Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) Page 4

  “I’m thankin’ yu,” was all Larry could find to say, and, after an awkward pause, “What kinda hold has Bartholomew got on Masters?”

  “He didn’t tell me, but I’m guessin’ it’s a strangle-hold,” Severn said. “Masters don’t strike me as bein’ anyways soft.”

  “What’s the girl like?” was the next question.

  “Well, she’s amazin’ like—a girl,” smiled Severn.

  “Huh!” grunted Larry. “Don’t tell me yu’ve fell in love with her.”

  “Bein’ a truthful an’ a married man, I won’t,” his foreman said. “An’ yu bein’ a sorta friend I’ll let yu into a secret—she ain’t fell in love with me neither; in fact, she regards my presence on the earth as an unwarrantable intrusion.”

  Larry spat disgustedly. “Seems to me the on’y friend yu’ve made is thisyer pup.”

  “A pup is a good pal,” Severn rejoined. “An’ now I’ve got two of ‘em—”

  “Here, cowboy, who’re yu callin’ a —” began the other, but his host ushered him to the door.

  “Don’t yu worry, old-timer, Quirt ain’t carin’,” he said. “Beat it to the bunkhouse, an’ remember that the foreman ain’t goin’ to be too pleased with yu, an’ yu don’t like him none too much, ‘less yu know yore man awful well, savvy?”

  “Playin’ I don’t like yu’ll be the easiest job I ever tackled,” Larry said, but there was a warmth in his tone which told a different story. “Say, Don, but it’s good to be on the warpath again with yu.”

  “Who do yu think yo’re talkin’ to, yu idjut?” Severn asked quickly. “I’m Jim Severn, yore foreman, an’ don’t yu forget it. Now, go pound yore ear, little fat fella.”

  Barton beat a hasty retreat, and Severn grinned as he closed the door. They understood each other very well, these two.

  Chapter IV

  THE dismissal of two of the men he had sent to the Lazy M was regarded by Bartholomew as an act of open defiance, and he lost no time in taking up the challenge. The following afternoon found him reining in his mount by the veranda of the Masters’ ranch-house. His hail brought out the owner.

  “Hello, Masters,” he greeted. “Come to take Phil ridin’, but first I want a word with yu.”

  He dismounted with an ease one would not have expected in so bulky a man and followed his host into the room.

  “What’s the idea in firin’ Devint an’ Ignacio?” he asked abruptly.

  “Devint was offered the job o’ straw-boss, went on the prod, an’ tried to pull a gun on my foreman,” Masters explained. “The Greaser fired himself.”

  “Well, if yu didn’t like Devint, I could ‘a’ got yu someone else,” said the Bar B owner. “Where’d yu come across this chap Severn?”

  “Heard of him in Desert Edge,” Masters replied. “‘Pears to be capable.”

  “Mebbe,” returned Bartholomew coolly. “But I don’t like him, Masters, an’ he’s gotta go.”

  The cattleman’s eyes flashed defiance for an instant, and then fell before the implacable gaze of the man who was giving him orders.

  He goes to-morrow,” Bartholomew interjected. “An’ by the way, I’m shy seventy-five three-year-olds for a trail herd; I’ll send over for ‘em in a coupla days’ time.”

  The cattleman raged inwardly; he would have given almost anything he possessed for the power to pull his gun and shoot down the man who so ruthlessly rode him, but that would not save him. More than once the tyrant had said, “As long as I live yo’re safe, Masters.”

  He was saved the trouble of replying by the scurry of hoofs outside and the appearance of Phil, mounted on a mettlesome cow-pony. The girl rode cowboy style, almost standing in the stirrups, and her laughing face was flushed with the effort to restrain the bunch of nerves and steel wire she bestrode. At her gay call, Bartholomew mounted, wheeled his horse beside her, and they loped away. Severn entered the bunkhouse as they passed.

  “That was yore new foreman, wasn’t it?” Bartholomew asked. “What do yu think of him, Phil?”

  “I don’t think of him,” the young lady replied playfully, but not altogether truthfully.

  “Shucks, then I needn’t ‘a’ worried,” said her escort. “Yu see, I’ve been advisin’ yore father to get rid of him, an’ if yu’d lost yore heart—”

  “My affections are not so easily captured, Mr. Bartholomew,” she bantered back. “T hope Daddy will take your advice.”

