At this she saw the man straighten up in his saddle, and when he spoke again his voice had an edge.
“Where is the hanging to take place?”
“Over to Forby’s. It ain’t far, though why they want to go trapesin’ about when there’s trees a-plenty close here I dunno, but men’ll allus snatch a chance to waste time.”
The stranger dived into a pocket, produced a five-dollar bill and held it out. “I’ll be obliged if your little boy will guide me there,” he said. “I promise he shan’t see any hanging.”
The woman grabbed the money, and in response to her shrill call, a barefooted, tear-stained urchin appeared.
“Abe, yo’re to show the gent the way to Forby’s, but if I find yu’ve saw the hangin’, I’ll take the hide off’n yu,” she warned.
The horseman stooped, lifted the child to the saddle in front of him, thanked the woman, and rode away.
“The shortest road, Abe,” he said. “Get there in time and there’s a dollar for you. If we’re too late …”
He did not finish the sentence, but the pleasant, genial tone had gone from his voice, and there was no warmth in the keen grey eyes.
Mad Martin, who had constituted himself master of ceremonies, placed his hands on his hips and contemplated the condemned man with mocking malice.
“This is where I even up, Severn,” he hissed. “An’ as for that dawg, I’m agoin’ to cut him in strips with my quirt when yo’re —gone.”
“Mind he don’t send yu after Penton, yu polecat,” the cowpuncher retorted.
White with fury, Martin was about to give the signal to those at the rope, when someone shouted, “Who’s this a-comin’?”
On the eastern side of the glade, through a break in the trees, three riders came in sight, spurring weary horses to a last gallop. Bartholomew gave one glance, muttered a curse, and shouted:
“Finish him off.”
“At the first pull on that rope yu die, Bartholomew, an’ the fellas holdin’ it follow yu.”
It was Snap Lunt’s voice, vibrant with menace. Standing in a half crouch, his back protected by the tree-trunk, he had both guns levelled, one of them directly covering the Bar B man.
“Who are yu, an’ what are yu hornin’ in for?” the rancher roared.
“My name’s Snap Lunt, an’ I’m just seein’ fair, that’s all,” the little man said quietly. “Yu can hang that fella just as easy in ten minits’ time, when we know what these folk want. Mebbe they’re just honin’ to see the hangin’.”
The name sent a quiver of excitement through the crowd, and the men holding the rope dropped it; they were taking no chances with a marksman of Snap’s reputation for accuracy;moreover, two or them had been present at Severn’s arrest, when the gunman had an attack of “nerves”. Bartholomew, too, was nonplussed, and before he could think of any expedient, the newcomers had arrived.
“Thank God, we’re in time!” Judge Embley gasped, as he flung himself from his panting animal and helped Phil to dismount.
The third of the party, a smallish, one-eyed man, whom some of those present remembered seeing once or twice in town, got down more leisurely, and stood surveying the scene indifferently. No one took much notice of him, all interest being centred on the girl and Embley. The latter walked straight to his fellow-jurist.
“What’s the meaning of this, Lufton?” he inquired. “Surely I don’t find you assisting at a lynching?”
“Certainly not; I came here to prevent one,” Lufton replied indignantly. “I have protested in vain.”
“And Mr. Bartholomew, has he protested?” Embley asked witheringly.
Lufton flushed. “He has given me every assistance,” he said stiffly.
“Even to tellin’ his men to finish the prisoner off when he saw yu were comin’,” Bent put in.
“Is that so?” Embley flashed.
“I didn’t know it was yu,” Bartholomew lied, with a savage look at the saloon-keeper. “I thought it was a rescue party from his ranch, an’ didn’t want trouble. Anyway, I don’t see that yore arrival makes any difference; we’re strong enough to do as we like, I guess.”
“Better guess again, Bartholomew,” Embley smiled. “Unless I’m mistaken there are folk coming now who’ll have a word to say.”
In fact, the distant drum of pounding hoofs was audible, and away off on the plain a compact body of horsemen was approaching at full speed. The Bar B man’s face darkened as he saw that this new factor was composed of about a dozen men from the XT and Lazy M. An awkward bunch, but his supporters outnumbered them, and if it came to a pitched battle… He turned arrogantly to Embley as the punchers dashed up, pulled their sweating, foam-flecked ponies to a halt, and whooped with delight when they saw Severn standing there, a grin of welcome on his lean face.
