Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) Page 5

  “Might be, o’ course,” Larry agreed, “but I’d say not; that sort is usually mean about the eyes. Allasame, I reckon a gent who pulled a gun on him would likely find hisself a trifle late.”

  He went on to talk to her of killers and gun-fights, of Wild Bill Hickok, Slade, Sudden and others, of the bad old times in Abilene and Dodge, and tried to show her the big part these men and their like had played in the settlement of the country. And when she protested that the law was there to punish evildoers, he laughed.

  “What’s the use o’ the law to a dead man?” he asked. “No, ma’am, in those parts an’ in these right now a man’s gotta have his law handy on his hip, where he can get action on her speedy. Me, I’m a peaceable fella, but I like to know I got the means to protect m’self, yu betcha.”

  With conversation of this kind he kept her amused and interested until they reached their destination. Desert Edge was a replica of Hope Again, but on a larger scale, plus a railway depot and pens where the cattle could await shipment. Though Phil had visited the place several times on her way to the East, she had but little knowledge of it. An inquiry of a shock-headed man, whose hand went instinctively to remove a hat he was not wearing, elicited the information she desired—the whereabouts of Judge Embley.

  The Judge, whose title was official and not one of courtesy only, was a tall man of sixty, with a square, rugged but kindly face, and an unruly mop of grey hair which brush and comb were powerless to subdue. He was in his shirt-sleeves when his landlady entered the apartment which served as sitting-room and office, with the information that a young lady wished to see him. Slipping on his long black coat, he laid aside his cigar and greeted his visitor with a smile.

  “So you are Philip Masters’ little girl, eh?” he said when she had told her name. “No news of your father yet, I suppose?” And when she shook her head, he added, “Well, well, it’s too soon to despair yet, you know. Now sit down and tell me how I can help you.”

  The girl took the chair he placed for her; she liked the old man at once, and felt that he could be trusted.

  “I’ve been looking through Daddy’s papers,” she began, “and I found one saying that if anything happened to him”—her voice shook a little—”I was to come and see you.”

  “Quite right,” the Judge said. “I’ve had the handling of your father’s business for some years now, and a few months ago I drew up his will, under the terms of which I now become your guardian. May I say that while I deplore the necessity, I’m very proud of the position.” He bowed with an old-fashioned courtesy which gave point to the compliment. Then, seeing that she did not quite understand, he added, “It amounts to this, until your father returns or we have definite news concerning him, I stand in loco parentis as we lawyers phrase it, or, in plain English, I take his place until you are of age.”

  The girl was silent, pondering. “And suppose—I wanted—to get married,” she said slowly. “Your consent would be necessary?”

  The shrewd old eyes under the bushy brows twinkled a little. “I am afraid that is so,” he admitted. “The will specially provides for such a contingency, and, failing my consent, your inheritance is reduced to a small annual income. What reason your father had for inserting that clause I cannot say, but apparently he regarded it as important.”

  Again the girl was silent. She had vaguely thought of marriage with Bartholomew as a means of ousting Severn from the position of authority he had assumed, if all else failed. Had the clause been directed at the owner of the Bar B? Her father had always been friendly with the big man, but she had begun to suspect lately that he did not like him.

  “If you are concerned about the conduct of the ranch, you need not be,” the Judge remarked. “You have a good foreman.”

  “I don’t like him,” Phil said bluntly. “He acts as if the place belonged to him.”

  “He represents the owner, and he’s there to give orders,” Embley reminded her.

  “Yes, but not to me,” the girl retorted hotly.

  “Has he done so?” the Judge queried.

  The girl hesitated. “Well, no, not exactly,” she admitted, “but he refused to obey my instructions.” She related the incident regarding the steers Bartholomew had asked for.

  “He was entirely right,” the old man said gravely. “I am fairly conversant with your father’s affairs, and I know of no debt to this man Bartholomew. I may tell you that I recommended Severn to your father, and I am pleased to find that he is justifying my confidence.”