  But even as she said the words a doubt crossed her mind, for short as the time had been, she fancied that her father had been more his old self since the arrival of the new foreman.

  Bartholomew, satisfied that she was not interested in the newcomer, made no further reference to him. From time to time his gaze rested possessively on the fresh young beauty who rode beside him. He wanted her and was determined that she should be his. Without openly making love, he had given more than a hint of his hopes. There was a considerable difference in their ages, but, as he told himself, he was still young, and had the additional attractions of wealth and influence.

  The girl’s thoughts were on the same subject. She knew perfectly well that the owner of the Bar B admired her, and, liking him, the facn gave her pleasure. Though he dressed in the garb of the range, his clothes were of good quality, and he was careful of his appearance. A fine figure of a man, most women would have voted him, virile, self-assured, and, when he chose, entertaining. Though she had never given the subject serious consideration, Phil supposed that they would be married—it seemed the natural outcome—but to-day she found herself criticising her escort, and to her annoyance comparing him. Late that evening the foreman heard a subdued rap at his door, and opened it to admit his employer. The cattleman’s face was grim, and when he spoke his voice had a ring of determination.

  “Bartholomew was here to-day, an’ things has come to a showdown,” he began. “I’ve got orders to hand over seventy-five head an’ fire yu to-morrow. I’ll see him in hell first.” He waited a moment, but Severn had nothing to say, and the ranch-owner continued. “It’s come a bit sooner than I figured, but that can’t be helped. Now, get this, Bart’s hold is on me—personal, but if I ain’t here—”

  Severn grinned and nodded comprehendingly. With the owner absent, the blackmailer’s power over the ranch vanished too.

  “This is how I’ve planned it,” Masters went on. “I just fade out, leavin’ no word, an’ yu take hold an’ run the ranch. If I don’t show up again in reasonable time I s’pose it will be assumed that I’ve cashed, an’ Judge Embley, over to Desert Edge, will take charge as executor o’ my will and guardian to Phil, who won’t be of age for another twelvemonth. Yu know the Judge, for he recommended yu to me; he ain’t wise to what I’m goin’ to do, but he’ll help yu if yu get crowded.”

  “It’s shore goin’ to be tough on yore girl, not knowin’ whether yo’re alive,” the foreman pointed out.

  “I’ve thought o’ that, but there ain’t no way round it,” the rancher replied. “If I left any message, her manner would givethe game away, an’ Black Bart would hunt me down. I want him to figure I’m dead—that’ll give rne a free hand. At Phil’s age griefs ain’t lastin’, an’, anyways, it’s the on’y wagon-trail out.” He paused for a moment, evidently milling things over in his mind, and then, “I’ve had to mortgage this place pretty deep to raise money for Bartholomew. Judge Embley fixed it for me, an’ I reckon he can hold the fella who lent the cash—for a’ while, anyways—an’ that’s all I’m needin’. Ridge of the XT wants four-score three-year-olds, an’ that’ll give yu coin to pay expenses. Yu see, I’m trustin’ yu, Jim, an’ I’m doin’ it on what Embley said of yu.”

  “Yu can gamble on me,” the foreman said quietly.

  “Which I am, an’ puttin’ up every chip I got,” replied the cattleman. “Now, remember, yu ain’t seen me tonight an’ don’t know nothin’ o’ my movements. Adios.”

  They gripped hands for a long moment, and then the rancher slipped out of the shack, feeling more ch
eerful than he had formany a month. He was in desperate trouble, trusting a man who was almost a stranger, and yet he had no doubts. Somehow this keen-eyed, capable fellow inspired him with confidence. To beat Bartholomew and nhrow off the bondage he had smarted under for years had seemed a vain dream, but now he felt that it was possible. It meant risking all he had, but he stood to lose that in any case to the blackmailer.

  The absence of her father at the morning meal, though it surprised Phil, did not arouse any uneasiness; he had ridden away early on other occasions, though he usually left word for her. But when the day passed without any sign of him, she made inquiries, to find that his favourite horse was missing, but that no one had seen him leave. When another day dawned without news of her father, the girl’s anxiety became acute, for the tragic fate of Stevens at once recurred to her. Much as she disliked doing so, she went to Severn, but he could tell her nothing.