“Well, what d’yu reckon yu can do?” Bartholomew sneered. “Hope is under my jurisdiction; I can order the case to be reheard,” Embley replied.
Lufton’s face crimsoned. “It would be most unconventional to re-try a guilty man,” he protested.
“It would be a damn sight more unconventional to hang an innocent one,” snapped the other.
The principal actor in the drama, the condemned man, watched the proceedings unperturbed. He had removed the noose from his neck and was leaning carelessly against the tree which had so nearly been put to a more sinister use. With Embley there, he was content to await the issue. His friends, at a whispered word from Ridge, had kept their saddles and strung out in a half-circle, ready for instant action. Bartholomew’s men, too, sullen and savage-looking, were also prepared. Only a spark was needed to start the conflagration.
“An’ who’s goin’ to re-try the case, yu, the prisoner’s pal, or Lufton?” Bartholomew asked jeeringly.
“That’s a question I can perhaps settle for you, gentlemen,” said a quiet voice, and the stout little man who had found the town of Hope deserted, walked forward. So absorbed were the spectators, that his advent had not been noticed.
Embley spun round and his face lit up when he saw the speaker. “Bleke ! ” he exclaimed. “I never in my life was so glad to see you. How in the name f—?”
The little stranger shrugged his shoulders and smiled whimsically. “Just happened along,” he said.
He nodded to Lufton, whose unwholesome face was now the colour of cheese, and looked curiously at Black Bart.
“Mr. Bartholomew of the Bar B, Governor,” Embley introduced.
“I’ve heard of him,” Bleke said in a non-committal tone, and did not offer his hand.
The rancher’s face paled under its tan, and his rage at this unexpected development nearly stifled him. But he had to control; all hope of imposing his will by force had now gone, for hard and reckless as his outfit was, the men would not risk outlawry. He listened contemptuously while Lufton, concerned now only with his own safety, told the story of the trail. When he had finished, the Governor nodded comprehendingly.
“I can review the case, take any fresh evidence you may have, Embley, and order a new hearing if I deem it necessary,” he decided. “I will do that now. It is not often one is able to administer the law in such charming surroundings.” He walked over to a fallen tree-trunk and sat down. “This will serve for the judicial bench, and the lady shall share it,” he smiled. “I am afraid the rest of you will have to stand.”
Wondering and wholly impressed by this quiet little man with the shrewd, dominating grey eyes, the citizens crowded round. There were scowling, sulky faces among them, but no one ventured a protest. The nearest approach to it came from Bart.
“Keep an eye on the prisoner—he ain’t cleared yet,” he audibly told his followers.
“As he returned to gaol voluntarily, I doubt if he will run away, Mr. Bartholomew,” the Governor commented. “But he shall stand inside the ring on my left, and if you will take the opposite position, you will be able to watch him yourself.”
The rancher scowled but complied. Severn noticed that Snap had contrived to secure a place just b
ehind where he himself was standing.
The Governor turned to Lufton. “I should like to see the evidence the prisoner produced,” he began.
He compared the writing in the account-book carefully with the two slips and then looked at Bartholomew.
“You think these are forgeries?”
“Don’t think a-tall—I know they are,” retorted the rancher. “Very clever ones,” Bleke said dryly, and Lufton squirmed uncomfortably. “Let us have your story, Embley.”
The Judge gave a brief but complete account of his abduction and subsequent interview with the owner of the Bar B, and then, at the request of the Governor, Phil told her experience. When she had ended, Bleke turned to Bartholomew.
“What influence had you over these outlaws?”
“The chief of ‘em owed his life to me.”
“And when you failed and returned to Hope, why didn’t you organise a rescue?” asked the Governor.
“I gave a promise—that was the condition—an’ I keep my word, even to such as them,” Bart retorted.
“How did you get these bills?” was the next question.
“Never had ‘em. Severn lied when he said he found ‘em in my desk,” the big man replied.
