Squatting with his back against the wall and a cigarette between his lips he calmly awaited the next development. That he had been brought there with his eyes unbandaged and his hands at liberty was an ominous sign; they were sure of him and did not mean that he should leave the place alive. He wondered where Larry was. His first task was to find him.
Two hours passed and then a step outside sent his head slumping down, hat pushed back, figure sprawled as though in a drunken stupor. The man who had brought him swore when he looked at the bottle.
“Yu damn fool—I told yu to be careful,” he said.
“I’m aw ri’,” Severn mumbled. “Whadye wan’?”
Helped by the bandit, he got to his feet. Still gripping his arm, his conductor led him, not without difficulty, to a larger cave with a high, domed roof. Numerous other caves apparently opened upon this, and into one of these near the entrance he was thrust. It was a biggish place, lighted by a hole in the rock face, and in it seven men were lolling in rough chairs; all were masked, only their eyes showing through slits in the dirty whine kerchiefs.
“Why for didn’t yu tie him up?” asked one, whose figure seemed somehow familiar to Severn.
“Huh! Look at him—he’s tied hisself up,” replied the other.
“Hittin’ the bottle, eh?” sneered the first speaker, who was evidently in some authority; and then to the prisoner, “Where’s the dollars?”
Severn drew himself up in drunken dignity and nearly lost his balance.
“Shay, fella, whadye take me for, thinkin’ I’d fall for that?” he asked. “I ain’t no ch-child.”
“If yu ain’t brought ‘em I’ll hang the pair o’ yu,” snarled the unknown.
Severn leered at him and shook his head. “Nothin’ to that, ol’timer,” he said thickly. “Whatsa good o’ two corpsed cowpunchers? Can’t even sell the hides an’ t-taller. Listen to m-me. How do I know yu got my m-man? Might be somebody else’s fella yu grabbed, see? Yu prove he’s m-mine an’ I’ll write to the r-ranch for the rnoney. One o’ yore c-chaps can go for it. What’s fairer’n that, huh?”
“Fetch the other fool in,” commanded the leader, disgustedly surveying the smiling, rocking figure before him.
In two minutes Larry, his hands tied behind him, came in and stared in amazement when he saw his foreman peering at him with heavy, blinking eyes.
“‘S’ Larry, shore enough, but why’s there two of him?” Severn muttered bemusedly. “Mus’ be twinsh. Betcha they come from the same family, anyways. Yessir—” he drew himself up and looked at his audience with owlish gravity. “I never knew a case o’ twins with different parents.”
Laughter came from behind the masks; the bandits were enjoying the spectacle and their vigilance was relaxing. This was what the foreman was playing for. He noted that the man who had brought him in was just behind. His face took on an expression of maudlin concern.
“Twins is dangerous to c-community—can’t tell t’other from which,” he stated seriously. “Gotta ‘bolish one of ‘em.” His hands dropped to his holsters and a look of astonishment came on his face at finding them empty. “Losht my guns,” he mumbled. “‘S’ funny.”A roar of raucous merriment greeted the announcement and they saw him suddenly stagger backwards and throw his hands wide in an effort to keep on his feet. In another second he leapt sideways so that every man in the room was in front of him, and the guns he had snatched from the unwary man behind him was threatening them.
“Reach for the roof, every dam one o’ yu,” he ordered. “As I was sayin’, twins is dangerous, an’ these guns is twins.”
The drunken cowpuncher with the slurring, tripping tongue had disappeared and, in his stead, was a crouching, alert gunman, with narrowed eyes, a savagely snarling mouth and death in either hand. It was one man against eight, and all of them had courage of a kind; by a concerted effort they could overwhelm him, but at least one would die swiftly and none of them wanted to be that one. So the command was obeyed.
When this had been done, as it was in quick time, Severn holstered one of his guns, stepped forward and borrowed a knife from the belt of one of the bandins in order to free his friend. The knife having done its work, he added, “Pull their teeth, get one o’ them ropes, an’ tie their hands behind ‘em.”
