Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) Page 6

  “Mebbe it was a false alarm, boys, but I couldn’t afford to take the chance,” he said. “I’m shore obliged to yu for puttin’ it through.”

  Ridge, a bulky man of middle-age, with a broad, weather-worn face, met them outside an empty corral, looked over and counted the herd, and invited Severn to adjourn to the house, at the same time telling two of his men to make the visitors welcome.

  The foreman had a last word. “When yu boys have fed yore faces yu can start for home,” he said. “I’ll be follerin’ later.” And to Larry, “Come to the house an’ tell me when yo’re ready to go.”

  The meal over, the two men adjourned to the “parlour” to settle their business.

  Severn was expressing his thanks when Larry came to say the men were about to start. He drew his foreman aside.

  “I’m agoin’ to stay an’ ride back with yu,” he said. “It ain’t safe for yu to be projectin’ about here on yore own.”

  “Yu’ll do as yo’re dam well told an’ go with the others,” the foreman replied. “When I want dry-nursin’, I’ll let yu know. What time did Geevor go?”

  “Who told yu? Well, it’s a good guess, anyways,” said Larry. “‘Bout half an hour back he slid out, an’ we ain’t seen him since.”

  “Take care o’ this—it’s the money for the herd,” Severn went on, handing him a roll of bills.

  The boy bestowed the cash in a pocket. “Jim, it’s a risk,” said soberly.

  “Life’s full of ‘em,” Severn said lightly. “Now run along, little man, an’ keep yore mouth as near shut as yu can get it.” Larry’s retort, heard only by his foreman, was neither respectful nor complimentary.

  Less than an hour later, Severn also set out for the Lazy M. His chat with Ridge had cheered him, for it showed that Bartholomew’s hold was not so complete as he had feared. Though he felt that the XT owner could be trusted, he did not tell him of the slaying of Ignacio, and the finding of Masters’ rifle; he was playing in a risky game, and wanted to be sure of every step before he took it. Later on he had reason to wish he had been more confiding.

  He took the trail by which they had brought the cattle, but this time he did not worry about detours, riding straight for Skull Canyon. He did not hurry, and it was dark when he reached the dismal defile. Suddenly two shadows slid from behind a great boulder on the edge of the trail, and he heard a hoarse command :

  “Stick ‘em up, pronto, an’ climb off’n that bronc!”

  Peering through the gloom Severn could make out that two men, wearing white masks, had their pistols trained on him. With a grin they could not see, he raised his hands, and kicking his feet free of the stirrups, flung one leg over the horse’s head and slid to the ground. Instantly one of the hold-ups advanced a step and said :

  “Cough it up.”

  “Meanin’?” Severn asked.

  “The mazuma Ridge paid yu for the steers, o’ course,” was the reply.

  The Lazy M man laughed aloud. “I ain’t got it, friend,” he said quietly. “One o’ my men carried that; yu mighta seen ‘em pass.”

  “Bah! he’s lyin’; go through him, Slick.”

  “Ain’t yu got no sense at all?” snarled the man addressed, adding a savage curse.

  “I said go through him slick—meanin’ don’t waste time,” said the other quickly, and the prisoner laughed again.

  “Clever fella,” he jeered. “Who told yu I’d have the money Geevor?”

  “No,” was the unthinking reply, and then, “Never heard of him.”

  “Another afterthought—yo’re pretty good at ‘em, ain’t yu?” Severn bantered.

  The man gritted out an oath, and sheathing his gun, made a rapid but thorough search of the prisoner, while the other man stood by with levelled revolver. Not finding the plunder, he turned his attention to the horse, with a like result.

  “It ain’t here,” he said disgustedly.

  “I done told yu that already, Mister Afterthought,” Severn said. “I reckon yu can’t be in the habit of associatin’ with truthful men.”

  The goaded searcher snatched out his gun and thrust it into his captive’s face. “One more yap outa yu an’ I’ll blow yu four ways to once,” he threatened.

  But this was where he made a slip. Severn’s elbows had been dropping imperceptibly during the search and now, with an upward and outward fling of his left hand, he was able to knock the gun muzzle wide, and at the same moment his right fist, with a stiff, short-arm jolt, thudded into that centre of nerves and tissue known to scientists as the solar plexus. Under that paralysing blow the recipient doubled up like a hinge and went down gasping in agony. His companion fired but missed, and Severn, grabbing his own gun, drove a bullet into him before he could pull trigger again. One leap landed him in the saddle, and he was pounding through the canyon before the bandits realised what had happened to them.

