and Severn smiled to himself when he saw his friend sneak in.

  Men who spend their lives in an atmosphere of danger develop a kind of instinct which warns them when peril is present, and Severn had not been in the saloon very long before he divined that something was going to happen after all. Martin’s exit was not natural, for it made him appear cowardly, and he would not risk such an imputation without a good reason. Leaning sideways against the bar, Severn kept a wary eye on the Bar B couple, arguing that any trouble would be likely to originate there. This was sound reasoning, but he was to learn that Bartholomew had depths he had not yet plumbed. Obsessed by the idea that he must watch Black Bart, he did not notice the entry of another customer, who slouched in, greeted no one and took up a position at the bar behind, and only a yard or two distant from, the Lazy M foreman.

  The newcomer was not unworthy of attention. Of medium height, his great breadth of body made him appear shorter than he really was. His attire was that of a range worker, and he wore two guns, low down on his hips, and tied. The long, claw-like right hand was burnt brown by the sun, a fact instantly noted by Larry, who was scanning the fellow covertly but closely.

  “I’ve seen him afore, some place,” he mused. “Where’s he come from an’ what’s he doin’ here? Dasn’t wear a glove on that right paw. He’s a killer, shore enough.”

  The man looked it. His heavy face, with knobbed muscles round the square jaw, colourless cold eyes, dirty yellow skin and the limp moustache, which did not conceal thin lips, conveyed an impression of soulless indifference, repellent, nauseating, altogether inhuman. The drink he poured himself from the bottle pushed forward by the bar-tender was of modest dimensions, a fact the watching cowboy instantly noted.

  Larry called for a cigar, lit it with the inexpertness of one who has imbibed a shade too freely, and took a surreptitious peep around the room.

  “Who’s he after?” he muttered. “Bet m’self two dollars suthin’s goin’ to bust loose ‘fore long. Hello, here’s the sheriff; mebbe that’ll cramp his game some.”

  Henry Tyler, his nickel star well in evidence, followed by Martin and another citizen, promptly joined the Bar B couple, and, as though he had been waiting for them, Black Bart at once made a move for the bar.

  “Set ‘em up, Sam,” he said to the dispenser of drinks.

  As the five men lined up at the counter, Severn was compelled to move further along in order to give them room. This brought him close to the stranger, of whose presence he was still unaware. Then came the tinkle of a smashed glass.

  “Damn yu, yu clumsy cow-thumper. I’ll teach yu to keep yore hoofs to yoreself,” snarled a savage voice behind him, and he felt a hard, round object which he knew to be a gun-barrel jammed in the small of his back. “One move an’ I’ll just naturally blow yu apart,” the voice continued.

  Severn stiffened; he knew he had been caught, and the rasping, metallic tone of the threat told him that it was no idle one; the least movement on his part would mean death. His eyes met those of Bartholomew, and noted the interest, mingled with a gleam of amusement, in the Bar B owner’s face. The whole room was now silent, tense; the flip of cards and rattle of poker chips had ceased.

  “Don’t yu,” warned another voice, and there was no mistaking the menace in it. “If that gun ain’t dropped when I’ve counted three, yu will be. One—two—”

  The stranger cast a hurried glance over his shoulder and saw that the speaker was the young cowpuncher. He had apparently got over his intoxication, for the gun in his hand was unwavering, the pale eyes were like chilled steel and the lips clamped on the cigar gave him a ferocity oddly out of keeping with his age. The unknown’s gun clattered on the floor.

  “All right, Don; I’ve pulled his teeth, yu can handle him now,” said the man with the drop, but he did not lower his gun. Like a flash Severn turned, and, as he did so, his right fist came round and up, with all the impetus of his body movement behind it. The blow caught the stranger fairly on the left point of his jaw, lifted him clear of the ground and hurled him, a senseless mass, on to a neighbouring card-table. The piece of furniture instantly became kindling wood, cards and chips went flying, and two of the players executed pretty back somersaults. Severn stepped forward, his hands in close proximity to his guns, then turned to face an angry sheriff. Tyler was not at any time an imposing person; his bloated face and mean eyes betrayed him for what he was—a blustering bully.