  ‘ His tone was kindly, but in it there was a note of determination which told her that it would be useless to suggest the foreman’s dismissal, as she had been on the point of doing. The astute old lawyer had divined this, and had cleverly saved both her and himself the pain of a refusal. Also, his reference to Bartholomew had made it plain that he did not entertain a high opinion of the owner of the Bar B ranch. Bitterly aware of a fruitless errand, she stood up to go; the Judge misread her doleful expression.

  “Now, my dear, don’t assume the worst,” he said. “I am having inquiries made in all the outlying towns, and I’ve no doubt we shall hear of your father before very long. Come or send to me if you are in any difficulty, and—you can trust your foreman.”

  Larry had a very silent companion on the ride back to the ranch, and in truth the girl had plenty to occupy her thoughts. She had set out in the morning full of hope that the Judge would be able to establish her authority and set her masterful foreman in his place, or, better still, out of it, and instead he had only given her a fuller realisation of her helplessness. Mainly the visit had been a gesture of revolt against Severn, and it failed. Her heart grew hot within her at the thought of this cool, confident stranger controlling her and her property. At least he should get no help from her, and Bartholomew was on her side and would know h w to deal with him.

  When the owner of the Bar B came over on the following morning, she told him enough of her conversation with the Judge to let him understand her position, and though he concealed his chagrin fairly well, he was frowning heavily when she finished.

  “Wonder why yore dad” put that old fool Embley in the saddle?” he speculated. “There’s somethin’ funny behind all this. We gotta watch out, girl; it may be a frame-up.”

  “How do you mean?” she. asked.

  “Well, I don’t say it’s so, but listen to this,” the rancher replied. “Embley draws up yore father’s will an’ gets himself made executor an’ yore guardian. Stevens is rubbed out, an’ he introduces Severn. Then yore dad vanishes an’ Embley an’ Severn get control o’ the best ranch in the county. Say, I’m bettin’ yu can’t marry without the Judge’s consent, eh?”

  “Not until I’m of age,” the girl admitted.

  “I knew it,” Bartholomew cried. “Damn ‘em, they’ve got every hole stopped. Don’t yu see how it all fits in? When they’ve got control o’ the ranch, Severn makes up to yu—” The girl smiled wryly, and he guessed her thought. “Don’t make no mistake—some men think the only way to attract a woman is to hold her off an’ ride her on the curb. I’ll lay the Judge would say `yes’ to that proposition fast enough, but we won’t give him the chance, eh, Phil? We’ll beat Mister Severn in spite o’ the stacked deck. How’s he fixed for funds?”

  “He’s selling four-score head to Ridge.”

  “When is he sendin’ ‘em up?”

  “The day after to-morrow.”

  “Good enough,” the big man grinned. “That’ll give me time to put a little crimp in his plans.”

  She did not ask what he intended to do; she suspected that he would in some way prevent the delivery of the cattle, so that Severn would not get the cash he would be needing, but her resentment against the man made her blind to the fact that she might be working in opposition to her own interest. Bartholomew’s specious reasoning had so poisoned her mind that she was ready to believe in the reality of the vile plot he had outlined, and to do anything to circumvent it.

  Chapter VI
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  A SOILED, folded scrap of paper of the kind a storekeeper might use to wrap up a parcel, and on it, penciled in rude capital letters, the following message :

  “If yu take the XT herd through Skull Canyon yu’ll lose it. A FRIEND.”

  Severn had found it thrust under the door of his shack on the morning of the second day after Phil’s visit to Desert Edge. Sardonically he wondered as to the identity of the unknown “friend”. Was it an attempt to delay the delivery of the herd, on to force him to choose another route? Thrusting the warning into his pocket, he went to the bunkhouse in search of Darby

  “Is Skull Canyon on the trail to the XT?” he asked, watching the man closely.

  “Shore—’bout halfway,” was the reply. “The trail to Ridge’: takes a turn there, an’ cuts into the rough country around the lower slopes o’ the Pinnacles. She’s good enough goin’ alla-same.”

  “Tell the boys we’ll make the drive to-morrow ‘stead o’ today,” Severn said.

  “One day’s good as another, I guess,” the man replied, anc his expression told the foreman nothing.