  “Yu see,” he explained to Larry that evening, when the latter came to hand over the money, “Geevor’s anxiety that we should go through Skull Canyon made me suspect him. When his gun went off twice by accident, I felt pretty shore it was a signal, an’ when his hoss goes lame so’s he can have an excuse to fall behind, I knew. I figured he’d slip away early an’ tell his friends I was goin’ back alone, an’ havin’ missed the herd, they’d lay for me to get the dollars. They’d never suspicion I’d trust one o’ the men with the roll, so they’d let the outfit go by. It worked just like I played it would.”

  The foreman told no one else of his adventure, but somebody must have talked, for the outfit got to know of it, and the foreman’s reputation did not suffer in consequence. On the following morning, Severn found Geevor talking with Miss Masters.

  “What became o’ yu last night, Geevor?” he asked.

  “I started afore the rest, thinkin’ my hoss might go lame agin, an’ it did, so I couldn’t make the ranch,” the man said.

  “Come down to my place an’ get yore time,” Severn said, in a tone which conveyed his disbelief.

  “Why are you dismissing Geevor?” the girl asked sharply. “He couldn’t help his horse failing.”

  “He’s goin’ because there’s times when he’s ashamed to show his face, ain’t that so, Geevor?” the foreman returned.

  The man flushed and scowled. “I’m not stayin’ where I ain’t wanted,” he said truculently.

  “That’s whatever,” the foreman agreed. “An’ keep clear o’ the Lazy M or yu’ll likely be stayin’—permanent.”

  The girl, with one withering glance at Severn, stalked into the house. She did not see the look which followed her, and in a state of anger would not have read it aright if she had. She sought comfort where she had always found it as a child—on the broad bosom of Dinah.

  “Don’ yu worry, honeybird,” the old negress soothed. “Sump’n tell me Massah Philip he come back, an’ dat no-‘count husban’ o’ mine say Mistah Severn good fella—he know his job.”

  This was the last straw. Phil flew to her room feeling that she hadn’t a friend in the world.

  Chapter VII

  THE boss of the Bar B dropped into a chair, lit up a cigar, and surveyed his surroundings with savage disgust. Tt was essentially a man’s room, and the bare floor, clumsy furniture and litter of saddles, guns, ropes and other paraphernalia of the range contrasted unfavourably with the corresponding apartment at the Lazy M. Old Robbie, a cowpuncher who had got too terribly stove up in a stampede to ride again, could keep house after a fashion, but he had not the instincts of a home-maker. Hitherto the matter had not troubled Bart; when he married, they would live at the Lazy M, but to-day that event appeared somewhat remote. And it had all seemed so easy; everything was coming his way until the advent of the new foreman and the disappearance of the owner had put a new complexion on matters. He knew well enough why that marriage clause was in the will.

  His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Penton, the one man of his outfit who was admitted to a measure of familiarity. A thin-faced, sour-looking f
ellow, with clamped lips and small, ruthless eyes which read the bigger man’s expression at a glance. Flinging his hat on the table, he sat down.

  “What’s eatin’ yu, Bart?” he inquired, and then, “I saw the Masters girl in Desert Edge.”

  “She went to see Embley, actin’ on instructions she found in her father’s papers,” Bartholomew explained. “The old fool’s made the Judge her guardian, an’ she can’t do a thing without his consent.”

  Penton whistled. “That postpones yore nuptials quite a piece, don’t it?” he queried. “What happens if she takes a chance?”

  “She loses the ranch,” Bart growled.

  “The hell she does, the cunnin’ old coyote,” commented the other. “She’s a mighty nice gal, but the prettiest of ‘em looks better framed, an’ the Lazy M is shore a handsome frame.”

  Bartholomew scowled his agreement with the sentiment. “Yu find out anythin’?” he asked.

  “Precious little, ‘cept that Embley don’t love yu,” Penton replied.

  “That’s news,” sneered his employer. “Yu didn’t say yu come from me, did yu?”

  “No need—he knew, an’ as soon as I mentioned Severn he tells me I can get all the information nearer home—from Severn himself, an’ bows me out, grinnin’ like a cat.”