  “What’s yore idea?” he bellowed. “Comin’ here a-disturbin’ the peace an’ knockin’ respectable folks about. I’ve half a mind—”

  “Yo’re flatterin’ yoreself, sheriff; I shouldn’t say yu had that much,” Severn retorted, and a snicker went round the room, which infuriated the officer still more. “O’ course, I didn’t know this fella was a friend o’ yores.”

  “Friend nothin’—I never seen him afore,” the sheriff disclaimed, “but I represent the law—”

  “Ain’t yu a mite late gettin’ into the game, sheriff?” queried Severn sarcastically. “When that fella had his gun jammed into my back yu gave a pretty good imitation of a gob of mud. Yu saw him jump me.”

  “I saw yu deliberately spill his drink an’ tromp on his feet,” the sheriff returned viciously. “An’ if he’d beefed yu it would ‘a’ served yu right.”

  Severn smiled at the circle of spectators, which now included everyone in the room.

  “Yu oughta get yore eyesight seen to, sheriff,” he said. “It’ll play yu a trick one o’ these days.” And then the mirth died out of his face. “I’ve seen quite a few sheriffs an’ marshals, but yo’re the worst specimen ever,” he said acidly. “What’s the matter with this town that it has to go into the desert an’ fetch in a poison toad like yu to hang a star on?”

  The officer’s face grew pale, his cheeks puffed out, and his beady eyes snapped with rage until he actually suggested the reptile to which he had been likened.

  “Yo’re insultin’ an’ opposin’ the law,” he screamed.

  In sheer desperation, Tyler’s hand went to his gun, and, in a tone he tried hard to make convincing, he said :

  “Put up yore hands, I’m arrestin’ yu.”

  Severn, lolling easily against the bar, laughed in his face. “Why, yu pore skate, I could blow yu to bits before yu could get that cannon out,” he jeered. “See here, sheriff, I’ll make yu an offer. We’ll get a deck o’ cards—a new one—an’ have one cut each. The man who cuts the high card has first shot at the other from two paces—even yu couldn’t miss that far away. That’ll give yu an even break. What about it?”

  The sheriff’s face palpably lost some of its colour as he heard this amazing suggestion. He had made his bluff and the other man had called it. He swept a furtive glance at the onlookers, but could see nothing but eager curiosity. If he asked for help to arrest the puncher, he would probably die swiftly—Severn’s eyes had told him as much. On the other hand, the thing he would have called his soul shivered at the thought of staking his life on a cut of the cards. Fair as it undoubtedly was, the very cold-bloodedness of the proposition appalled him. And he knew he would lose—one look at the mocking, satirical face of the challenger, radiating confidence, settled the issue. A loophole occurred to him.

  “Pretty cheap bluff,” he croaked. “Yu know dam well I can’t take yu up wearin’ this,” and he touched his badge of office.

  “It ain’t sewn to yore skin, is it?” queried the other, and then, “Well, I didn’t think yu’d jump at it, sheriff; sorta guessed yu’d find a hole to crawl into, but just to show I warn’t bluffin’, the offer is open to any o’ yore friends—or his.”
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br />   He pointed to the senseless figure on the floor, but his eyes were on Bartholomew. The Bar B owner shrugged his shoulders as he replied :

  “That jasper’s a stranger to me. I fight my own battles, my own way.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Severn commented, and his sneering smile conveyed anything but a compliment. “Tell that fella when he comes round where he can find me,” he said to the bar-tender, and unconcernedly turning his back, walked out of the room.

  A little way out of town he waited, and presently Larry came loping up. The little man cut short his thanks.

  “Nothin’ to that,” he said. “It was a plain frame-up. I was watchin’ an’ yu never touched the fella; he was there a-purpose, an’ he was sent for when they see yu come in. I couldn’t place him at once, but after yu handed out that wallop it came to me. His name’s Shadwell, but he’s generally known as `Shady’, which shore described him to a dot. He’s a gunman, an’ fast. Whyfor did yu make that fool offer to cut the cards? S’pose the sheriff had took yu up?”

