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

by Oliver Strange

  Mile upon mile of the arduous journey was covered, and afternoon found them amid the pines which clothed the lower slopes of the mountains.

  Presently they emerged from the pines and forcing their way through a dense jungle of undergrowth which covered a long rise, found themselves on the rim-rock of a small basin. In front of them the ground dropped sharply down through a belt of scrub to a hollow of rich grass, in the centre of which, gleaming like a gem in the sunlight, was a pool of water. On the other side the grass sloped gently up to an almost vertical wall of stone, bare of vegetation, ribbed and weather-stained, which, from where they stood, seemed to rise almost unbroken to where it terminated in one of the storm-scarred peaks which gave the range its name. Around the water cattle and horses were grazing, and about eighty feet up the cliff face was the ledge leading to the caves.

  “Shore looks peaceful, don’t it?” Ridge remarked. “I’ll bet them cattle ain’t wearin’ their lawful labels.”

  “Diggin’ the devils out ain’t goin’ to be as easy as pullin’ a cork,” the foreman said. “There may be another way into the caves, but the on’y one I know of is along the face o’ the cliff, an’ one man on the ledge could hold it against a score. My idea is this: me an’ two-three others will try for the pathway an’ the rest’ll line up in the brush this side o’ the valley an’ cover us, droppin’ any guy who comes out o’ the caves; the range ain’t more’n seven hundred.”

  No one had a better suggestion to offer, and Severn, with Snap, Gentle, and Big Boy—who pleaded a personal debt to pay—rode for the entrance to the valley. Keeping closely under cover, they presently came to the opening through which Severn had been taken before; it was unguarded, and having hidden their mounts they passed through. In the corral they found several horses and turned them loose. Hardly had they commenced the climb up the cliff when two shots rang out in quick succession; they did not come from across the basin.

  “That was a warning—they got a lookout posted somewhere,” the foreman said.

  Evidently the alarm had brought men out of the caves, for puffs of smoke and sharp reports echoed from the other side of the valley; Ridge and his men were getting into the game. The ascent of the path now became a perilous project, for in places where the cliff bulged the climbers were exposed to fire from the ledge above. The bandits were well aware of this, and two of them, lying prone on the ground, waited with levelled guns for the appearance of the attackers.

  “Hug the wall, boys, an’ jump lively round these dam curves,” were the leader’s orders.

  With their backs to the rock face, a yard at a time, they crept slowly up the footway, bullets whistling past their ears as they dodged round the dangerous bends. The last of these was only a matter of twenty yards from the caves, and here they paused, panting, to deliberate. The firing from across the valley had now died away, as though the marksmen had realised the futility of trying to hit the flattened figures of the defenders. Peeping round the shoulder of rock which sheltered them the foreman saw one of the bandits at the top of the pathway cautiously rise to his feet, Instantly, away off in the scrub a rifle spoke, and the man, dropping his own weapon, flung up his arms, staggered, and pitched headlong over the precipice. Severn seized the opportunity.

  “Come ahead, boys,” he cried. “There’s on’y one now.”

  With the words he dashed round the corner and the others followed. The solitary defender, taken by surprise, fired one wild shot, scrambled upright and ran for the cave, only to drop, a huddled heap, at the entrance. A shout from behind made the foreman turn, and he saw Ridge, with some more of the men, climbing the pathway. Keeping well to the side of the ledge, he waited for the reinforcement. The entrance to the Cavern, black and forbidding, had yet to be negotiated.

  “Thought we’d be more use up here,” Ridge panted, as he and his men reached the top. “What’s the next move?”

  Severn pointed to the opening. “We gotta rush it,” he said. “Risky, o’ course, but there’s no other way.”

  Bunching together as much out of sight as possible, they edged up to the opening, dashed in and flung themselves flat on the floor. Shafts of flame split the darkness ahead of them and bullets hummed over their heads, but owing to Severn’s ruse there were no casualties. Lying prone in the shadows, the attackers returned the fire, aiming at the flashes, and the walls of the cave re-echoed the reports. There was the acrid smell of burnt powder and the blue smoke whirled through the opening behind them. How many of the bandits were opposing them the besiegers had no means of telling, but that they were falling back or suffering loss was soon shown by the slackening of the firing. Severn whispered an order, and his men rose and rushed forward.