  Severn nodded, got his horse, and followed by Quirt, rod( away on the northern trail; he meant to have a look at the ground himself. The XT was twenty miles from the Lazy M and for nearly half the distance the trail passed over the open range; then, as Darby had said, it took a turn and plunged into a network of low wooded slopes, ridges and ravines. It was however, well-defined, wide and practicable for cattle, being it fact the route used by Ridge when he drove his herds to Desert Edge.

  Severn had left the open country, and was passing through a shallow basin, when from a point in the brush covering the upper rims came the flat report of a rifle, and a bullet whistled viciously past his ear. Instantly he swung his horse, raced up the opposite slope and dived into the undergrowth, followed by another bullet, which clipped the brim of his hat. Dismounting, he tied the animal where a questing shot would be unlikely to find it, ordered the dog to lie down, and, taking his rifle, made his way back to the open. His face was grim, and promised little mercy for the bushwhacker. Flinging himself at full length in a slight hollow, he poked his rifle forward and fired at the spot the shots had come from, which he had/ taken care to mark down. An answering shot from a point ten yards away showed that the unknown assailant was taking no chances.

  “Still there, huh?” Severn grunted. “Well, friend, we’ll try a little trick on yu. P’raps yu ain’t so smart, after all.”

  Wriggling backwards until he was/ able to stand up without disturbing the foliage, he went and/ fetched the rope from his saddle. Tying one end to the root of a small, thick bush, he crept away and lay down, rifle cuddled to his cheek in readiness to fire. Then with his right hand he twitched the rope, shaking the bush to which it was attached. Instantly a shot came from across the basin, and with the speed of thought itself he pumped three bullets into the thinning smoke, aiming each a shade to the left of the preceding one. No reply came, and he shook the bush again without eliciting any. Suspecting that the other man might have tumbled to the ruse and be playing a trick on him in turn, he lay quiet for a while, and then fired again. Nothing happened, and Severn got up and went to his horse.

  “I either got him or scared him off, Quirt,” he said. “We’ll go an’ see, but not bein’ of a confidin’ nature, we’ll go cautious-like.”

  Leading the horse through the brush, he skirted round the basin until he came to the spot from whence the ambusher had last fired. A horse tied to a tree whinnied as they approached, and a dozen yards away a man lay, face downwards and arms asprawl, behind a clump of brush. In the upturned heel of one boot was a cross formed with nails. Turning the body over, Severn saw that it was Ignacio. A bullet had perforated his throat.

  “Masters was right, an’ I kinda thought it my own self,” Severn muttered. “Well, yu won’t go rattler-huntin’ no more, yu coyote. Wonder if yu was layin’ for me, or if yu just grabbed Mister Opportunity?”

  Methodically he searched the dead man, but found only a fewcoins, some tobacco and a scrap of paper. Half of this had been torn away, but on the remainder he read the words:

  “… yore last chance. I got no use for Bunglers.

  THE MASK.”

  “Huh ! Seems I may ‘ve been steppin’ on the toes o’ these folk without knowin’ it,” Severn commented. “He didn’t oughta use that capital B, ‘specially when he makes ‘em thataway.”

  Putting the paper carefully in a pocket, he picked up the ambusher’s rifle. It was a Winchester repeater, and on one side of the stock were the letters P. M., made of tiny silver nails driven into the wood.

  “Philip Masters,” muttered the finder. “Now how in Hades did the Mexican get this?”

  He examined the dead man’s pistol and found that it was a .45. In all probability Masters used a .44, which would take the same cartridge as his rifle. Severn shook his head dubiously; he did not like the look of things. With a puzzled frown he mounted and continued his journey to Skull Canyon. He soon recognised it—a deep, narrow gulch, with sharply-sloping, rocky sides covered with clumps of stunted shrubs. It was an ideal spot to waylay the herd, for the cattle could not spread, there was plenty of cover for the attackers, and practically none for the attacked. One glance was enough; the foreman turned his horse and rode slowly back.

  That evening, in the seclusion of his own quarters, he told Larry of the day’s events, omitting the name of the would-be assassin. His friend’s comment was characteristic.

  “Well, they say fools is lucky,” he said.

  “They must be, or yu would ‘a’ been wearin’ wings long ago,” Severn retorted.

