With a sudden movement the man lifted the handles of his guns so that she could see them, but he spoke to the dog squatting contentedly at his feet, “Shore, I like to see ‘em kick,” he grinned. “Reckon I’ll have to get some nicks put on these guns though; that’s a bet we’ve overlooked, pup.”
The girl glared at him with stormy eyes. “You’re utterly contemptible,” she said, and stalked into the store.
The man replaced his hat and pulled the dog’s ears. “We ain’t a mite popular, old fella,” he told it. ” `Less than the dust’ don’t begin to describe us with her, but she shore rests the eyes, an’ I reckon when she smiles—”
His speculations were cut short by the sudden advent of four riders, who pulled their mounts to a sliding stop in front of the saloon. The leader, a big, black-haired man, with a hooked nose, was obviously in no amiable mood.
“Yu the fella that shot up one o’ my men?” he blurted out.
The stranger straightened up and looked at him.
“Speakin’ to me?” he asked, and then, “I put a bullet into a two-legged skunk just now, but if he’s one o’ yore outfit I reckon yo’re a mighty poor picker o’ men.”
The big man ignored the slur on his judgment. “What dam right yu got to interfere between a man an’ his dawg?” he asked.
“I got a right—an’ a left,” grinned the stranger, his fingers sweeping the butts of his guns.
“Huh! One o’ them funny jiggers, eh?” sneered the other. “What’s yore business hereabouts?”
“My business,” retorted the stranger emphatically. “You the sheriff—or somethin’?”
The slow drawl and the tone in which the words were uttered rendered them plainly insulting, and the big man’s jaw clenched. “I ain’t the sheriff,” he said, “but—”
“Yu own him,” interrupted the mocking voice. “Well, that’s just as good, ain’t it?” And then, in a different tone: “If that fella behind yu don’t keep his hands still yu’ll likely be shy another man.”
“Stay out o’ this, Penton, I’m runnin’ it,” the leader said, and to the man on the sidewalk : “I asked what yore business here is. Yu better not try my patience too much.”
The unknown laughed. “Try yore patience!” he echoed. “Well, yu got yore nerve—we’ll try that.” His hands flashed to his sides, and in an instant both his guns were covering them. “Now,” he rasped out, “I can put the four o’ yu on yore backs in as many seconds. Roll yore tails, every dam one o’ yu—I’m short on patience my own self.”
The whole aspect of the man had changed. The lounging, nonchalant figure was now tense, the narrowed eyes grim and alert, and though there was a smile on the lips it was no more suggestive of mirth than the bared teeth of a savage animal. There was no mistaking the reality of the threat. Utterly taken by surprise, the four men had no option, and with one accord they turned their horses’ heads up the street. Their leader, the last to go, had a final word.
“Yu got the drop—this time,” he scowled. “But there’ll be others.”
“I’m hopin’ that,” retorted the unknown.
Watched by the wondering population, the discomfited riders paced slowly back to the “Come Again” saloon, and when they vanished behind its doors the stranger turned to find Bent regarding him with a look in which amazement and consternation were oddly mixed.
“What’s the trouble, old-timer?” he inquired.
“Trouble?” repeated the saloon-keeper. “My ghost, yu shore have bought into a packet of it yoreself. Yu know who that was?” And when the visitor shook his head. “That was Black Bart; most o’ the folks in this burg sit up an’ beg when he talks.”
“Is that so?” returned the stranger easily. “Well, it musta been quite a change for him to find one that didn’t.” And then, with a quick grin, he added : “Though I gotta admit he didn’t look none pleased.”
“It ain’t no laughin’ matter,” reproved Bent. “He’s got all the power round here, an’ if he comes back with his outfit they’ll just naturally shoot yu to bits.”
“Then I hope the town’s got a nice roomy graveyard an’ a hospital, for both’ll be wanted,” returned the other grimly.
“That’s all right—no doubt yu’d git some of ‘em, but what’s the use? One man can’t win agin twenty, an’ though I ain’t lovin’ Bart any, I don’t want my joint shot up—though, if it comes to it, yo’re right welcome.”
The stranger’s eyes lit up. “Yu are shore white, seh, an’ yu’ve called the turn,” he said. “I’ll be on my way—for now.”