  “He had a deal on with the XT—mebbe he’s gone there,” he suggested. “Or p’raps he went to Desert Edge an’ couldn’t make it back to the ranch.”

  Phil shook her head. “He’s never gone anywhere without telling me,” she said, and then, as one of the men approached, “What is it, Darby?”

  The man looked uncomfortable. “I just wanted a word with the foreman, Miss Phil,” he replied.

  The girl’s face grew pale. “If it is about my father I want to hear what you have to say,” she said sharply.

  Seeing that the cowboy still hesitated, Severn said, “Go ahead, Darby; what’s yore news?”

  “The Old Man’s hoss has just drifted in—it’s down there by the corral.”

  Phil said nothing, but, white to her trembling lips, walked towards the corral, the two men following. As they did so, Darby contrived to whisper :

  “Can’t yu keep her away? There’s blood on the saddle.”

  Severn shook his head, and indeed it was too late, for the girl’s quick strides soon brought her to where the horse was standing, muzzle drooping, and evidently played out. The reins were over the horn, where they might have lodged accidentally as the rider lost his seat, the rifle was gone, and on the saddle-flaps ominous dark stains were visible. The girl stared at them with a growing horror in her eyes, and as she realised what they might mean, a gusty sob burst from her lips. It was Severn who broke the tension.

  “Get busy, boys,” he said. “Hosses, guns an’ grub; we gotta comb the range.’ The sharp order brought the girl out of her stupor of misery.

  “I shall need my horse, too,” she said, almost defiantly, looking at Severn as though expecting opposition.

  But the foreman made no demur. “Shore, yu’ll want to help,” he said. “An’ yu know the country.”

  Split up into pairs and with orders to stay together, the men were sent on their quest, each couple having a section of the range to cover. Phil was coupled with Rayton, one of the older hands, while Severn, the last to leave, was alone, save for his dog. He had allotted himself the task of searching the country towards the Pinnacles, where Stevens’ body had been found.

  Turning things over in his mind as he rode, he had to confess himself puzzled. The return of the horse was unexpected, for in the cattle country no man deliberately sets himself afoot, and this, with the bloodstains and missing rifle, seemed to point to an unexpected disturbance of Masters’ plans. Had he met the fate of the old foreman, and, if so, who was the assassin? Clearly Black Bart could not be involved, since his interests depended upon the ranch-owner being alive. Had Masters unknowingly incurred the entity of the mysterious White Masks? Impatiently he dismissed the hopeless problem from his mind and set himself to the task in hand.

  But his search proved abortive, and when he returned to the Lazy M, it was to find that the others had also been unsuccessful. Day after day the hunt went on, messengers being sent to Hope and Desert Edge, but no trace could be found of the missing man. It was early on the morning of the sixth day that Severn, going to the ranch-house, found Bartholomew and Phil on the veranda. The big man was explaining that he had been away, and had only just heard of her trouble. His face settled into a scowl when he saw the foreman.

  “Yu can have my outfit if yu want it, Phil,” he said. “Beats me where he can have got to. S’pose yore fellas have covered the ground pretty well?” This to Severn, who nodded. “Can’t see much good in searchin’ anymore,” the visitor went on. “If he’s above ground, he’ll turn up; if he ain’t—” He shrugged his shoulders expressively, and suddenly darted a question at the foreman. “Yu got any ideas about it?”

  “No, I’m in the dark,” Severn replied, meeting the keen gaze unconcernedly, and Bartholomew turned again to the girl.

  “Nothin’ to do but carry on an’ hope for the best,” he said. “An’, by the way, yore father promised me seventy-five three-year-olds to fill up a trail herd.”

  “You will see they are delivered,” the girl directed Severn. “What price yu payin’?” asked the foreman.

  Black Bart’s face darkened. “There ain’t no question of price,” he said. “The cows are in part payment of a debt,” he added, to Phil.

  ‘Got any writin’ to prove that?” Severn persisted.

  ‘What the hell’s that gotta do with yu?” stormed the other. “Yu’ve had yore orders.”

