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

by Oliver Strange

  “You want to put any questions?” he asked.

  Severn stood up. “Shore,” he said, and turned to the witness. “Yu certain the man who downed yu was not smaller than me?”

  “Quite,” returned the banker. “Looking at you now I have an impression he was even bigger.”

  Severn nodded. “So that, as yu couldn’t see his face, it might ‘a’ been any fella as big as me, or a bit bigger.” His eyes roamed round the room. “Mister Bartholomew, for example?”

  The witness protested volubly. The suggestion was absurd. Mr. Bartholomew had been most kind, and he had five thousand dollars deposited in the bank.

  “Which he wouldn’t lose if he robbed yu,” Severn pointedout. “An’ if I was goin’ to, why should I trouble to draw my money?”

  “Why did you?” asked the Judge.

  The foreman explained, handing up the warning he had received. Lufton glanced at it superciliously and passed it to the jury. They scanned it in turn, and then one of them remarked sourly :

  “Yu kept this mighty dark, didn’t yu?”

  Bent jumped up. “Severn showed it to me an’ Ridge of the XT,” he volunteered. “We didn’t know what was back of it any more than he did, but we both drawed our balances out. Anybody think we done the robbery?”

  “Nobody’s suggesting that anyone but the accused did the stealing, sir,” remarked the Judge.

  Though this pompous remark may have impressed some of the audience, it only drew an impudent grin from the prisoner. “That’s where yo’re wrong, Judge,” he said. “I’m suggestin’ that the man sittin’ beside yu, Bartholomew, oughta be standin’ here instead o’ me, an’ I’ve got evidence to prove it.”

  A shuffling of feet and craning of necks proclaimed the sensation this statement evoked. In response to a nod from Severn, the saloon-keeper handed to him the book and notes taken from the Bar B ranch. Bartholomew answered the accusation with a scornful laugh.

  “Trot out yore proof,” he cried.

  Severn held up the account book. “That yores?” he asked.

  The rancher stared surprisedly. “I reckon it is, though howyu—”

  “The writin’ in it would be yores, too?”

  “O’ course. What’s that gotta do with it?”

  “I’m tellin’ yu. When the White Masks run off one o’ my outfit, they left a notice behind sayin’ what I had to do to get him back. Here’s the notice, an’ it’s written on a page taken outa that book, as yu can see by the number on it, an’ the handwritin’ is the same.”

  There was hardly a sound in the room as he passed the book and the paper up to the Judge, who examined them and looked inquiringly at Bartholomew. The rancher, who had been doing some quick thinking, had his reply ready.

  “I missed that book ‘bout a month or so ago,” he began. “I reckon it was stole by a fella named Darby who had a grudge against me, an’ is now ridin’ for the Lazy M. The writin’ is a pretty good imitation o’ mine.”

  “Which yu didn’t recognise when I showed yu the notice at the time I brought Shadwell in,” Severn reminded him. “Bah ! I scarcely looked at it,” Bartholomew lied.

  “As for the book bein’ stole, that’s correct; I took it from theBar B ranch-house last night—there’s another charge for yu, sheriff,” pursued the prisoner smilingly. “An’ at the same time, in a locked drawer o’ yore desk, Bartholomew, I found these. Rapson will tell us what they are.”

  He handed the roll of bills to the banker, who compared them with a list he took from his pocket. “I paid these to the prisoner when he drew out his money,” Rapson said.

  Bartholomew and the Judge were whispering together. Then the latter looked at the prisoner.

  “Well,” he sneered. “What’s your point?”

  Severn saw that he was fighting a hopeless battle, but it was not in the man’s nature to give in.

  “It oughtn’t to need explainin’,” he said acidly. “That book an’ the notice prove that Bartholomew is chief o’ the White Masks. When they raided the Lazy M an’ abducted Miss Masters, they took my bills an’ substituted stolen ones to implicate me. I might as well add, Judge, that I broke outa gaol to get them things, an’ I returned o’ my own free will.” A whimsical smile hovered on his lips. “I had to make a devil of a row to get back into gaol again.”

  Some of the spectators, remembering the scene of the morning, guffawed at the recollection. Bartholomew leant back in his chair and also laughed.

