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

by Oliver Strange

  “Yu ain’t goin’ alone, neither,” the XT man put in.

  “If I could leave here—” the saloon-keeper began, but Severn waved him to silence.

  “I’m obliged, but stay put, old-timer,” he said. “No call for yu to mix in this.”

  The big bar-room at the “Come Again” was well patronised, and had Severn needed confirmation of the rumour about himself, the fact that only one or two men returned his greeting would have provided it. Bartholomew, Penton, Martin and several others were standing in a group. The Lazy M foreman walked straight up to them.

  “Bartholomew,” he said. “I hear yo’re accusin’ me o’ murderin’ Masters.”

  The big man was obviously nonplussed for a moment; he had not expected such a direct challenge. But he soon recovered his poise, and with a sneering grin at those about him, retorted :

  “Well, s’pos’n it’s so; what about it?”

  “On’y this,” Severn said coolly. “Yu will produce any evidence yu got, eat yore words, or—fight.”

  “I ain’t takin’ orders from yu,” Bartholomew replied.

  “No? Well, yo’re takin’ this, yu dirty coward,” Severn flashed back.

  With the words, he stepped forward and his open hand slapped the Bar B owner smartly across the cheek. The force of the blow was such that the recipient staggered back, his face livid. With an inarticulate growl of fury he snatched at his gun. He had got it half out of the holster when a drawling voice warned:

  “I wouldn’t.”

  Bartholomew hesitated, glaring. Severn’s right hand Colt was covering him, though no man had seen him pull it. A gasp of astonishment came from the onlookers; Black Bart was esteemed the quickest on the draw for miles round, and he had been hopelessly beaten. For perhaps thirty seconds there was a tense heart-stopping silence, and then the man who had the drop spoke :

  “Yu went for yore gun, Bartholomew, an’ I got every right to down yu, but—stand awful still; a move of one inch’ll land yu plumb in hell.”

  The acid in the voice bit into the big man’s brain. His hand was still on his gun, but he dared not draw. That crouching figure with the narrowed implacable eyes would not hesitate.

  Helpless as a tied steer, Bartholomew stood waiting the will of the man he hated, beads of perspiration on his brow, his eyes like live coals.

  “I’ve shown yu how easy it would be for me to kill yu,” Severn said quietly. “But for reasons o’ my own, I’m agoin’ to let yu live a bit longer.”

  The foreman’s pronouncement relaxed the terrific tension of the room in some degree, but all knew the incident was not over. The reprieve from what appeared to be certain death brought back a lintle of his habitual insolence to Bartholomew, and he waited with a bitter sneer on his face for the next move. When the foreman spoke again, his voice was low, vibrant.

  “I’ve been told, Bartholomew, that yu are anxious to get yore hands on me,” he stated. “I’m givin’ yu the opportunity now. Shuck yore belt.”

  For an instant the rancher stared in surprise, and then a gleam of unholy joy shone in his eyes. There was no man in the Territory who could live with him in a rough and tumble encounter; the lamb had come willingly to the slaughter. His astonishment was shared by the others in the room, all of whom knew the big man’s reputation. Ridge’s expression betrayed deep concern.

  “Yu must be loco, Severn,” he whispered. “They say he killed a fella with his bare hands in Desert Edge.”

  “Don’t yu worry, old-timer,” was the quiet reply.

  Both men removed their vests, belts and spurs, while eager hands pushed aside tables and chairs, clearing a space round which Muger’s customers, drinks and games forgotten, ranged themselves in close-pressed ranks. Every moment the door opened to admit newcomers as the tidings of the impending battle spread, until nearly the entire male population was congregated around the arena. A clamour of arguing voices had succeeded the silence.

  Amidst it all stood Severn, watching his man, a surge of satisfaction in his heart. He knew that he was taking a great risk—his opponent was bigger-built, heavier, and though older, still in the prime of life—but he did not care.

  To the onlookers the contest seemed almost unfair. They saw the great bulk of the rancher, whose every movement brought the muscles rippling into ridges beneath his shirt, and contrasted it with the slim, wiry figure of the puncher. Few of them had any doubt as to the issue. It would be brute force against brains.

  “Bart’ll eat him, without salt,” said one.

  “He’ll find him a tough mouthful,” retorted his neighbour, who had been eyeing the puncher closely. “Barb-wire an’ rawhide is what that fella’s made of, an’ he’s fit.”