  Bartholomew nodded comprehendingly; he had met the Judge more than once, and he knew that grin.

  “Severn ain’t well known in Desert Edge—came there a few times to see Embley, but nobody knows where from,” Penton went on. “Yu remember Fallan bein’ wiped out there by a stranger? Well, it was Mister Severn. Oh, there ain’t no fuss; it was more than an even break, an’ the deceased warn’t popular. The on’y mourners were the folks he owed money to. He was the first to go.”

  “What’re yu drivin’ at?” Bartholomew asked, but Penton preferred to tell the story his own way.

  “Comin’ back I took the trail past the old Forby place dunno why,” he resumed.

  “The big cottonwood is bearin’ fruit agin—there was a body hangin’ from the same old branch, an’ when I got it down I found it was Ignacio; he’d been shot in the throat an’ then strung up. Odd, ain’t it?”

  Black Bart ground out an oath of surprise.

  “Yeah, an’ on the trunk o’ the tree there’s two notches, new cut, over the Forby brand,” added Penton. “Now Fallan an’ the Greaser were in that business, an’ there’s five of us left, yu, me, Darby, Devint an’ Geevor. I’m wonderin’ which of us the next notch’ll be cut for.”

  The rancher laughed harshly.

  “Bah, yo’re losin’ yore nerve an’ seein’ things, Pent,” he said. “Ten years ago : why, somebody’s bound to get bumped off in that time. As for the Greaser, he warn’t no-ways popular, though I’ll admit it’s curious the chap who downed him should have picked on that particular tree as a gallows. Now, see here, that can wait; we got somethin’ bigger to think of. I hear that Severn took his herd through to Ridge an’ got back with the cash, so there he is firm in the saddle at the Lazy M, with authority an’ money to carry on. What we goin’ to do about it?”

  Penton was silent for a while, his cold eyes, half-lidded like reptile’s, staring vacantly at the wall. Presently he spoke, an from his tone no one would have supposed that he was suggesting the murder of a fellow-creature.

  “Put Shady on to him—he’s fast with a gun an’ he ain’t known in Hope, so we needn’t to show in it,” he advised.

  “He’s fast all right, but I doubt if he could beat Severn to it on an even break, an’ we don’t wanta lose Shady,” Bartholomew objected.

  “Who said anythin’ about an even break?” queried the other coolly. “Shady can frame him; we’re strong enough in town to see that he makes his getaway.”

  The Bar B owner pondered on the proposition, his face set in a savage sneer. His decision was soon made.

  “Reckon yo’re right,” he said. “I’ll fix it, an’ in the meantime it won’t do no harm to sorta hint that Severn knows somethin’ o’ Masters’ disappearance. Savvy?”

  “Bump him off an’ get shut of him, that’s my hunch,” Penton said. “Who’s goin’ to care, seein’ he’s a stranger here? I’m tellin’ yu, he’s bad medicine for yu an’ me, an’ I’ll feel a heap easier when he’s buzzard-meat.”

  “Dropped ‘em in a cleft, way off the trail, where they won’t be found. We don’t want no inquiries,” was the callous reply. Black Bart nodded his agreement, and Penton left him.

  It was late in the afternoon when Severn and Larry rode into Hope and pulled up in front of the bank. The foreman was carrying a sum of about two thousand dollars, and wished to rid himself of the responsibility. The bank staff consisted of a manager and an assistant, and the latter being out on an errand, the former attended to the visitors himself. Mr. Rapson was an Easterner, and had never been able to acclimatize himself. A short, fat man, his wrinkled, black frock-coat, shiny bald head and spectacles gave him rather the appearance of a parson down on his luck. When the transaction was concluded, Severn began to chat about the town, and the banker immediately declared himself.

  “As a business man, Mister Severn, I make it a rule never to take part in any local controversy,” he stated. “I cannot afford to. The facilities of this establishment are at the disposal of any reputable person.”

  He puffed out his chest as he pompously gave vent to these sentiments, and Larry smothered a yelp of delight. It tickled him to death to hear someone hurling what he termed “dictionary stuff” at his friend, and he eagerly awaited the volley of high-flown language he expected would be the reply. But Severn sold him.

  “I reckon yo’re right, seh,” was all he said.

  Barton swore disgustedly as they emerged. “Cuss the fella; yu never can tell what he’s liable to do.”