  “I ain’t takin’ orders—certainly not from yu,” came the cool retort. “I’m in charge, an’ while I’m willin’ to study Miss Masters’ wishes in reason, I ain’t handin’ over property I’m responsible for on the say-so of any man, ‘cept the owner.”

  “Yo’re in charge, huh?” jeered Bartholomew. “Well, now yu ain’t—Miss Masters is firin’ yu right away.”

  The foreman looked at the girl. Her face was flushed, her lips trembling, and it was evident that she was content to let the rancher speak for her.

  “That’s somethin’ she can’t do,” Severn said quietly.

  “Can’t, eh?” Bartholomew sneered. “The ranch ain’t hers, I s’pose?”

  “Yore s’pos’n is correct,” the other pointed out. “It don’t belong to her until her father’s death is proved, an’ only then when she’s of age. Masters put me here an’ I’m stayin’ put, an’ that’s somethin’ yu can bet high on.”

  There was a cold finality in his tone, and, having delivered this ultimatum, he turned and went about his business. Bartholomew stared after him for a moment, and then said to the girl :

  “That fella is due for a lesson, an’ I’m goin’ to see that he gets it. Yu leave him to me an’ don’t yu worry.”

  Long after her visitor had gone, Phil sat trying to size up the situation. All through the week, grief over her father’s disappearance, and the consequent hard riding—for she had done her share with the men—had driven every other consideration from her mind. But the clashing of wills she had just witnessed had brought her position home to her. Though familiar with the daily routine work of the ranch, she knew nothing of the business side, and greatly as she resented Severn’s calm assumption of authority, she was dimly conscious of a sense of relief. But she would not admit it; she hated him, of course, and she would go on hating until Bartholomew succeeded in getting rid of him, a task in which she mentally promised him her hearty support.

  Chapter V

  Two weeks passed without news of the missing rancher, and the regular routine had been resumed at the Lazy M. The new foreman’s handling of Devint had, as he intended, convinced the other men that he was not one to be trifled with, and this, added to the very evident fact that he knew his job, eliminated any further opposition. Phil, though she persisted in regarding him as an overbearing, tyrannical bully, had to admit that he could handle men.

  One morning, Dinah, who acted as cook and housekeeper at the ranch-house, came to his shake with a message that “Missy Masters wanted for to see him.” He found her waiting in the big room. She was looking pale, and there were dark shadows under her eyes, which showed that the stress of the past two weeks was taking its toll.

  “I he
ar you are getting a herd together,” she said. “I presume it is for Mr. Bartholomew?”

  “No,” Severn replied. “It is for Ridge of the XT. Yore father had arranged the sale, an’ I need the money.”

  “You need it?” she queried sarcastically.

  “Certainly; I gotta pay wages an’ expenses,” the man retorted. “P’raps I oughta said `we’, but it comes to the same thing.”

  “Please don’t deliver the cattle until I return; I am going to Desert Edge,” the girl said coldly.

  Somewhat to her disappointment he betrayed no curiosity. All he said was, “Yu can’t ride there alone.” She waited, wondering if he would have the temerity to offer himself as escort, and framing a crushing refusal, but again her hopes failed to fructify. “I can spare Barton,” he said.

  Thus it came about that some time later the girl and Larry were riding at a good road gait over the Desert Edge trail. At first the cowboy had kept a little in the rear until Phil, tired of her own company, had requested him to keep pace with her. In truth she liked the look of the new hand, whose rotundity of face and figure somehow gave him such a harmless appearance. He had little of the awkward shyness the average cowpuncher was afflicted with in the presence of all but some women. When she asked him if he liked the ranch, he said it was a “humdinger”, but when she put the same query about the foreman, he did not reply either so quickly or so enthusiastically.

  “He’s certainly wise to his work,” he allowed cautiously. “But he ain’t no easy fella to satisfy. Yu see, Miss, he ‘pears to want things done just so, an’ he’s liable to raise Cain an’ Abel if they ain’t.”

  “Obstinate and a bully,” the girl summarised.

  Larry squinted at her sideways and choked on a chuckle. “I wouldn’t call him obstinate—though mebbe he’s a bit sot in his ideas,” he said.

  “He looks to me like a professional gunman,” the lady said contemptuously.