With a joyous yelp, Larry came to life and leaped to obey. The guns he flung into the middle of the floor, and cutting a lariat into suitable lengths proceeded to bind the wrists of the captives with an enthusiasm which drew hearty curses from his victims. This done, Severn searched for and found his own revolvers, but had to content himself with another rifle. Then he stepped up to the bandit who had done the talking and jerked the masking handkerchief from his face.
“Just as I reckoned,” he said. “Yore figure is a trifle uncommon, Mister Shadwell. Step ahead, we’re takin’ yu with us.”
“Damn yu, I’ll get yu both for this,” the man hissed.
“Mebbe, but for now, we’ve got yu,” Severn told him. “March, you mealy-mouthed son of a she-dawg, or I won’t leave enough o’ yu to bury.”
Under the urge of a gun-barrel in his ribs, the ruffian slouched out and down the mountain pathway, his captors, having first pitched all the weapons collected into the valley, followed him. At the corral, Severn took his own mount, Larry picked the best he could to replace the one he had lost and Shadwell was mounted on a third, his hands released and his feet tied to the stirrups. Then the foreman threw the loop of his rope round the prisoner’s neck and secured the other end to his saddle-horn.
“If yu like to bolt for it an’ save the hangman a job, I ain’t objectin’,” he remarked pleasantly.
The only reply was a venomous scowl which left the recipient untouched; he had encountered hard looks before. He merely told the fellow to go ahead and take the nearest trail for Hope.
“An’ don’t yu delay none, for if we get tired o’ yore company there’s trees a-plenty,” he warned him.
“Yu old son of a gun,” Larry said, as they rode behind the prisoner. “Couldn’t yu get any o’ the boys to come with yu, or did yu wanta hog all the glory?”
Severn explained the reason for his solitary effort.
“Boun’ to do somethin’—the Princess was right peeved with me,” he added, and chuckled when he saw the boy’s face promptly justify his nickname.
“What we goin’ to do with this jigger?” Larry nodded towards the outlaw, riding chin down, hunched in his saddle, ahead of them.
“Hand him over to the sheriff.”
“Tyler’ll on’y let him go.”
“Yu bet he will, an’ that’ll put him in wrong with more’n half the folks in Hope. The sheriff ain’t goin’ to be a bit grateful, believe me.”
Either on account of Severn’s warning, or for some reason of his own, Shadwell appeared to be as eager to reach town as his captors, and under his guidance they made such good time that they arrived before nightfall. Their appearance filled the street, and an eager crowd followed them to the shack which served the double purpose of lock-up and sheriff’s quarters. Tyler was at home, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw who the prisoner was.
“What’s the big idea?” he asked.
In a few brief sentences Severn told of the capture and rescue of Larry and of the taking of Shadwell who, sitting erect now, listened with a scowling face. At the conclusion of the story he broke into a torrent of protest.
“It’s a lot o’ damn lies. I dunno nothin’ about a girl, an’ the on’y time I seen these fellas afore was when one of ‘em held me up an’ the other slugged me in the saloon yonder. I was ridin’ the Desert Edge trail ‘s’afternoon when these two jumped me an’ fetched me here.”
“An’ this ain’t your’n, o’ course,” Severn said, fishing the dirty white mask from his pocket.
“Never seed it,” the prisoner lied stolidly. He turned to Tyler. “Yo’re the sheriff, I believe; these jaspers yore deppities?”
“They ain’t,” replied
that worthy emphatically.
There was a stir as the crowd opened to let Barthomew through. The big man looked at the outlaw, and there was not a trace of recognition in his glance.
“So that’s yore bandit chief, is it?” he said. “Well he’s ugly enough.” Some of the crowd laughed, and Sever , who was watching Shadwell, saw an angry gleam come to his eyes. “Ain’t he the fella that was in the ruckus at the ‘Come Again’? What’s the yarn?” Bartholomew went on.
The sheriff repeated what Severn had told , and the Bar B rancher turned to the foreman “Yu go that notice they served?”
Bart glanced over it, and at his suggestion the prisoner was taken into the sheriff’s office, given paper and pencil, and made to write down the words of the notice, which Bart read out to him. A comparison of the two plainly showed they were written by different hands.
“That don’t help us,” the big man said, and put the papers in his pocket.
Instantly Severn stepped forward. “That notice belongs to me, an’ I’ll trouble yu for it,” he said.