  Out of the gloom came spits of fire, and by the momentary light they saw white-swathed faces at which they shot. One of the XT men dropped, and Severn stumbled over a man’s body just as a gun barked in his face. Clutching as he fell, he caught the other round the middle and they went down together. The foreman felt two claw-like hands gripping his throat and struck violently with the barrel of his revolver. He heard the thud of steel upon bone, a groan, and the choking grip fell away. He staggered to his feet to find that someone had discovered a lantern and that the fight was over. Several of the cowboys had been hit, but none seriously. Two of the bandits lay dead on the ground, another—Severn’s late opponent—was still unconscious; the rest had vanished.

  “Get more lights an’ search every hole,” the foreman ordered. “There must be another way outa this damn warren.”

  Snap Lunt had also disappeared. At the first gleam of the lantern he had glimpsed a shadow melting into the dark depths of the cavern and had gone in pursuit. Stumbling along what appeared to be a tunnel, he saw a line of light and, feeling above it, discovered a door. It was not fastened, and pushing it ajar he saw a small room, hollowed out of the living rock. On a homemade table in the centre a candle was burning, and by a pallet-bed a man stooped, hurriedly putting together a pack. Snap’s eyes gleamed as he stepped noiselessly in, closed the door, and then chuckled aloud. The man’s head jerked round, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped; he might have been looking at a ghost.

  “Snap?” he gasped.

  “Shore thing—the same old Snap,” the gunman grated. “Don’t bother about yore pack, Shady; yu won’t need it where yo’re goin’.”

  The ruffian gaped, terror patent in his eyes, at this peril from the past which had so suddenly confronted him. One man only in the whole world did he fear and this man was before him; a quick death was the most mercy he could expect. In sudden desperation he swept the candle from the table and jumped aside. Out of the dark came Snap’s jeering voice:

  “Panicky, eh, Shady? Well, it gives yu a better chance but it won’t save yu. Tell me where the girl is an’ mebbe I’ll let yu go—this time.”

  “I’ll see yu in hell,” came the answer.

  “Yeah, but yu’ll have to wait for me.” Lunt laughed.

  The outlaw did not reply, fearing his voice might betray his location, and for a few moments the silence was unbroken. There, in the utter blackness, the two men waited, each intent on the other’s life. Both were experienced gun-fighters, and both knew that the slightest slip would mean death. Shadwell stood motionless, half-crouching, his gun levelled from the hip, waiting, listening. Presently he heard a faint sound as of a boot-heel crushing a fragment of rock and strained his ears in the endeavour to place it. Again it reached him and the thought that his enemy was creeping up made him shiver. Certain that he knew the direction, he fired. The flash showed that he had guessed wrongly—the grinning, vengeful face of the cowboy was well to the left of the spot he had aimed at. Ere he could pull the trigger again a spurt of flame stabbed the darkness and his left arm dropped, numbed and useless to his side. The pain of the wound wrenched a groan from his lips.

  “Got yore left wing, eh, Shady?” came the mocking voice. “It’ll be yore right next, and then—”

  The wounded man fired wildl
y at the sound and flung himself sideways, but no answering bullet came. Had he made a lucky hit? Breathlessly he waited, cowering against the wall of the cave. His damaged arm throbbed with pain and he could feel the warm blood trickling down. There was a shuffling of feet outside the door, and a voice called :

  “Hey, stranger, yu in there?”

  “Yeah. Go away—I’m busy,” Lunt replied, and Shadwell shivered, for the tones were not those of a stricken man. He heard the departing footsteps of the man outside and they sounded like a death knell; Lunt must be very sure. Again the nerve-wracking silence endured and was becoming unbearable when the cowboy spoke :

  “Listen, Shady, I’m agoin’ to give yu a chance, which is more’n yu gave Rafe Sanders,” he said. “I’ve found the candle; when I’ve lighted it, we both go for our guns. What yu say?”

  “Good ‘nuff,” croaked the other, trying to keep the exultation out of his voice.