  “Allasame, I’m layin’ two to one on the big ‘un,” the first speaker said loudly.

  “Take that—to fifty,” snapped Ridge instantly.

  One or two other of Severn’s friends supported him, but they were few, and Bartholomew laughed when the odds were increased and still there were no takers.

  “Too bad yu can’t get no bets, boys, for it’s goin’ to be easy money,” he called out. “I’ll break every bone in his body.”

  “Chatter is cheap,” Severn retorted. “Come an’ do it, Mister —Mask.”

  He had not raised his voice, and probably few, if any, of the jostling, excited crowd caught the epithet. But Bartholomew heard it, was guilty of a little start of surprise, and swore when he saw the foreman’s grin of comprehension.

  For a short moment the two men faced one another, and then Severn, determined to get in the first punch, darted in like lightning, drove a right and left just above Bartholomew’s belt-line and was out of reach before the other had recovered his breath. With a bellow of rage—for he had figured on commencing the combat—the rancher rushed in, swinging his formidable fists, dealing blows which had they landed might well have ended the battle then and there. But the foreman was wary; he knew that at close quarters he would be at a disadvantage; his only hope was to keep his opponent on the move, jumping in when opportunity offered to strike. Bartholomew fell into the trap; believing that his man was afraid, he went after him eagerly, only to find that the light, quick-footed puncher was somewhere else. The tactics irritated not only the rancher but his friends, and shouts of derision, mingled with entreaties to “stand an’ fight like a man” came from the spectators.

  Severn took no notice; he knew perfectly well what he was about; it was not the first time he had fought a bigger man than himself. Time after time he darted in, slammed one fist and then the other into his opponent’s body, and got away laughing. The shouting crowd, thrusting and squirming to get a good view, swayed back and forth, gradually narrowing the space cleared for the combatants. Dust rose in clouds from the boards under the stamping, scuffling feet of fighters and followers. Tobacco smoke hung like a haze over the room; the smell of kerosene, and an intolerable heat added to the discomfort. Shouts of encouragement, mostly for Bartholomew, mingled with the curses of those unfortunate enough to get hurt in the melee.

  Despite all that Ridge and one or two others could do, the ring soon grew smaller again, and Severn found himself forced into close quarters with the big man who, quick to see his advantage, rushed in, flailing the air with his great arms. The puncher, unable to retreat, dodged what blows he could, took the remainder, and fought back doggedly, aiming for the body, which he had already selected as Bartholomew’s weak spot. His lips drawn back in a snarling smile, his jaws clenched and narrowed eyes alert, he endured a shower of blows which would have beaten a less agile man to the ground, and every now and then his fists thudded into the bigger man’s midriff. The succession of punches in one place was beginning to have its effect, the Bar B man was breathing gustily, and he winced obviously when Severn got a hit home.

  The Lazy M man, too, was being severely punished; he could not evade all the blows, and presently a whirling right caught and sent him to his knees. Amidst a howl of jubilation from his supporters, Bart ju
mped forward and aimed a venomous kick at the puncher’s head. Severn, on his feet but not upright, twisted aside, caught the big man’s ankle and stood up. Thrown off his balance, Bartholomew crashed to the floor and lay there breathless and half stunned. Severn stood wanching him, glad of the respite. In similar circumstances, the Bar B owner would have stamped the life out of his foe, but the cowboy did not fight that way. A tense silence gripped the spectators as they waited, and then someone said satirically :

  “Goo’-night, Bart; pleasant dreams.”

  As if electrified, the fallen giant got to his feet and sprang at Severn.

  This time, the foreman, instead of retreating, came to meet him, and the next few minutes were an orgy of sheer ferocity; neither man made any attempt to guard himself, each being intent only on hurting the other. Severn knew that he was mad to do it, but the lust to pound the poisonously puffed face of the coward who had tried to kick him when he was down was too strong. In this he had succeeded, for one of Bart’s eyes was closing, and the blood was streaming from a cut in his cheek; Severn’s face also was bruised and gashed. He felt, too, that he was weakening, his head throbbed, and his arms were like lead, but he knew his opponent was in no better shape. In truth, Bartholomew’s fall had shaken him; he was finding it difficult to get air enough into his lungs, his blows no longer had the same elasticity, and he moved more slowly.