“Rightly, it’s evidence, an’ the sheriff takes charge of it,” was the reply.
“When he wants it I’ll be on hand,” the foreman retorted, and there was a threat in his tone. “Pass it over.”
For an instant Bartholomew hesitated, his face dark with passion, and then he flung the paper on the table.
“Yu keep a-pilin’ up the score, Severn,” he rasped. “There’s gotta be a settlin’ some time.”
Severn picked up the document, looked to make sure it was the original and laughed as he thrust it back into the pocket of his vest.
“Shore, an’ in full,” he said, and turning to the sheriff he added, “If yu got pluck enough to smoke out these coyotes, gather yore posse an’ I’ll guide yu to their hang-out.”
“When I want yore help I’ll ask for it,” the officer blustered. “As for this fella—” He looked at the Bar B owner.
“Yu better take charge of him,” Bart said. “I’ll be seein’ Miss Masters in the mornin’ an’ we’ll know how much o’ this kidnapped cowboy yarn is true. I ain’t takin’ the word o’ any man from the Lazy M.”
“Not since the men yu put there to spy left the country,” Severn came back at him, and had the satisfaction of seeing the other give a little start of surprise. He did not reply, however, and Severn went in search of his horse, satisfied with having put the sheriff in an embarrassing position.
A burst of cheering from the bunkhouse brought Phil to the veranda, and she witnessed the triumphal entry of the foreman and the man he had gone to fetch. Her first impulse was to run down and welcome them, but a thought which brought a blush to her cheek restrained her. Intermittent merriment from within the bunkhouse whetted her curiosity, but she had to wait for the appearance of Jonah before it was satisfied. And then, when the grinning darkie had told the story, she did not know what to think. Was it possible that this one man had gone into a nest of desperadoes, outwitted them, and brought away not only the captive but the chief of the captors? It seemed incredible, and yet, knowing the man himself, cold, confident, quick-thinking, she realised that it was not. That he now had the outfit with him to a man she knew; had he plotted the whole episode with just that end in view? She gave it up in despair.
It was a curiously shy but smiling girl who responded to Larry’s hail next morning, when that young man came to know if she wished to `go a-ridin’.” After she had told him how glad she was to see him safely back again, she said :
“I don’t feel like a ride to-day, Larry.”
The boy’s face fell; he had wanted to tell his tale.
“We could go south,” he suggested.
She shook her head. “No, I’ve a visitor coming,” she smiled. Larry knew who it was, and smothered a curse. “Well, soon then,” he pleaded, and his heart was in his eyes.
She nodded consent, and as he turned away, Bartholomew cantered up. His bold gaze followed the retreating cowboy from under bent brows.
“Mornin’, Phil, what’s that pup want?” was his greeting, as he swung from the saddle.
The girl’s forehead creased in a little frown; she did not like his tone or the epithet, and her mental comparison of the clean-limbed, smiling youth with the hard-bitten, aggressive older man was not to the latter’s advantage.
“He came to ask if I intended to ride this morning; nowadays I have to have an escort—the country is not safe, even for a girl,” she said rather pointedly, and went on to tell of her encounter with the White Masks. “So you see,” she concluded, “adventures are `comin’ in bunches’, as Larry would say.”
The man’s frown deepened at her familiar reference to the cowboy; here was a possibility he had not figured on.
“So that part o’ the tale was true then,” he remarked. “By the way, Phil, I don’t like yore cavortin’ round the country with a common puncher,” he added.
The girl’s eyes widened and there was a flash of anger in them as she replied, “I shall do as I please. You have no right to criticise or dictate to me.”
“I reckon I have,” he said. “We’re goin’ to be married, yu know “
“I don’t know, and at present, anyway, I have no wish to,” she retorted.
Although, realising he had tried the wrong tactics, he di his best to make peace, she refused to go riding with h. and Bartholomew left in a savage temper. He had learned h Larry came to be at the Lazy M, and whether he was an accomplice or not of Severn, he was a disturbing factor, and must be dealt with. The trail to the Bar B took a north-westerly line straight across the open range and then dipped down into a pocket of broken country for some miles, winding through miniature forests, rock and brush-strewn ravines and tiny canyons, the walls of which scarcely rose above the level of the surrounding plains. It was known as The Sink. Passing the mouth of one of these canyons, Bart suddenly noticed the tracks of a horse leading into it, and back again. They were not fresh, and in that sheltered spot might even have been made months before. His curiosity aroused, he followed them, forcing his way through the foliage which overhung the sandy bottom.