  “Two shots at yu in the open, an’ missed,” Sunset went on. “Course yu was jumpin’ when he fired the second.”

  “I shore wasn’t stoppin’ to pick flowers,” grinned the other. “I didn’t look to be bushwhacked there, neither.”

  “D’yu reckon Stevens an’ Masters did?” asked Larry sarcastically.

  “Masters may turn up again,” the foreman stated, though without much conviction in his tone.

  “Did you know that bushwhackin’ skunk?”

  “Yeah, it was Ignacio,” was the reply.

  Larry whistled. “S’pose yu left him there,” he suggested.

  “No, I put him where he helped to put yore dad, an’ cut a coupla notches on the tree,” Severn said. “That’ll get ‘em guessin’.”

  “Tally two for the 4B,” the boy said caustically. “I’m thankin’yu, Jim.”

  “Shucks! He was shootin’ at me,” the foreman reminded him. “What yu got to tell me about the outfit?”

  “I reckon they’re all pretty straight bar one—that fella Geevor, just in from ridin’ the line. He’s one o’ Bart’s men, an’ I’ve seen him af ore.” Severn nodded understandingly. “How many yu takin’ to-morrow?”

  “Six, includin’ myself; oughta be enough to swing a little herd like that.”

  A reminder that an early start had to be made in the morning sent the guest back to the bunkhouse, his curiosity unsatisfied. “Bloomin’ clam,” he muttered disgustedly. “But he’s got an ace in the hole all right, I’ll betcha.”

  Soon after daybreak the drive started. Severn gave instructions that the cattle were to be permitted to go their own pace, being merely kept on the move; he did not want the beasts tired in case it should be necessary to push them hard towards the end of the journey. With such a small herd and an easy trail, he reckoned on reaching the XT during the afternoon. Mile after mile dropped behind them, and nearly half the distance was accomplished without incident.

  A couple of miles from Skull Canyon Severn called a halt for rest and a meal. When the journey was resumed, the foreman, riding ahead, turned into a growth-cluttered gully almost at right angles to the trail they had been following. Gecvor, stationed on the left front of the herd, spurred across.

  “Hey, boss, this ain’t the way,” he cried. “The trail to the XT goes right through Skull Canyon.”
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br />   “I know, but I reckon this is safer, Geevor,” the foreman replied, and did not fail to note that the shifty eyes fell before his own.

  “Well, it’s yore say-so, but this is one hell of a place to get cows through,” came the sullen retort.

  “Yu think Skull Canyon would ‘a’ been easier, eh?” Severn asked meaningly.

  The man muttered something about its being an open trail, and subsided. The next few miles justified his criticism, for the cattle had to be driven over ground bristling with natural obstacles. Dense undergrowth, thickets of young trees, streams, rocky ridges, and declivities all had to be overcome, and the riders had their work cut out to hold the herd together. They had got over the worst of it and emerged into an open, grassy stretch when two pistol shots rang out, and Severn turned to see Geevor staring stupidly at the smoking gun he was holding. Angrily he rode over.

  “What’s the big idea?” he asked. “Tryin’ to stampede the herd, huh?”

  “Gun wasn’t ridin’ easy, so I pulled her out an’ blame me if she don’t go off,” the cowboy explained. “Dunno how it happened.”

  The foreman had to be content with the explanation, though he felt convinced that the shots had been purposely fired. Was the fellow in league with the bandits? It was more than likely and Severn gave the word for more speed. He kept a watchful eye on Geevor, and presently noticed that the man’s horse was limping.

  “Hoss has gone lame; I’ll have to catch yu up,” the rider said sullenly.

  The foreman bit on an oath. “Yu’ll stay with us, Geevor,” he replied acidly. “If yu keep yore toes outa his elbows the hoss’ll soon get over his lameness.”

  “I ain’t—”

  “Straight—T know it,” Severn cut in. “When we get back to the Lazy M, yu can drift, but for now, yu stay with the herd.” The shifty eyes again wavered and dropped.

  After about three miles, the detour they had taken brought them back to the trail again, and to the XT ranch without further difficulty. Then only did the foreman explain to his men his reason for the extra labour they had been put to.