  “Even money the little ‘un,” shouted the man who had wished Bart “good-night”.

  If his purpose was to spur the big fellow to renewed efforts he accomplished it. Amidst the yells and oaths of the nearly demented audience, who had by now reduced the space for the battle by more than half, Bart closed, and the fight became a medley of flying fists again, from which came the thud of bone meeting bone, the sob of starved lungs, and the grunt which told of a blow successfully given. Suddenly Bartholomew drew himself up and swung his right arm. Severn saw the blow coming and stepped back, only to stumble over an outstretched foot and stagger sideways. The fist whistled harmless over his shoulder, but ere he could recover his balance, two great hands closed on his throat, the thumbs sinking in until they seemed to be crushing the bones. Choking, the lights of the saloon and the bestial ring of eager, writhing faces faded out, and he could see only that of his foe, a livid, malignant mask of savagery. With a last effort of expiring consciousness, he dashed his fist into it. For an instant all went dark, and then he opened his eyes to find Ridge and Callahan supporting him. Awkwardly sprawled on the floor lay the form of Bartholomew, breathing stertorously but senseless. Some of the crowd frankly smiled and gave him a cheer; others, if they felt hostile, took care not to show it. Severn grinned feebly; he was all in, and his throat made speech difficult.

  “What happened?” he inquired.

  “What happened?” repeated Ridge, his face split by a wide smile. “Oh, nothin’ much. Yu just tapped him on the chin an’ he lay down to think it over. I reckon he’s got his needin’s for tonight, anyways. Come along to Bent’s an’ git cleaned up; yore face looks like an Injun massacre.”

  Almost unheeded by the milling throng round the fallen fighter, the three of them left the saloon. One man only watched them covertly—a short, middle-aged cowboy, with a dried-up wizened face, legs badly bowed by constant riding, and two worn, black-handled guns which hung low on his thighs. Severn saw him but took no notice.

  “The son of a gun,” muttered the stranger, with a twisted smile, and went in search of his horse.

  An hour later, the foreman, having removed the traces of the combat as far as possible, set out for the Lazy M. Bitterly bruised and aching as he was, his principal feeling was one of deep satisfaction; he had set himself a task and had done it, and the recollection of the battered hulk he had left on the saloon floor paid in full for his present pain. About a mile from town his horse whickered, and an indistinct form showed from behind a bush at the side of the trail.

  “H’ist ‘em,” said a voice, but there was chuckle behind the command.

  “H’ist nothin’,” the traveller retorted. “Come outa that, yu ornery little runt, an’ explain yoreself.”

  The bow-legged puncher who had been in the “Come Again” stepped into view.

  “Orders from the boss,” he grinned.

  “So I ain’t yore boss no longer, huh?” Severn queried. “Didn’t I say for yu to stay at the YZ?”

  “Orders from yore boss. Yessir, Miss Norry—” He paused at the other’s laugh, and then resumed, “Oh, I know she’s bin married two-three years, but she’s still `Miss Norry’ to the outfit, an’ allus will be. Well, she says, `Snap, I got a letter from that man o’ mine tellin’ me everythin’ is ca’m an’ peaceful, an’ things is workin’ out fine. It’s shore too good to be true; the better he makes it, the wuss it is. Yu fork a cayuse an’ mosey along.’ Reckon yu overplayed yore hand some.”

  The foreman grinned ruefully. “I’ll never understand women,” he said. “Yu can’t fool ‘em. If I’d told her things were a bit promiscuous, she’d ‘a’ sent yu just the same. How’s everybody at the old homestead?”

  “Fine as silk,” Snap Lunt replied. “That yearling o’ yores gets bigger while yu watch. I misdoubt he’ll be a wuss hellion than his daddy. Tried to take my gun off’n me the other day, an’ shore raised the roof when he couldn’t have it.”

  “I’ll bet he did—there ain’t nothin’ the matter with that young fella’s lungs,” the foreman agreed with paternal pride. “When d’yu get here, Snap?”

  “Just in time for the show,” Lunt said. “Yu ain’t forgot how to use yore paws, Don.”

  “I ain’t `Don’ around here, Snap; I’m Jim Severn, even whenwe seem to be alone,” the other warned him. “Yu come near bein’ in time for my funeral—I shore thought he’d got me.”

