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

by Oliver Strange

  “What d’yu reckon they done with her?”

  “Planted her, likely as not,” lied the Bar B owner. “With no heirs—I never heard Masters mention any family—an’ Embley executor o’ the will, why, it’s pie like mother used to make.”

  “The Judge has a name for bein’ straight,” Tyler offered. “The cleverest crook allus has,” was Bart’s caustic comment. When they parted at the Bar B ranch-house, the owner had a final word :

  “I hear Rapson is better an’ is startin’ up his bank again. Keep an eye on it; I’ve a hunch yu’ll get yore chance there. Have a coupla yore men allus handy, but don’t move till Severn gives yu the invite. I gotta take a little trip an’ I’m leavin’ this to yu. Bungle it, an’ yu an’ me take different trails. Savvy?”

  The sheriff nodded and went away, the big man’s eyes following him contemptuously.

  “If I’d ‘a’ told him it was Sudden he’d gotta arrest he’d be p’intin’ for Mexico right now,” he soliloquised.

  “An’ I dunno as I’d blame him much at that,” said another voice, and Bartholomew turned to find his foreman.

  “Hello, Pent,” he greeted. “How’d it go?”

  “Easy as takin’ a drink,” replied Penton. “No trouble a-tall. Yu got the sheriff primed up?”

  “Shore, but hang around town in case he wants help,” Bart said. “Things is shapin’ up right for us, an’ I don’t want any fool blunders.”

  **

  In a rude but strongly-built log shack, hidden in a clump of wind-whipped, stunted pines on the slopes of the second Pinnacle, was Phil Masters. From the moment when, in the hallway at the Lazy M, masked men had flung a blanket over her head, carried her out and tied her on the back of a horse, her mind had been in a state of numbed bewilderment. She was conscious of having been jolned about like a helpless sack on the back of a pony through an interminable ride. After the first hour the stifling blanket which muffled her head had been removed and she was able to breathe freely again and look about.

  There were four men with her, two riding in front and two behind, well-armed, dressed in ragged range costume and masked. The towering peak far ahead told her that they were pointing for the mysterious region she had once expressed a desire to explore. Her escort took no notice of her, and, if they spoke, did so in whispers she could not hear; it was like riding with the dumb.

  Hour after hour they plodded on, and at last, when they were beneath the shadow of the first Pinnacle, a halt was called. The men got down, lifted Phil from her saddle, and the journey was continued on foot up a narrow cliff pathway. She had guessed, of course, that she was in the hands of the dreaded White Masks, and she now recognised the place from the description Larry had given her. As she toiled up the steep slope she found herself wondering if Severn would come to her rescue.

  She spent a sleepless night sitting on a blanket in a black hole adjoining the main cave. In the morning one of her captors brought bread, bacon and coffee.

  “We start in half an hour,” he said gruffly.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked, but got no answer.

  The hot, strong liquid put a little heart into her, but she could not touch the food. Presently the fellow returned and, taking the lantern he had left, motioned her to follow him. Passing through a long, dark tunnel, they climbed a flight of rude steps. Here another man was waiting and, despite her protests, they fastened her wrists together and tied a handkerchief over her eyes. Then came a repetition of the previous day’s discomfort. Unable to see the trail ahead, she was entirely at the mercy of her mount, and was jerked and bumped about in the saddle until every bone in her body ached. She had no conception as to where she was being conducted, but she guessed they were still in the mountains, because of the keenness of the morning air and the fact that every slope they descended was followed by a corresponding rise. Greatly to her relief the journey proved shorter than that of the day before. It ended at the hut in the pines.

  An examination of her prison promised little prospect of escape. The walls of stout, untrimmed logs, embedded in a floor of tightly-packed earth, and a massive door secured by a heavy padlock, made the place ideal for the purpose to which it was being put. A mere hole a foot square admitted light and air; from it the prisoner could see only a gloomy curtain of pine branches. The furniture consisted of a pile of spruce tops covered by a dubious blanket, a bench, and a table constructed out of a packing-case which had once contained tinned goods. Phil shuddered as she remembered her own trim little bedroom at the Lazy M. A clang of metal at the door warned her that someone was coming in, and she seated herself on the bench and prepared to present as brave a front as possible. The man who entered was not one of the four who had captured her; he was taller and of slighter build. He did not trouble to remove his slouched hat, and through the slits in his mask she saw ruthless, covetous eyes devouring her.