Going to the corral he saddled his horse and brought it round to the front of the saloon. There was no haste in his movements, for he knew that he was being watched, and had no desire to give the impression that he was running away. But the discomfited quartette made no further demonstration, and after a leisurely drink with the proprietor the unknown came out of the saloon, mounted and jogged slowly out of town on the trail to the east.
Quirt—for so he had named the dog—scampered ahead, chasing imaginary rabbits, and returning at short intervals to salute his new master with joyful yelps.
“Yo’re a grateful cuss, ain’t yu?” the rider apostrophized, after one of these ebullitions. “But don’t yu be cheerful too soon; yu ain’t nearly paid for yet, or I miss my guess.”
The saloon-keeper watched him depart, and returned to his empty bar in a reflective mood.
“Gentlemen, hush,” he muttered. “I’m tellin’ myself the news : a man has come to town.”
Chapter II
PHILIP MASTERS, owner of the Lazy M, was sitting on the broad veranda of the ranch-house, chewing the butt of a black cigar and moodily watching the trail, which like a narrow white ribbon, wound down the slope and across the open range in the direction of Hope Again, some twenty miles distant. A short, sturdy man of fifty, with greying hair and a clean-shaven face, on which the mark of mental stress was plainly set, he was somewhat of a problem to those who knew him. Though at times he could be jovial and carefree, he had, during the last few years, become a prey to spells of black depression utterly out of keeping with his apparent prosperity. For Masters’ was reckoned the best ranch in the county, and unlike most of the big cattlemen, he actually owned many square miles of the land his herds ranged over.
Presently the ranchman’s trained eye caught sight of a dot far away on the trail, and his face cleared a little. Fifteen minutes passed and the dot resolved itself into a rider, with a smaller dot running ahead.
“Must be him, but what’s he doin’—chasin’ a coyote?” muttered the watching man.
At the foot of the rise to the ranch-house the trail twisted and the rider was lost to view behind the ranch buildings, consisting of a roomy bunkhouse, blacksmith’s shop, a big barn and several corrals. Impatiently the ranch-owner rose and paced up and down the veranda. He had not long to wait; soon the rider appeared, raised his hand in salutation, and, halting the horse a score of yards away, dismounted and trailed the reins.
“Lo, Severn, glad to see yu,” greeted the cattleman. “Come inside out o’ this blame’ sun.”
The room they entered was, for the time and place, a luxurious one. There was a carpet on the floor, the heavy oak furniture was solid and comfortable, and the visitor noted with some surprise, a piano. All of these articles must have been brought by wagon from the nearest railway point, forty miles away. The pelt of a grizzly bear lay in front of the open fireplace, and the walls were adorned with numerous hunting and Indian trophies. The host set out a bottle and glasses and pushed over a box of cigars. The guest helped himself, and waited.
“Somebody got Stevens, my foreman, two weeks ago,” Masters began abruptly. “His hoss drifted in an’ I sent the boys out searchin’. They found him in a gully up towards the Pinnacles; he’d been bushwhacked—shot from behind. A steady, quiet fella, hadn’t no enemies that ever I heard of, but—he was loyal to me. The man who takes his place runs the same risk. Yu get that?”
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sp; “Shorely,” replied Severn unconcernedly.
“For years now a man has had me where the hair’s short,” the cattleman went on. “I’ve handed over money till I can raise no more, an’ now he’s takin’ cattle; next it’ll be the ranch, which is what he’s after. I got a scheme to beat him, but I can’t put it in operation without a good man to take charge here. It’s a gamble an’ I may lose out, but that’s why I sent for yu. What’s the word?”
“Who’s the man?” countered the visitor.
“Bartholomew, owner of the Bar B over towards the Mesa Mountains,” replied the rancher.
“I’ll go yu,” Severn said shortly.
The ranch-owner’s face showed relief, but he was a white man. “If yu want to chew it over, take yore time,” he warned. “I’m tellin’ yu it’s a man-sized job yu’ll be tacklin’. Black Bart is nearly Gawd A’mighty in these parts, an’ people that fall foul o’ him don’t last long unless it’s worth his while to let ‘em, which explains me.”
“That’s all right for my end of it,” Severn told him, “but there’s somethin’ yu gotta know.” The older man looked his question, “Judge Embley introduced me to yu as Jim Severn, but I used to be called `Sudden’. Mebbe yu’ve heard the name?”