  “Mighty smart, Severn,” he said. “Yu oughta be writin’ books, not stealin’ ‘em.” He looked round the room. “Well, boys, yu better take an’ string me up for collarin’ my own coin.”

  The Judge, jury and a number of those present smiled widely at the joke, but there were some who looked dubious. Bartholomew evidently noticed this, for he directed a meaning glance at the jury, and immediately Muger, who was acting as foreman, spoke.

  “See here, Judge,” he said. “All this jaw ain’t gettin’ us nowhere. The jury don’t want to hear no more about the robbery; this fella’s found with the goods on him; it’s an open an’ shut case.”

  “If you have come to a decision on that charge, gentlemen, we can get on with the murder,” Lufton said.

  “Whose murder—mine?” asked Severn sarcastically. “It amounts to that, yu know, because the man who could prove I had nothin’ to gain by Masters’ death ain’t here. I mean Judge Embley.”

  “He is under grave suspicion of being your accomplice,” Lufton said severely. “And the fact that he is not to be found bears it out. He got you your present job?”

  “It was through him I met Masters,” Severn admitted.

  “And soon after you go to the Lazy M, your employer disappears,” the Judge went on. “How did you get the rifle he was known to have taken with him?”

  If he had hoped the abrupt question would discompose the accused he was disappointed; Severn told a plain story of the slaying of Ignacio and the finding of the weapon.

  “An’ that’s a lie!” Bartholomew burst out. “Ignacio was heard of in Mexico a few weeks back, as my foreman, Penton, can testify.”

  The prisoner smiled grimly; he had his doubts about that. Again he produced a slip of paper. “Here’s somethin’ else I found on the Greaser,” he said. “Yu’ll notice it’s another imitation o’ Bartholomew’s penmanship.”

  The Judge gave it a casual glance, and then for a moment his eyes met those of the Bar B owner meaningly.

  “You seem fond of writing,” he said. “Did yu tell anyone about the gun?”

  “On’y Miss Masters,” was the reply.

  “And she’s missing, too; all the people who might corroborate your statements appear to be,” Lufton commented cuttingly. “Any more evidence, sheriff?”

  This was Tyler’s great moment, and he prepared to make the most of it. Strutting forward, he told how he and his deputy, Jake, riding through The Sink, had noticed tracks, followed them up, and found the missing rancher’s clothes. One by one he produced the garments, handing them to the Judge.

  “An’ underneath ‘em we found this,” he finished. “Yu’ll see it’s got the prisoner’s initials on it.”

  Tense silence reigned as the weapon was passed first to the Judge and then, at his direction, to the accused man who examined it curiously.

  “Is that yours?” came the question.

  “Yeah, it was taken from me by the White Masks,” the puncher replied without hesitation. “But it didn’t have them letters on it then. Yu don’t print as well as yu write, Bartholomew.”

  “Pretty good at findin’ answers, ain’t he?” the Bar B cattleman mocked, and the jury, at whom the remark was directed, smiled in agreement.

  Bent stepped forward and held up a hand. “‘Scuse me, Judge, I’m puttin’ in a protest that thisyer trial ain’t reg’ler,” he said. “It’s bin rushed an’ the accused ain’t had no chanct to prepare a defence or git his witnesses. The prosecution ain’t proved any motive for his bumping off Masters,
an’ the evidence makes him out a plain dam fool, which every man here knows he ain’t. He tries to cash bills at the bank he stole ‘em from, an’ he hides the clothes o’ the fella he murdered an’ leaves his gun with his initials on with ‘em. I put it to the jury, does the prisoner look plumb loco?”

  Lufton’s smile was oily as he replied to this appeal.

  “Mister Bent, as a friend of the accused, has to raise objections,” he explained to the jury. “What he does not realise is that clever criminals get over-confident and make mistakes. As for motive, the court knows that the murder was part of a deep plot to obtain the dead man’s property.” He looked craftily at the twelve citizens. “If more evidence is required—” Muger shook his head. “Very well, gentlemen, you may retire and consider your verdict.”

  Then Bartholomew flung his bombshell.