  “Why have I been brought here?” the girl demanded, trying to hide the tremor in her voice.

  “Yu’ll know that—later,” he replied. “All I’m goin’ to say now is that yu got one chance, an’ on’y one. There’s a visitor comin’ to see yu an’ he’ll put a proposition. Agree to that an’ yu go free.”

  “And if I refuse?” Phil inquired, and saw a hateful gleam in his eyes.

  “I’m shore hopin’ yu will,” he chuckled, “for then me an’ the boys will have to draw lots to see which of us yu come an’ keep house for—first.”

  The blood drained from her face as she realised his meaning.

  “When is this—visitor—coming?” she asked.

  “Oh, he’ll be along,” the man replied casually, and went out, leaving her a prey to emotions in which fear predominated.

  Mingled with it was curiosity as to the identity of the “visitor”. This, she decided, must be Severn. All the doubts Bartholomew had instilled came back, and, added to what she herself had discovered, almost convinced her that the foreman, scheming to obtain the Lazy M, was coming to bargain with her. Bitterly she regretted her break with the Bar B owner. Her chief remaining doubt centred about Larry; she could not bring herself to believe that he was in the plot against her.

  Consumed with impatience, she disobeyed the injunction of the tall outlaw, and was often peeping out of the apology for a window. But only one man passed, a short, stoutish fellow, under whose pulled-down hat brim she could see a grey beard and the edge of a black patch which covered one eye. In a flash she remembered him as the pedestrian Bartholomew had savagely assaulted in Hope the morning she spoke so plainly. With hunched shoulders he slouched past, not even glancing towards the hut.

  Chapter XVII

  SOLITARY confinement is the most dreaded of all prison punishments, and after forty-eight hours the girl’s nerves were in a pitiable state. During that time she had seen only the man who brought her food, and from him she failed to extract a syllable. Then, on the third morning, when she had almost given up hope of the expected visitor, she heard footsteps and the welcome rattle of the padlock chain. The door opened, and she sprang out with outstretched hands; the man who stood there was Bartholomew.

  “You?” she cried. “Oh, thank God ! I was afraid it would be—someone else.”

  The big man looked down at her, an odd smile on his thin lips; this was a moment for which he had waited long. Perching himself on the makeshift table he rolled a cigarette.

  “‘Lo, Phil,” he said easily. “Pretty mess yu got yoreself into, eh, through trustin’ strangers an’ turning down old friends.”

  The girl flushed; she felt the rebuke was merited. “I can’t understand it all,” she said miserably.

  “It’s as plain as the biggest kind o’ print an’ just as I suspected an’ warned yu first off,” he replied. “Embley an’ yore foreman mean to get the Lazy M. These scum here are in Severn’s pay an’ yu are his prisoner. What he’s aimin’ to do with yu, I dunno, but my idea is that they mean to force yu to marry that pup, Barton. That’ll give ‘em yore property, an’ if an
accident happens to yu—”

  He broke off suggestively and the girl gazed at him with horror. “I can’t believe that men could be so vile,” she faltered.

  “Yu don’t know ‘em, Phil,” he assured her. “Mebbe it’ll surprise yu to hear that Severn killed yore dad—it’s been proved now—robbed the bank an’ shot Rapson.”

  The girl wilted under the blow. She had long given up hope of seeing her father again, but to learn definitely that he had been wantonly slain was a severe shock.

  “An’ if I’m figurin’ wrong,” continued Bart, watching her narrowly, “what’s Embley doin’ in this camp?”

  “Judge Embley—here?” she cried in amaze.

  Bartholomew contented himself with a nod. Phil tried to think, to find some reason for the presence of her father’s friend in this den of thieves, but she could not; the Bar B rancher must be right, she concluded.

  “But you’ll take me away, won’t you?” she asked eagerly. “I’m afraid—horribly afraid.”

  The man’s cunning eyes gleamed with satisfaction; this was the frame of mind he wanted her in.