  He heard Lunt fumbling about, saw the splutter of the match, and forthwith fired. But the match did not waver, a streak of flame spouted from the gunman’s right hip, and the bandit crashed forward with a bullet in his brain. For Shadwell’s cunning had not been equal to that of his opponent. Prepared to cheat, he had reasoned that Snap would strike the match with his right hand, so he aimed to the left of the flame. But Lunt had guarded against treachery by snapping the match alight with his left thumbnail well away from his body, the gun in his right ready to shoot. Shadwell had been outplayed and he had paid the penalty. The little gunman lighted the candle and looked contemptuously at the man he had slain.

  “Crooked to the end, like I knowed he’d be,” he commented. “Well, it’s been comin’ to yu a long time, Shady.”

  Having made sure that the man was dead, Snap went in search of his companions. He found Severn and the owner of the XT at the entrance to the Cavern interrogating the man who had been stunned. He was a surly-looking ruffian and sullenly refused to give any information.

  Severn turned away. “If he won’t talk, string him up, Ridge,” he said shortly. “We got no time to waste on fools.”

  The possibility of anything but death had apparently not occurred to the captive, but at the foreman’s words he looked up. “What was yu askin’?” he growled.

  “Where is Miss Masters?” Severn said. “An’ come clean, or yu’ll die so quick hell won’t be ready for yu.”

  “There was a gal here but they took her on to the other cache,” the fellow replied.

  “Where’s that?” snapped the foreman.

  “I dunno—never bin there,” the prisoner returned. “I ain’t throwed in with this crush long an’ wish I’d never seen ‘em.”

  “Who was the boss o’ this outfit?” was the next question.

  “Can’t say. We took orders from a square-set chap by name o’ Shadwell,” the man answered. “None of us knew the others well ‘cause mostly we had our mugs draped.”

  Somehow Severn believed that the outlaw was telling the truth. “Yu can take a hoss an’ some grub an’ beat it outa the country,” he told him. “An’ if yu got any regard for yore health, don’t dawdle.” The man slouched away and Severn turned to Ridge just as Lunt came up. “Some of ‘em musta got clear–there’s a passage out to a ledge higher up the rock face. I’m thinkin’ that hombre gave us the straight goods—the girl ain’t here.”

  “Pity we missed that fella Shadwell,” Ridge regretted. “We didn’t,” Snap said grimly, and passed on.

  Ridge’s glance followed him. “Don’t waste no words, does he?” was his remark.

  Severn smiled. “Point is, what we goin’ to do now?”

  “Leave a couple o’ chaps to search out this other cache an’ hike home,” Ridge replied. “Nothin’ else to do—yet.”

  Severn agreed. One cowboy from each outfit remained behind with instructions to comb the country and send word immediately they hit upon the second hideout. The rest returned to their respective ranches.

  Chapter XVI

  THE daylight raid on the Lazy M ranch and the carrying off of its young mistress, coming so soon after the impudent despoiling of the bank, aroused a wave of indignation in Hope, the universal opinion being that it was quite time the bandits were vigorously dealt with. But when the news came that this had been attempted, some of the inhabitants found offence in that. This singular point of view originated with the sheriff and was carefully fostered by him. He affected to regard the joint action of the two ranches as a direct slight, not only to himself and his office, but to the whole settlement.

  Thus vindicated his face wore a smug, satisfied expression when he called at the Bar B the following morning. The big man’s welcome was not flattering; he had a wholesome contempt for men who allowed him to use them, and did not always trouble to hide it.

  “Yo’re lookin’ pretty pleased with yoreself this mornin’,” he sneered. “What’s the glad tidin’s?”

  “I put a crimp in Mister Severn,” the sheriff gloated. “If he’s expectin’ a pat on the back for tacklin’ them outlaws he’s due for a disappointment, yu betcha.”

  “Fine,” gibed the other. “That’ll scare him most to death, o’ course. What do yu reckon he’ll do—leave the country?”

  The complacency vanished from Tyler’s face as though wiped away with a sponge. He wriggled uncomfortably in his seat and did not reply. Having thus reduced him to the state of mind he required, Bartholomew delivered the next blow.

  “Yo’re a middlin’ pore sheriff, ain’t yu?” he began. “How long d’yu reckon yu’d keep yore job if I wasn’t back o’ yu?”