  The foreman laughed. “I knew he wouldn’t—he’s yellow right through,” he said. “It warn’t meant for him. An’ it ain’t quite the same as an ordinary gun play where there’s allus the chance o’ bein’ a split-second quicker’n the other fella. Cuttin’ the cards for first shot is a cold gamble, live or die, an’ it wants a hell of a lot o’ nerve to sit into a game like that. Some o’ the men in the saloon who knew I was talkin’ at Bartholomew, are thinkin’ he oughta called me, an’ that’s why I made the play. Yu thought I was just grand-standin’?”

  “I thought yu was bein’ the natural dam fool yu are an’ takin’ an unnecessary risk,” came the blunt answer.

  “It’s the loss in prestige, Larry,” Severn pointed out, his voice serious but his eyes twinkling. “Yu gotta consider the psychological aspect.”

  “Aw right, professor, I pass,” that young man interjected hurriedly.

  Chapter VIII

  To Phil Masters at the Lazy M ranch, the days came and went with leaden feet, and with the passing of each one, her hopes of again seeing her father grew fainter.

  So far as the ranch was concerned, work went on as usual, and she realised with some bitterness that the absence of the master was making no difference. Severn seemed to get on well with the men.

  Passing the foreman’s hut, she saw the door was open, and the curiosity of her sex demanded a peep within. The room was empty, but in one corner stood a Winchester rifle, at the sight of which she stopped as though a bullet from it had struck her. She was about to step inside to examine it when a low, throaty rumble halted her, and she saw Quirt regarding her with questioning eyes. While she was hesitating she heard a step behind her, and turned to face the foreman.

  “Did yu want to see me?” he asked.

  “Yes, but your dog appears to have other views,” she replied.

  He called the animal, which came with a bound and squatted beside him. Even in the short time since she had first seen the dog it had grown appreciably, and she commented on the fact.

  “Good grub an’ a lazy time will work wonders,” he smiled. “If yu stroke his head he’ll know yu are a friend, an’ remember.”

  She looked at him sharply, and then did as he suggested. Quirt submitted to the caress, and again she was conscious of the feeling of revolt against the will power of its master; everybody and everything seemed to do as he desired. Even she—Abruptly she turned upon him.

  “That is my father’s gun,” she said, pointing. “How does it come to be there?”

  Severn hesitated, conscious that she was watching him narrowly, but his face betrayed no emotion, though he was inwardly cursing himself for not having put the weapon where it would not be so easily seen.

  “I found it,” he said, and, anticipating her next question, “It was the day before I took the herd to the XT. I was ridin’ up that way when a fella cut down on me from cover an’ I had to deal with him; the gun was beside the body.”

  “You killed him?”

  “Shore. It was him or me.”

  “Who was it?” she asked, and he could read the horrified conjecture in her eyes.

  “The Mexican—Ignacio,” he told her.

  “Ignacio? And you suggest he killed my father?” she cried, incredulously. “Why didn’t you tell me at the time?”

  “It don’t amount to anythin’—the Greaser may have found or stolen the gun,” Severn pointed out. “I didn’t want to worry yu.”

  The girl’s face was pale and tense, her hands clenched until the knuckles showed white beneath the skin, and her big brown eyes were stormy. His excuse brought a disfiguring curl to her lips.

  “Where is Ignacio’s body?” was her next question.

  “I don’t know,” the foreman said. “It vanished from where I left it—complete.”

  “And do you expect me to believe this—story?” she asked sarcastically.

  “No,” replied Severn, and his voice was hard and even-toned. “I don’t expect yu to believe anythin’ I say, Miss Masters, because yu have been told different, but yore not believin’ it doesn’t alter the truth.”

  With a look which clearly expressed her contempt, the girl turned away. The foreman looked after her; his jaw was set grimly, but his eyes were soft.

  “The Princess continues to have no sorta use for us, Quirt,” he said, scratching the dog’s head. “She’s thinkin’ now I bumped off her daddy an’ I dunno as I blame her; she’s havin’ a tough time.”