  “Can’t say as I blame yu,” he returned. “As for gettin’ yu away, that won’t be easy; it’ll depend on yu.”

  “On me?” she queried.

  “Shore,” Bartholomew smiled. “Now, here’s the point : these fellas are tough, but they ain’t anxious to tangle with Black Bart. In other words, they won’t interfere with anythin’ or anybody belongin’ to me. Savvy?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” she said doubtfully.

  “I’m proposin’, Phil,” he smiled. “Not, I reckon, in the way a girl likes to have it done, but yu gotta admit the position is a mite peculiar. On’y as my wife will these rogues let me take yu away. The Judge is here to tie the knot, an’ if Severn’s gamblin’ on makin’ yu marry his sidekicker, won’t it be a jar to find yu got a husband already, huh?”

  Phil listened with a sinking heart. However guilty the foreman and his friend might be, she did not want to wed Bartholomew. Yet there seemed to be nothing else to do. Slumped against the wall of the hut she strove to compose her thoughts.

  “The Judge may not be willing,” she temporised.

  “When I’ve had a talk with him, I figure he will be,” Bart said grimly. “I know more’n he thinks.”

  The girl closed her eyes wearily, and in sheer desperation was about to consent when a sibilant whisper reached her ears. “He’s lyin’. Don’t give in; play for time.”

  Her start of surprise passed unnoticed by the rancher, who was awaiting her answer with a smile of expectant triumph. Though she had no idea who the mysterious adviser might be, she was ready to clutch at any hope, and the thought of a possible friend gave her courage.

  “You must let me have time to consider,” she said.

  The big man’s face darkened with disappointment. “We ain’t got none to waste,” he reminded her. “I took a big risk comin’ here, an’ to hang about is a bigger one. There’s somethin’ else I oughta told yu. `Severn’ ain’t the real name o’ yore foreman; he used to be pretty well knowed as `Sudden’. Yu’ve heard o’ him, I guess.”

  Her face blanched. Sudden, the outlaw! She remembered the tales told of his reckless courage, marvellous marksmanship and the dexterity with which he time after time eluded capture. She did not know that, although ostensibly a hunted criminal, he was actually working on the side of the law, and that the crimes attributed to him were committed by others. Such a man as she conceived Sudden to be might be guilty of any outrage and would show no mercy.

  `Well,” Bartholomew said, “knowin’ that, yu still wantin’ time?”

  “Don’t weaken,” came the warning whisper.

  “Yes, I musn think,” Phil said faintly.

  Bartholomew’s patience was becoming exhausted; his voice had a very palpable sneer in it as he retorted, “Oughtn’t to need much thinkin’ about—the choice o’ leavin’ here as my wife or stayin’ to be the playthin’ o’ these cow thieves.” Instantly, by her expression, he saw that he had made a mistake, and hastened to mend it by adding, “I overheard some of ‘ern talkin’.”

  But the damage was done; the fact that he had used the same threat as the outlaw had engendered suspicion in the girl’s mind, and Bart’s explanation, quick and plausible as it was, did not remove it. So that it was with a frowning face and nothing settled that he left her, with the stated intention of interviewing the Judge.

  “An’ when I’ve fixed things with him yu’ll have to make up yore mind, Phil,” he warned. “I ain’t goin’ to be fooled with.”

  He went out and she heard the key grate in the lock. She had but one hope—the unknown whisperer. A scrutiny of the wall behind her showed that two of the logs did not quite meet, the space enabling the listener to hear and make himself heard. Was it the outlaw trying to trick her into throwing away her chance of escape? She did not think so; the voice had seemed agitated. She could not see through the crack, and, though she waited eagerly, the silence remained unbroken.

  Bartholomew had not far to go, a mere twenty paces through the trees brought him to another hut, similar to the one he had just left. Inside this, lolling easily on a bench and puffing a cigarette, he found the Desert Edge jurist. For a moment the prisoner blinked in the sunlight which poured through the door, and then, recognising the visitor, greeted him sardonically.

  “Mornin’, Bartholomew, have they got you, too?” he asked. “Or are you the chief, by any chance, of this collection of gaol-fodder?”

  “Wrong both guesses,” replied the rancher.