He was recovering his assurance, and his lips curled contemptuously. At a gesture from Embley, the man Patch stepped forward, and the lawyer said sharply :
“This is the Governor of the Territory. Take your hat off, fellow.”
The witness shuffled his feet and looked embarrassed. “If His Excellency don’t mind, I’d ruther not for a while,” he replied huskily.
Bleke waved a hand impatiently. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Tell your tale and see that it’s the truth, or I shall know how to deal with you.”
Standing there, his hat slouched over his face and his thumbs hooked in his belt, the bandit shot a covern glance at Bartholomew, who was watching him uneasily. The rancher was feeling uncomfortable; he had taken little notice of the fellow when he had ridden in, but he now knew him for one of the White Masks.
“I’ll start with the bank robbery, though that ain’t the beginning,” the witness said, his voice low, hoarse, but pitched so that all could hear. “I was one o’ the two who went in; the man who held the horses is—dead.” A spasm of satisfaction flitted across Bart’s face at the news. “I didn’t fire the shot that downed Rapson.”
“Who did?” Bleke asked.
The witness pointed. `Bartholomew,” he answered.
Gasps of amazement, mingled with bursts of derisive laughter, those of the accused being the loudest, followed the statement. “Why, yu darnn fool, less’n half an hour after the robbery I was in town organisin’ a posse to search out the thieves,” the Bar B man sneered.
“Yeah, a mile outa town yu left us, changed yore clothes an’ hoss for others yu had cached, rode around through the brush an’ come into Hope from the other side,” Patch said, adding quietly, “I follered yu.”
“It’s a cursed lie, an’ I’ll twist yore—”
“Let the man tell his story; I’ll listen to you afterwards, Bartholomew,” the Governor intervened. He handed the alleged forgeries to Patch, and asked, “What do you know of those?”
“Bartholomew wrote ‘em,” was the unhesitating reply. “Ignacio had orders to wipe Severn out, an’ got wiped out hisself.”
“Ignacio’s alive now,” the Bar B man protested.
“I saw him shot,” the witness went on stolidly. “He ambushed Severn an’ got what he deserved. The abduction o’ Miss Masters an’ the plantin’ o’ the stolen bills at the Lazy M were done by Bartholomew’s orders, an’ Severn’s money was taken to him. Bartholomew was The Mask.”
The rancher laughed scornfully.
“Yu’ve taught this skunk—a confessed outlaw and thief—a pretty tale to save yore friend’s hide, ain’t yu, Embley?” he jeered.
The lawyer directed his answer to the Governor. “I did not know what this man was going to say,” he explained. “He enabled us to escape, and insisted upon accompanying us, giving no reason.”
Bleke nodded, his grey eyes cold and his features expressionless. For the time he was a judge, without friends or foes, there to weigh impartially the evidence put before him.
“What do you know about Masters?” he asked.
“A goodish bit,” Panch replied. “I know that when he lost his wife it broke him up; he let go all holts an’ went on the batter, drinkin’ an’ gamblin’ with a mighty hard crowd. There come a day when the Desert Edge stage is held up an’ the driver killed. Some here’ll remember it.”
A chorus of confirmatory nods, grunts and “Yu betchas” greeted the statement.
“Well, that job was pulled off by the gang Masters was hellin’ around with,” Patch continued. “He come out of a drunken daze the mornin’ after it happened, an’ was told that he’d not on’y took part in the robbery, but done the shootin’, an’ he was shown a paper to that effect, signed by one o’ the others. Not bein’ able to recollect where he was the day before, he believed it. The fella that had the paper promised it’d never be used—said he got it as a protection for the rest. As yu know, the road-agents never were traced.
“The shock of it jolted Masters straight agin. He gave up racketin’ about an’ went back to his ranch, but he wasn’t the same man; the memory o’ that mad crime—for he didn’t doubt he’d done it—preyed on his mind, an’ then the devil that held that damnin’ evidence began to prey on him, too.”
He paused a moment. The silence was broken only by the birds and the stamping hoofs of restless horses. The Bar B owner had lost his look of scornful unbelief, and there was fear in his eyes. He glanced furtively round, but he was hemmed in; there was nothing for it but to brazen things out. After all, they could have no prof; Masters was dead, and so were the others.