At the end of about two hundred yards, the tracks led to a thick bush growing close to the face of the canyon wall, and the rancher was about to turn away with an oath of disgust for his wasted time when he caught a gleam of something through the leaves. Dismounting and pulling the bush aside, he uncovered a fissure in the rock, and saw that it contained clothing. There was a vest—a shiny button of which had attracted his notice—pants, a shirt and a sombrero. One by one he drew the garments out and examined them. In the sweat-band of the hat he found the letters P. M. in ink, and in the pocket of the vest was an empty envelope addressed to Philip Masters, at the Lazy M ranch.
The discovery drew a whistle of amazement from the finder. How came the clothes of the missing ranchman, which he recognised as being the last he had seen him wearing, in such an out-of-the-way spot? Where was the body? For he had no doubt now that the owner of the clothes no longer lived. Painstakingly, foot by foot, he searched the whole of the little canyon, but found nothing more.
“On’y been one fella in here before me,” Bart muttered, as he carefully studied the prints in the sand.
Sizing things up, he came to the conclusion that the murderer must have buried the stripped body elsewhere, or left it to the natural scavengers of the plains, the coyotes and vultures. Then he had hidden the tell-tale clothing in the cleft, where only one chance in a thousand would lead to its discovery. Replacing the articles as he had found them, he rode on his way deep in thought, and presently a grin of malicious triumph twisted his lips.
“Couldn’t be better. I’m reckonin’ I can use yu just as well dead, Mister Masters,” he sneered.
That night he and Penton were closeted long together, and when they parted, even the bitter face of the Bar B foreman wore the semblance of a smile. But it was not a good one to see.
Chapter XII
IT was two days before Phil redeemed
her promise to go riding again with Larry, and in that time he had scarcely seen her. Tn truth she had avoided him, an unaccountable shyness making her fight the growing desire to see him of which she was conscious. So that it was a new Phil, demure, tremulous, and utterly sweet, who loped beside the young cowboy towards the southern region of the range. She listened eagerly to his account of what had happened to him after she left on her wild dash to the ranch, but his praise of the foreman left her unmoved.
“I didn’t know he was such a friend of yours,” she remarked. “He ain’t,” Larry lied. “But I shorely gotta be grateful; he took a big chance for me.”
“What do you think of Mr. Bartholomew?” she asked.
Larry was not to be caught. “I dunno much about him,” he returned. “But I wouldn’t ride for the Bar B.”
He could have said nothing more damaging; a torrent of abuse would have been far less effective. The girl was silent for a time; she had been discovering of late that it was difficult to find anyone who had a good word for the local autocrat. True, the criticism was usually of a cautious character, but always it condemned.
“So you don’t think that Severn is an outlaw?” she queried presently.
Larry shook with internal mirth. “I ain’t sayin’ that, but I’ll gamble against him bein’ linked up with that gang in the Pinnacles,” he replied.
They were pacing along a narrow winding draw, the rocky sides of which were splashed with patches of dwarfed shrubs and cactus. In places the spreading branches of larger trees met over their heads and filtered the afternoon sunshine, throwing shifting shadows as the light breeze swayed the foliage.
“Oh, what a beauty,” the girl cried, suddenly reining in.
Her companion followed the direction of her pointing finger, and saw up on the rock face, a magnificent bloom of the ocatilla. Before she realised it, he had slipped from his saddle and was climbing the side of the draw. Phil also got down and seated herself on a fallen tree-trunk. In a few moments he was back again, and the blood-red blossom was in her hands. He was in the act of presenting it when a rider trotted round a juttin rib of rock which formed one of the bends in the draw; it was Devint. For an instant he pulled on his reins, land then recognising them, came on, a grin of derision on his as he noted their flushed faces. His hat came off in an ironically elaborate sweep as he passed.
Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) Page 10