  “I reckon the jury oughta know, Judge, that this fella who’s been masqueradin’ here under the name o’ Severn, used to be better knowed as Sudden, the outlaw,” he rasped out, with a vindictive glare in the direction of the dock.

  The whistle of indrawn breath and a medley of ejaculations greeted the announcement, and every man in the room pressed forward to get a good look at the famous gunman, as though they were seeing him for the first time. Excited whispers passed from mouth to mouth as stories of his exploits were recalled. Given his guns, he might have walked out of the court unhurt, such had been his repute, but lacking them … In the midst of it all, the man himself sat, his face a mask of immobility, his eyes coolly contemplating the men who were to decide whether he lived or died. The low buzz of conversation and the scraping of shifted feet on the sanded floor ceased when Muger, who had been whispering to his men, stood up.

  “There ain’t no need to retire, Judge,” he stated. “We’re all agreed.”

  “And your verdict is?”

  “Guilty as hell.”

  The Judge turned his gaze upon the accused. “You have heard the jury’s decision,” he said. “Anything to say?”

  Severn’s narrowed eyes were coldly contemptuous. “I reckon yore reputation flatters yu, seh,” he drawled.

  The gibe penetrated even Lufton’s tough hide. His yellow, pasty face took on a crimson tint, and his thin lips contorted into an ugly snarl.

  “You have been rightly found guilty of the crimes charged against you,” he said. “It only remains for me to pronounce the penalty, which is, that you be hanged by the neck till you are dead.” He turned to Tyler. “Sheriff, you will see to it that the prisoner is conducted to the capital, where the sentence will be carried out.”

  The harsh voice, with its travesty of judicial gravity, could not conceal the speaker’s inward satisfaction; he almost seemed to exult in the power that enabled him to send a younger man than himself to his death. Having thus cunningly evaded all responsibility for what he knew was about to happen, he leant back in his chair and lit a cigar. For a moment there was silence, and then the meaning of the Judge’s pronouncement dawned upon the assembly. A hoarse, murmuring growl like that of a savage beast deprived of its prey rumbled through the room. Mad Martin leapt upon a chair.

  “To hell with sendin’ him to the capital ! ” he shouted. “He’s mebbe got a pull there; that’s how he got off afore. I’m sayin’ this town’s got ropes an’ trees enough to do its own hangin’.”

  “That’s the talk,” said another, and instantly the cry was taken up from all parts of the court-room. Bartholomew was silent, a smile of sardonic satisfaction on his cruel lips. The Judge rapped on his table and managed to get a hearing.

  “Sheriff, I shall hold you responsible for seeing that the law is observed,” he warned.

  Again the uproar broke out, and the sheriff, his recently-acquired self-esteem all gone, might easily have been mistaken for the condemned man, so woeful did he appear. He looked appealingly at Bartholomew, but the big man shook his head and laughed.

  “It’s yore job, sheriff,” he said.

  “Ropes an’ horses,” Martin yelled. “Fetch him along, boys.”

  A rush was made, and despite the fact that a number of the more moderate citizens strove to help them, the sheriff and his deputies were brushed aside like flies, and the prisoner was hustled out into the open street.

  “Where now?” asked a dozen.

  “Take him to Forby’s—the ghost there must be gittin’ lonesome,” Martin cried, and the suggestion was adopted with a shout of approval.

  On the back of a horse, with the loop of a lariat round his neck, and surrounded by men with drawn guns, Severn began what he did not doubt was his last ride, for the levity and rough humour, typical of a Western mob, was no indication that the grim programme would not be carried out. These men were primitive; their reasoning was crude; they saw only the obvious. Bartholomew had money in the bank, therefore he would not rob it; Severn’s gun found with the clothes was to them conclusive proof that he had murdered the missing man. The temperate citizens, who might have considered the more subtle evidence produced, were carried away by the turbulent faction.

  To a man, all who had been in the court-room joined the procession. Bartholomew rode with the sheriff and Lufton, the latter knowing that to save his own face he must protest to the end.