“At first it was only small sums of money,” the witness went on, “but they grew in size until at last Masters could raise no more. Then he had to give cattle, an’ he began to see that nothin’ less than his ranch an’ his daughter would satisfy this human leech who, in the guise of a friend, was suckin’ him dry. He looked round for some way o’ savin’ what was left o’ his property, an’ the idea came to him that if he warn’t there, the power o’ the blackmailer would be gone. So he put a trustworthy man in charge o’ the Lazy M, an’ then—faded.”
“And the name of this—blackmailer?” the Governor asked. Patch pointed again. “Bartholomew,” he said quietly.
The rancher had known what was coming and was ready. He swept off his hat and bowed ironically to the Desert Edge lawyer.
“Embley, I gotta hand it yu, yo’re a good romancer, an’ yore pupil done it damn well,” he said. “But talk is easy an’ don’t prove nothin’.” He turned to the man who had so boldly accused him. “How comes it yu know such a helluva lot about Masters? Mebbe yu killed him yoreself.”
The outlaw considered the matter for a moment and then said deliberately, “I s’pose I did, in a manner o’ speakin’.” A threatening murmur came from where the Lazy M outfit stood, and hearing it he flung up his head and laughed. “Aw right, boys,” he cried, and the huskiness had gone from his voice, “don’t get het up; I’m goin’ to bring yore boss to life agin.”
With a quick gesture he whipped off his hat, took the parch from his eye, and said, “Phil”.
The girl had been staring at him, unable to recognise the father she had given up hope of seeing again in the bearded man before her, but at the sound of her name spoken in the familiar voice, doubt could no longer exist, and with a cry of “Daddy”, she ran to his arms.
For a few moments the cheering mob forgot everything save that the missing man, for whose murder another had been nearly done to death, had reappeared so dramatically. Severn, too, came in for part of the congratulations, men fighting to pat his back or shake him by the hand. The cowpuncher endured their enthusiasm with a saturnine smile; he knew that many of them would have hanged him with the utmost ch
eerfulness a short half hour earlier, had the cards fallen differently.
Chapter XXIII
To Black Bart, the reappearance of the missing rancher had been a well-nigh crushing blow, and for a moment flight seemed to be his only hope of escaping, at the best, a long term of imprisonment. One swift glance told him that in the excitement he was being neglected, and he began to slowly edge his way out of the crowd. But there was one other who, little interested in Masters, was greatly so in Bartholomew. The latter had only progressed a few yards when :’Oh, don’t,” came a satirical warning whisper.
The Bar B man turned and saw that the speaker was Snap. The gunman’s hands hung loosely over the butts of his forty-fives, and the slitted eyes and corded jaw-muscles conveyed the threat that was not in the words. The cattleman stiffened and stood still. Then he squared his shoulders, and his lips pursed in an ugly pout as a new thought came to him; Masters alive might still be used.
The Governor’s voice was heard, calling for order. The milling mob fell back, all eyes on the little man who, dropping as it were from the sky, dominated them by the sheer power of his personality.
“I think, gentlemen, that Mr. Masters has more to tell us,” Bleke said.
With one arm round his daughter, the man who had been missing so long resumed his story. “There ain’t much more, but what there is means a lot—to me,” he began. “When I left the Lazy M, I went to The Sink, where I had another hoss, clothes an’ grub cached ready. I changed, shoved my old duds into a cleft in the rocks—”
“An’ a rifle,” Severn commented, with a grin at the sheriff, who was looking very unhappy.
‘Why, no,” Masters said in surprise. “I left the gun on the hoss when I turned him loose, after shootin’ a jack-rabbit an’ bloodying the saddle; yu see, I wanted to be reckoned dead. Then I drifted into the Pinnacles country an’ lay doggo. Soon as I got a fair crop o’ whiskers, I joined the White Masks, tellin’ ‘em I’d lit outa Texas ‘bout ten clear jumps ahead of a sheriff’s posse; they fell for it.” He looked at Severn. “Yu got my warnin’s?”
“Yeah, an’ I’m thankin’ yu,” the foreman replied. “I couldn’t figure who sent ‘em, but they was shore useful.”
Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) Page 20