  “Ah, well, then I haven’t to thank you for my arrival here?” Embley proceeded.

  “No, but yu may have to for yore leavin’,” Bart told him.

  “And the price, Bartholomew?” the Judge queried, his glance measuring the man.

  “A small service which’ll cost yu nothing,” was the reply. “Humph!” commented the old man drily. “I think I’d rather pay cash. And the nature of this—service?”

  “Just the marriage service,” grinned Bart.

  The Judge’s eyes widened and he rose with alacrity. “Delighted,” he said. “I believe matrimony to be the only risk you haven’t indulged in. Does the ceremony take place at the Bar B?”

  “No, here,” the rancher replied.

  “Well, why not,” Embley said lightly. “A wedding and honeymoon in the mountains; most romantic. I must, however, know the lady’s name and if she is willing.”

  “The girl is Phil Masters, an’ she is willin’,” Bartholomew bluntly told him.

  The Judge sat down again. “Miss Masters here?” he said sternly. “What does this mean?”

  “It means I’m wise to yore game, Embley, an’ I’m goin’ to beat it,” the Bar B man replied. “Yu got hold o’ Masters, framed-up his will, with yoreself as executor, an’ put yore man Severn in as foreman. Then Masters disappears an’ yu got a free hand. The girl marries the fella you provide an’ mebbe she disappears too, an’ yu grab the Lazy M. Pretty sound scheme, I gotta hand it yu.”

  Embley stared at him in blank astonishment. “You have more imagination than I ever gave you credit for, Bartholomew,” he said.

  The big man took no notice. “The on’y mistake yu made, Judge, was not countin’ me in,” he continued. “Phil Masters has been promised to me for quite a piece, an’ I’m goin’ to have her. Yore consent ‘pears to be necessary an’ we figured the best way to get it was to have yu do the deed.”

  “So you sent your cut-throats to fetch me, huh?” Embley said.

  “I don’t own ‘em—they was hired for the job,” Bart explained, adding darkly : “But I reckon they’ll do as I tell ‘em.” The Judge replied that he hadn’t a doubt of it, a remark which deepened the frown on the other’s face.

  “See here, Judge, there’s no sense in travellin’ six miles to cover one,” he said. “I ain’t unreasonable an’ I’m makin’ yu an offer. Marry me an’ Phil, turn Severn down, an’ I’ll split the Laz
y M three ways. What yu say?”

  “That you are a precious rascal,” Embley answered.

  “Yu refusin’?” snarled Bartholomew.

  “Did my reply sound like an acceptance?” smiled the old man.

  The rancher stood up, his face poisonous with passion, his hand gripping his gun.

  “Yo’re a damn fool,” he cried. “What’s to prevent me from blowin’ yu apart right now?”

  “Several things,” laughed the lawyer. “In the first place, you wouldn’t get that consent.”

  “Bah ! Your successor—”

  “Would be Governor Bleke, an old friend of mine, who would certainly carry out the instructions I have left,” Embley stated coolly. “And he would ask questions, Bartholomew, questions you might find difficult to answer. In the second place, by killing me you put yourself in the power of these bandits—a very unwise thing to do; and, in the third place, Severn would shoot you down for the dog you are.”

  This time it was the Bar B man who laughed.

  “He’ll have to come back from over the Divide to do it,” he jeered. “If the sheriff of Hope ain’t lost his nerve, Mister Severn is sittin’ in a cell about now.”

  The Judge stood up, the eyes beneath the bushy brows like chilled steel.

  “On what charge?” he thundered.

  “Just robbin’ the bank an’ shootin’ Rapson, to say nothin’ o’ murderin’ Masters,” sneered Bartholomew. “He’ll be needin’ yore prfessional services, if they ain’t tried him ‘a’ ready.”

  “Utterly absurd,” was the lawyer’s comment.

  “The evidence don’t say so. It’ll take a clever fella to get him clear; Tyler’s got the deadwood on him, shore thing.”

  Embley looked at his informant and decided that, for once, the man was not lying. The news had perturbed him and he realised that he was powerless. Bartholomew, guessing what was passing in his mind, tried again.

  “Better reconsider that offer o’ mine, Embley,” he suggested. “It’s yore on’y bet.”