  The condemned man’s features were as impassive as a statue’s. He had played, lost, and must pay, though the cards had been stacked against him. Like most men of his type, Severn was something of a fatalist. A violent end was an ever-present possibility, and it was part of his creed that a man must take his medicine without squealing. Bartholomew’s hand was evident throughout, even in the choice of the place where he was to die. He remembered what Penton had said, and almost smiled at the thought that the Bar B owner had yet one more blow to receive.

  The journey did not take long. As they rode round a clump of trees and emerged into the little glade where stood the ruined cabin, Martin, who was leading, pulled up and yelled excitedly :

  “Hell’s flames ! A fella’s hangin’ there a’ready.”

  The riders surged forward and grouped themselves around the big cottonwood with its dangling, ghastly burden.

  “Ain’t that yore grey, Bent?” asked one, pointing to the dead horse.

  “Shore is. Missed him this mornin’—reckoned he’d dragged his picket-pin,” the saloon-keeper replied.

  “Old Forby’s ghost has bin busy,” said another. “That brand’s bin re-cut, an’ what’s them blame notches mean, anyways?”

  Bartholomew needed but one look. “It’s Penton,” he said. “How the devil—?”

  Martin untied the end of the rope, lowered the body to the ground, and bent over to examine it.

  “Plugged through the forehead,” he pronounced. “An’ he had his gun out.” He pointed to where the weapon lay in a patch of sand. Bart shot a furious look at Severn.

  “This is yore work, damn yu!” he snarled. “Yu broke gaol to do it. Well, yu’ll be takin’ his place.”

  His rage was largely assumed; inwardly he experienced a feeling of relief. Pennon knew too much, and also, would have wanted too much. Once Severn was settled with, his way was clear, for he did not doubt he could bring the girl to her senses, and Embley would do what was required or follow Severn. Once again Lufton called on the sheriff to perform his duty, and Tyler moved forward, only to shrink back when a gun was thrust in his face.

  “I warn you all that the act you are about to commit is unlawful,” the judge quavered.

  Jeers answered him. The finding of Penton’s body had put the finishing touch, bringing to the surface the blood lust that lies dormant in most men. Pulled from his horse, the prisoner was placed beneath the tree, the rope flung over the branch and gripped by three self-appointed executioners. Standing there, waiting for the word which would hurl him into eternity, Severn gazed indifferently at the ring of brutal faces. Behind them he could see Larry, furious with despair, Bent, and some of the more sober citizens. Bartholomew, Lufton and the sheriff were standing together, and a few ya
rds away, leaning against a tree, was Snap Lunt, apparently taking no interest in the proceedings. But Severn was not deceived, and wondered what desperate scheme the gunman was devising; for he knew Snap, knew that he would face any odds and go down biting to the last.

  A little breeze which tempered the heat of the sun and stirred the leaves to a gentle murmur, the piping of the birds, and the gurgling laughter of the water as it tumbled over the stones in the creek-bed, combined to create a scene violently at variance with the tragedy about to be enacted.

  Chapter XXII

  SOON after the procession to Forby’s had set out on its mission of vengeance, a visitor came riding into Hope. He was a short, rather corpulent man of about fifty, dressed in a dark coat, trousers folded neatly into the tops of his high boots, a soft black hat, and carefully-tied cravat. He wore no weapons in sight. As he progressed along the forsaken street his amazement increased, and presently, seeing a slatternly woman at an open door, he pulled up and removed his hat, revealing a crop of iron-grey hair.

  “Pardon me, ma’am, but the town seems somewhat deserted,” he smiled.

  “Aye, all the crazy fool men is gone to the hangin’,” she told him. `Why, I had to whup my boy what’s on’y eight, or he’d ‘a’ bin off too.”

  “The hanging?” repeated the visitor.

  “Shore, yu know what a hangin’ is, I reckon,” she replied. “They tried a man this mornin’ an’ now they’ve gone to string him up. Fine-lookin’ fella, too; not my idea of a bad ‘un, but yu can’t go by looks. They say he robbed the bank here an’ murdered his boss.”

  “Then he deserves to swing,” the stranger decided. “What was his name?”

  “Severn he called hisself, but they claim he’s Sudden, the famous outlaw,” the woman said.