  “That last was a daddy of a wallop—me, I’d sooner be kicked by an outlaw hoss,” Lunt told him. “I’m glad I come; things don’t seem so painfully peaceful around here.”

  “To tell yu the truth, old-timer, they ain’t all Sunday school,” Severn admitted. “Listen, this is the way of it.”

  As briefly as possible he explained the situation, and the little gunman listened patiently to the end. Then in a rasping tone he said :

  “Did I hear yu mention a fella called Shady?”

  “Shore, a square-built chap, wide as he is long, pretty nigh. Know him?”

  Snap’s eyes gleamed. “His finger’s the on’y square thing about him,” he said huskily. “He bushwhacked a bunkie o’ mine for his roll years ago. I’m damned glad I come. What yu want I should do?”

  “Hang about in Hope, an’ remember yu don’t know me for now,” Severn answered. “Bent, who runs a saloon, is one white man, an’ Ridge of the XT is another. Yu’ll be my ace in the hole, an’ I shore got a good one. Better be driftin’ now. S’long.”

  The newcomer climbed into his saddle and with a wave of his hand trotted towards town, while Severn went on his way to the ranch.

  “Snap an’ Larry an’ m’self—that’s three to draw to instead of a pair,” he informed the air, and playfully pulled his pony’s ears. “Boy, we’ll beat ‘em yet, an’ it ain’t no good yu standin’ on one leg; use all four of ‘em, yu misfit, an’ get agoin’.”

  In fact, the unexpected advent of Snap Lunt, the grim little gunman from his own ranch, the YZ, constituted a notable addition to his forces, and one that Severn, confident as he was in himself, was well content to have.

  Chapter XIV

  AT breakfast in the bunkhouse next morning, the foreman’s battered appearance excited speculation but no comment. Larry, whom he visited later, and whose room he managed to reach without encountering Miss Masters, was not so discreet. The invalid, sitting up in bed with one arm in a sling, was discovering that even a slug from a .45 may have compensations. He regarded his friend with frank amazement.

  “Who might yu be?” he inquired truculently.

  “I might be the President o’ the United States, but I ain’t,” retor
ted Severn.

  Larry looked at him critically. “I don’t like ‘em,” he said. “Don’t like what, yu jackass?”

  “Them alterations to yore face; it warn’t nothin’ to chuck a chest about afore, but yu ain’t improved it any. It don’t balance. Hi ! get off that hat, yu Siwash ! “

  For the foreman, sitting down, had deliberately selected the chair on which Larry’s Stetson reposed. He stood up and lifted the crushed headgear.

  “Time yu had a new one,” he commented, and then, “There, there, sick folk mustn’t get all het up. How’s the Princess treatin’ yu these days?”

  “She’s a lady, Don,” the boy replied.

  “Yu call me that again an’ I’ll—tell her yo’re a friend o’ mine,” Severn threatened.

  “For the love o’ Mike don’t do that,” the invalid implored. “I’m sorry, Jim, I forgot. Yu ain’t told me the reason for the disguise yet.”

  It ain’t a disguise, yu chump. I had a triflin’ argument with Mister Bartholomew last night, that’s all.”

  “I might ‘a’ knowed it,” Larry said disgustedly, when he had heard the details. “The minute I ain’t around to look after yu—” He chortled joyously. “I’ll bet he’s feelin’ sore this glad mornin’.”

  “He’s got company there,” the foreman reminded him. “Gosh ! he ain’t a man—he’s a gorilla.” He rose to go. “By the way, when yo’re around again, if yu meet up with Snap in town, remember yu don’t know him. Savvy?”

  “Hi! what yu talkin’ about?” queried the surprised youth. “Where’s yore blamed hurry? Why can’t yu tell a fella—” But Severn had vanished, and Larry swore in vain.

  Greatly to his satisfaction, the foreman managed to retreat without meeting the mistress of the house. In truth, the girl was sitting in her bedroom, staring blankly at the window, and wondering whether she was awake or dreaming. About no pay her customary visit to the sick man, she had paused at the door on hearing Severn’s voice, and, though she blushed now to think of it, had stayed there to listen. She had heard enough to convince her that the foreman was masquerading under an assumed name, and that her patient was an old friend. Helplessly she strove to fathom the meaning of it all, but had to give it up in despair. The one clear point seemed to be that Larry had deceived her, and at the thought of this she melted into angry tears; there seemed to be no one she could trust.