  “If yo’re referrin’ to that windbag, yo’re wrong,” his companion replied. “It’s a shore thing he’ll play safe every time.”

  Larry let it go at that and followed his foreman along the street to Bent’s Saloon. It proved to be empty of customers, but from behind the bar the proprietor smiled a wide welcome.

  “Which I shore am pleased to see yu again, gents,” he said, reaching for a bottle on a back shelf. “That’s the brand I take my own self, an’ I think yu’ll like it. How yu makin’ it at the Lazy M?”

  Severn sampled the liquor and pronounced it good before he answered the question. “Fine and dandy,” he said easily. “We ain’t had no trouble as yet.”

  Bent slapped his thigh delightedly. “Yo’re the fella I’ve dreamt of—the fella this town needs bad,” he said.

  “`One man can’t win agin twenty,’ ” Severn quoted with twinkling eyes.

  “Awright, I said it an’ I don’t take it back,” Bent grinned. “But the right fella, with a few good men to back his play, can win agin double the number, see?”

  “Shore,” Severn agreed. “How would Ridge of the XT do for one?”

  “Which I should say so,” replied Bent with evident enthusiasm. “He’s as square as they make ‘em, an’ he’s got friends. Yu seen him? But o’ course yu have—yu got yore herd through; they was bettin’ three to one agin it at the `Come Again’.”

  Severn digested this information in silence. Did the frequenters of Muger’s know that an attempt would be made to lift the cattle, or were they gambling on the chance of the White Masks seizing the opportunity? One thing was very clear—someone was keeping a sharp eye on what was happening at the Lazy M.

  “Them bandits in the Pinnacles don’t ‘pear to be interfered with,” he remarked casually.

  “Well, they ain’t bothered Hope none as yet, an’ Tyler, the sheriff, won’t never lose his eyesight lookin’ for work,” the saloon-keeper replied.

  “I’m leavin’ the findin’ of them goodt men to yu,” the Lazy M foreman said as they left the saloon.

  “They’ll shore be on hand when yu want ‘em,” Bent assured him. “An’ they’ll come painted for war, yu bet yu.”

&n
bsp; The adjacent store was the next place of call, for supplies were needed at the ranch. The proprietor, Callahan, a dried-up little Irishman, looked at them with snapping eyes.

  “Yis, this is where Mister Masters allus bought,” he said, in answer to a question from the foreman. “But I’ve had orders not to sarve ye.”

  Severn stared at him. “Then I’d better go over to Winter,” he said, naming the other storekeeper.

  Callahan laughed. “Shure, Bart owns him, lock, stock an’ barrel, an’ he’ll be after havin’ instructions too,” he countered. “Then the Desert Edge merchants are shore in luck,” the foreman retorted.

  “Aisy now,” smiled the Irishman. “As I said, I’ve had orders but divil a bit did I say I was goin’ to give anny heed to ‘em. Bent is a good friend o’ mine, an’ Black Bart’s order not to supply yu was the first I ever had from him. Now, what’re ye wantin’?”

  Severn detailed the various articles required, arranged to send in for them the following day, and the two men drifted out in search of a meal. In the course of it, Larry, after a long silence, made a casual comment.

  “This burg ain’t so composed o’ tame animals as I was reckonin’.”

  “No, some has got ideas o’ their own,” his friend agreed.

  Muger’s saloon, the “Come Again”, was, for a small cow town, a place of luxury. Both the bar, which was also the portion devoted to the Goddess of Chance, and the dance hall were lavishly supplied with gilt mirrors, and there were pictures, mostly of women in various stages of undress, on the walls; the furniture was good of its kind. A long bar, plentifully stocked with an assortment of liquors, faced the main entrance, and the intervening space was filled with tables and chairs. These were pretty well occupied when Severn entered—alone—and sauntered to the bar. Calling for a drink, he sipped it leisurely and looked about.

  He knew that his appearance had provoked comment, for he saw men whispering and glancing in his direction. The only one who did not seem to be interested was a young red-faced puncher who had entered almost on his heels, and now leaned against one end of the bar cuddling his glass as though it was a lost friend, although by the look of him the separation had not been a long one. At the other end, Black Bart was chatting with Penton and Martin, but the latter disappeared almost immediately. Severn was about midway between the solitary cowboy and the Bar B group.