  Phil, turning as she entered the ranch-house, saw the dog standing on its hind-legs, enthusiastically endeavouring to lick its master’s face and getting its ears playfully cuffed. Her anger blazed anew.

  “The brute!” she exploded, and it was very evident she was not referring to the dog. “Bartholomew was right—there must be a conspiracy. Oh, if I find that man killed my daddy, I’ll never rest till he is hanged.”

  The second warning arrived in the same mysterious manner as the first, a few mornings after Severn’s visit to Hope. The paper and crude lettering were identical, and even the wording had a like laconic similarity, for it read :

  “If yu leave yore cash in the bank yu’ll lose it.

  A FRIEND.”

  Severn pondered over it. What did it mean, and where did it come from? The only possible source he could think of was Darby, who being at the Lazy M, as he thought likely, to spy for Bart, might be turning down his old boss for his new, in gratitude for his life. However that might be, there the warning was, and having decided to act upon it, he headed for the town. Though he did not imagine there was need for haste, he rode at a sharp pace and reached his destination before eleven o’clock.

  He offered no explanation to the bank manager, but, having drawn the money in one-hundred-dollar bills, thrust it into his pocket and went along to Bent’s. In the saloon he got a surprise, for Ridge was there, laughing uproariously at something the saloon-keeper had told him.

  “Severn, I’m shakin’ with yu,” he cried, extending a handlike a young ham. “I just been hearin’ how yu threw another monkey-wrench into Bartholomew’s works.”

  The foreman gripped and grinned. “I got a rooted objection to gun-barrels in my ribs,” he said. “Fussy o’ me, p’raps, but there yu are.”

  “It’s done Bart more harm than a public lickin’,” said Bent. “The whole town’s talkin’ about it. As for Tyler, it’s made his life a misery; everybody’s askin’ him to cut the cards. What’s brought yu in agin so soon, Severn?”

  The Lazy M man showed them the warning, and told them of the other he had received.

  “I dunno who sent it, or what the fella’s drivin’ at, but I’m playin’ it to win, like it did the first time,” he said. “Who’s back o’ that bank?”

  “Well, it’s called the Pioneer Banking Corporation, but I’ve a suspicion that’s just a fancy title an’ the real owner is Rapson, the manager,” Bent told him. “He’s been here some time an’ is reckoned straight. I got a bit there I don�
�t wanta lose.”

  “Same here. I’m goin’ to follow yore hunch, Severn,” Ridge said. “So the White Masks took a chance at yu, eh?”

  “Two fellas with their faces draped did, an’ that was all they took,” Severn smiled. “Know anybody around here named `Slick’?”

  “A chap called Slick Renny used to ride for Bart but he left the neighbourhood over a year ago,” Bent said, and Severn did not pursue the inquiry.

  “Who does that old ruined cabin way up the creek towards the Bar B belong to?” he asked. “Looks a likely location.”

  “That’s what the fella who built it thought—a nester o’ the name o’ Forby—but he figured wrong,” the saloon-keeper said. “Yu see, Bart regards it as on his range.”

  “What happened?”

  “Accordin’ to Bart, the nester pulled his freight an’ burned the shack outa spite, but some of us has other ideas. There’s fools as say the place is ha’nted, an’ on’y a week or so ago, Old Spilkins come bustin’ in here with the story that he’d seen a shadder hangin’ another shadder on the big cottonwood by the cabin, but he was middlin’ full o’ rye at the time an’ liable to see anythin’.”

  After the customary round of drinks the men separated, and Severn, who had no other business in town, rode back towards the ranch.

  He was within a few miles of the ranch when he turned off the trail, heading for the southern boundary of the range, an area he had not yet explored. He found that the grazing, doubtless owing to the nearness of the desert, was not so good; there were few cattle, and he saw none of the outfit. Realising that his mount was tired he took things easily, and did not reach the Lazy M until daylight was fading. Outside the corral the men were unsaddling. Suddenly came the distant pound of hoofs and along the trail they could see a dark blob which became rapidly larger.