The rancher straightened up with a jerk and looked at his visitor incredulously. Heard of him? Who had not? Could this be the famous outlaw, the man who was said to bear a charmed life and whose lightning gunplay had made his name a terror even to the most hardened “bad men” of the West? The face was quiet, confident, smiling, but the steady, steely eyes and lean, hard jaw carried conviction. Masters did not hesitate.
“Shake,” he said, and then, “Jim—I reckon I better go on callin’ yu that?” Severn nodded. “I guess my luck’s turnin’ at last. If I’d gone through the Territory with a fine tooth-comb I couldn’t ‘a’ found a better man. Then yo’re Peterson o’ the YZ? But why for are yu takin’ a hand in this?”
“Embley’s an old friend o’ mine, an’ I had a reason o’ my own. I got another one now,” Severn grinned, and proceeded to tell of the discomfiture of the Bar B owner in Hope, omitting, however, any reference to the girl.
Masters laughed aloud. “Hell’s bells, I’d ‘a’ give a stack o’ blues to ‘a’ seen it,” he burst out. “Black Bart an’ three of his houn’s sent scuttlin’ by one man, an’ all Hope a-lookin’ on. I reckon that’s the bitterest dose he’s ever had to swallow, an’ he won’t forget it. Martin, too, is as venomous as a sidewinder; yu’ll need to watch out.”
“I’m aimin’ to,” Severn said. “Yore outfit to be trusted?”
The ranch-owner shook his head. “I dunno,” he replied. “That’s somethin’ yu’ll have to find out for yoreself. Stevens reckoned some were straight, but he gave me no names. Several of ‘em Bartholomew sent here an’ I had to take ‘em. I’m givin’ yu a free hand.”
The visitor nodded. “Yu say Bart’s takin’ yore cows. Do yu mean he’s rustlin’ ‘em?” he asked.
“No, blast him,” exploded the rancher. “He just asks for fifty or a hundred to make up a trail herd an’ I have to send ‘em. Like I told yu, there’s a reason why I can’t refuse—yet. I’m mighty relieved to have yu here, Severn; I got a hunch yu’ll save me an’ Phil if anybody can.”
“Phil? I didn’t know yu had a son,” said the visitor.
“I ain’t, but I allus wanted one, an’ when it come a girl I just had to call her Philipina,” the cattleman explained.
From outside came a cry of “Hello, the house,” in a fresh young voice.
“That’ll be Phil,’ said the ranch-owner, rising. “She don’t know nothin’ o’ this, remember.”
Severn followed his host through the long window opening on to the veranda. The girl had danced up the steps and greeted her father with an impetuous hug before she noticed the visitor. At the sight of him she shrank back.
“Phil, meet Jim Severn, who has come to take charge here in place of Stevens,” Masters said.
She did not offer her hand, and there was no welcome in her eyes. “I have already met Mr. Severn,” she said distantly.
The rancher looked surprised, and the newcomer explained. “Miss Masters happened to be present when I bought my dawg. As I told yu, I had to argue some with the owner.”
He spoke with all gravity, but the girl sensed a sardonic note of amusement, and it increased her resentment. The rancher looked at the dog, patiently sitting by its master’s horse.
“I ain’t up much on dawgs, but I don’t see no points about that one to call for argument,” he commented. “‘Pears to me just an ordinary dawg.”
“Which yu got it—first wallop out o’ the box,” smiled the owner of the animal. “An ordinary dawg, that’s what I liked about him. No fancy breeds for mine. That dawg is just folks, ain’t liable to pun on frills, or h’ist his nose in the air an’ think his boss is on’y a common cowpunch. No, sir, that dawg’s got savvy, he’s wide between the eyes, an’ he’ll do to take along.”
The cattleman laughed, but his daughter did not share his amusement; beneath the gentle raillery she suspected a rebuke for herself, and her eyes remained frosty.
“Yu will take supper with us, Severn?” asked Masters.
“I’m obliged, but I’ll eat with the outfit,” the new foreman said, noting that the girl did not second the invitation.
The rancher nodded, and then, as a group of riders scampered in, he said, “Come along, I’ll make yu acquainted. Back soon, Phil.”