  The visitor’s puffy, crimson face took on a purplish tint at this home question.

  “I know yu bin a good friend, Bart,” he quavered. “I never forget it.”

  “Yu better not,” Bart told him grimly. “I’m about the on’y one yu got. When yu goin’ to arrest Severn?”

  “Arrest him?” goggled Tyler. “Whaffor?”

  “Pickin’ flowers outa yore front garden, o’ course,” the big man said with savage irony. “For the murder o’ Philip Masters, to begin with.”

  “But I ain’t got a shred o’ evidence,” the officer protested.

  “No, bein’ sheriff, yu wouldn’t have—others has to do yore job for yu,” Bart retorted. “But yu needn’t to worry about that; I’ve got a-plenty.”

  “Yu can prove he bumped off Masters?” gasped the astounded sheriff.

  Bart nodded triumphantly. “He’s as good as hanged,” he said. “Climb yore cayuse an’ I’ll show yu.”

  Half an hour later they rode into The Sink and turned up the little gully where Bartholomew had happened upon the clothes of the missing rancher. When they reached the bush which concealed the hiding-place, the Bar B man pointed to it, and said :

  “Take a peep for yoreself.”

  Thrusting aside the foliage the sheriff pulled out the wrinkled garments one by one, examining them closely. When he came to the hat his pig-like eyes widened.

  “That’s Masters’ lid, shore enough—they must be his duds,” he said. “Hello, what’s this?”

  Underneath the clothes, and half-hidden at the bottom of the crack was a gleam of metal. The sheriff reached down and lifted the object into view—a Winchester repeater. The barrel of the weapon was foul, not having been cleaned since last fired, and on the stock the initials “J.S.” were rudely scratched. At sight of these Tyler emitted a whoop of exultation.

  “Them letters stands for Jim Severn, I reckon,” he pronounced, with the air of one who has worked out a difficult problem.

  “What a head yu got, Hen,” Bart said, in anything but an admiring tone. “Allasame, it’s possible they might mean John Smith.”

  The sheriff looked at him doubtfully. “Yu think it’s his gun?” he asked.

  “I know it is, yu fool,” Bart assured him, and at his meaning look Tyler grinned with understanding. “Now, see here,” the rancher continued, “put them things back as they was. I didn’t find ‘em, remember. Yu an’ one
o’ yore deppities, ridin’ through here, will notice the tracks, roller ‘em up an’ discover the duds. Savvy?”

  The sheriff did, plainly enough, and his evil little eyes glittered. This would show some of those cheap-wits in Hope what sort of a sheriff they had. He well knew that his reputation badly needed a tonic, and here it was, “made and provided”, like the statutes.

  “Yu shorely have got brains, Bart,” he said admiringly, as he replaced the articles.

  As they turned their horses’ heads again towards the Bar B Tyler asked, “Anythin’ else to tell me ‘bout Severn?”

  “Yu can charge him with the bank robbery an’ shootin’ Rapson,” Bartholomew replied coolly, and the sheriff fairly jumped in his saddle.

  “Yu can prove that, too?” he cried incredulously.

  “There’ll be no need—he’ll do that for yu hisself,” the rancher told him.”But I thought—” began the bewildered officer.

  “Great mistake. Fella like yu shouldn’t think—too big a strain on your intellects,” sneered Bart. “Lemme do it for yu, Hen; yu’ll find it safer.”

  The sheriff subsided like a burst bladder. He was well aware that he was wholly at the mercy of this jeering devil, and must obey blindly, for though he knew a little, and suspected much, Bart had never admitted him to his confidence. He was a mere tool, to be used, rewarded or discarded at his master’s whim.

  “Whyfor did Severn want to abolish Masters?” he ventured. “I figure him an’ Embley are after the Lazy M,” Bartholomew explained. “An’ with the girl outa the way, there don’t seem to be much to stop ‘em—barrin’ me.”

  “But the White Masks took the gal an’ he tried to git her back,” Tyler argued.

  “Men wearin’ white masks, yu mean, same as when the bank was looted,” the other corrected. “First off, I thought he was in with the Pinnacles’ gang, but I can see now he’s just used ‘em. They didn’t find the girl, did they? Oh, he’s clever, damn him.”