The girl gave the visitor the curtest of bows and then stood for a moment watching them. Though she disliked the new man, she could not help noticing the easy grace with which he moved, so distinct from the jerky, toed-in walk common to the cowboy. Somehow he suggested a panther on the prowl, and she shivered without knowing why.
The men were busy unsaddling, but they paused when they saw that their employer had something to say. The introduction was brief and to the point.
“This is Jim Severn, boys. He’s come to take Stevens’ job, an’ he’s in charge from now on.”
Some of the men said “Howdy”, others nodded, and a few looked only, and Severn fancied that the looks were not entirely friendly. He himself was silent, watching.
“There’s yore quarters, Jim,” Masters said, pointing to a small log house standing apart from the other buildings. “It’s been made ready, but if there’s anythin’ else yu want, the cook’ll get it for yu. So long.”
Severn put his horse in the corral and carried his saddle and war-bags to the foreman’s hut. This consisted of one room only, containing a bed, table, cupboard and several chairs. There was a window at both back and front. Quirt, having sniffed inquiringly all round, curled himself up on the foot of the bed and lay there blinking at his master. The man grinned at him. “Suits yu, eh?” he queried.
Having removed the dust of his journey, he sauntered down to the bunkhouse. As he approached the door he heard voices.
“I don’t like dawgs no time an’ I’se done skeered of ‘em at night,” Jonah, the cook, was explaining.
Severn’s entrance, followed by the subject of the conversation, put an end to it. The new foreman smiled when he saw the big negro shrink away from Quirt.
“I can tell yu a better plan, Jonah,” he said. “You give the dawg a chunk o’ meat to chew on an’ he’ll be yore friend for life. Dawgs ain’t like humans—yu treat a dawg right an’ he don’t ever forget it.”
The black man’s face split into a wide grin. “Yessah, I’ll suah feed him,” he said.
So it came about that when the rnen sat down to supper Quirt lay by his master’s chair at the head of the long table, contentedly gnawing a big beef bone. Severn himself was silent, studying the men with whom he had to work. There were ten of them, and the foreman learned that three more were line-riding in distant parts of the range. Youth and middle-age were both represented, and Severn decided that on the whole they appeared a capable crew. One of them in particular claimed his attenti
on at once, “Bull” Devint. A medium-height, chunkily-built man of around forty, with a heavy-jowled, somewhat bloated face, small eyes and a long moustache which accentuated an habitual sneer. Severn guessed that his nickname was short for “bully”—the man looked it. He was one of those whose eyes had not welcomed the new foreman. With a similar expression he was now regarding his coffee.
“Hey, yu lump o’ black rubbish, what d’yu call this?” he shouted.
Severn smiled and sampled his cup. “Seems pretty fair coffee to me,” he said mildly.
“Think so?” sneered the bully. “Depends what yu bin used to, I s’pose. Stevens wouldn’t ‘a’ stood for it—knew his job, he did. We won’t get as good a foreman as him in a hurry.”
The clumsy effort to be offensive was apparent, but before Severn could reply, Linley, a boy who was always chaffing the cook, took up the cudgels.
“Snevens was a good man all right, but yu shore are a mite late discoverin’ it, Bull,” he grinned. “I didn’t notice that yu shed any tears or went into mournin’ when he was fetched in.”
Severn thought it was time to interrupt the verbal warfare before worse befell.
“Masters was tellin’ me that Stevens’ death was an absolute mystery,” he said, speaking to the table generally.
“Mystery nothin’,” said a lanky rider whose name was Bailey, but who was known as “Bones” because he consisted of little else. “The White Masks done it, I’ll betcha.”
“Yu advertise that idea an’ yu’ll be able to ask Stevens yoreself,” Devint warned.
“Who are these White Masks?” queried Severn. “That’s a new one on me.”
“Funny the Old Man didn’t tell yu,” Devint said, and his tone implied that the omission was in some way not complimentary to the new foreman. Severn ignored the innuendo and looked a question at Bailey.
“They’re a gang o’ bandits operatin’ all round an’ nobody knows who they is,” replied that worthy. “It’s said they got a hideout which they call The Cavern somewhere in the Pinnacles. A fella in Hope claimed to have bin there an’ offered to lead a posse to it, but Tyler, the sheriff, laughed an’ told him to go sleep it off. Well, he’s doin’ that now—in the graveyard.”
Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) Page 2