“Put ‘em up, pronto,” he ordered, and laughed in his throat when he saw that the other man was unarmed. “This is yore finish,” he continued. “Bart wants to see yu danglin’ from that tree, an’ so do I. The on’y difference is he’s hopin’ to string yu up alive an’ I ain’t pertic’ler, so I’m goin’ to shoot yu first. Anythin’ to say?”
His face twisted with malignant hate, he leaned forward and menaced the man with his gun, exulting in the power chance had given him, and hoping to detect fear in the eyes of his foe. But he saw only an expression of cold contempt, and in stark cruelty he struck savagely with his left fist. The blow was his own undoing. With a low snarl, a long, lean, grey shadow shot across the open space and leapt for his throat. The force of the impact flung the man backwards to the ground. Severn seized his chance and slipped from his mount. He was on his feet just as Penton beat off the beast which had thrown him and turned to finish his work. He found the conditions altered; Severn was erect, facing him with folded arms and a sneer on his lips.
“Penton, the tree is waiting for yu,” he said.
Callous as he was, the threat chilled the man’s spine, but he remembered that the speaker was weaponless, and with a laugh of scorn he raised his gun. He was actually pressing the trigger when Severn’s hand flashed out, fire flamed from it, and Penton reeled and dropped. The grey shadow came up wagging a joyous tail.
He looked at the dog. “Yu shore do pay a debt, don’t yu?” he said, and going to where the Bar B man’s pony was standing, he lifted the rope from the saddle.
Ten minutes later he was on his way again. He had not gone far when he heard the sound of hofs, and waited, gun drawn. He grinned and concealed it again when he saw the newcomer was Larry.
“How the hell—?” he began.
“Followed the dawg, yu chump,” the young man explained impolitely. “Started for town to see yu, an’ that four-legged fleabag sneaked after—artful too, didn’t show up till it was too late to take him back. When I got to Hope it was just a-hummin’. They’re offerin’ five hundred bucks for yu, dead or alive.”
“That’s a right useful sum,” the foreman said reflectively.
“Thinkin’ o’ earnin’ it?” Larry quizzed.
“I might be,” his friend replied. “Get on with yore recitation.”
“Well, I’m ridin’ past Bent’s—past it, I said,” he repeated as he saw the other’s grin, “when Quirt goes off like Old Nick was after him. O’ course I guessed he’d struck yore trail an’ followed. Good thing yu wash sometimes, or the scent would ‘a’been that strong I’d ‘a’lost him.
“What yu want to see me for?” Severn asked, ignoring for the time the slur on his habits.
“Didn’t want to see yu—had to,” Larry smiled. “Snap’s hoss bruk a leg on the way from Desert Edge, an’ he had to hoof it. He was all in when he got to the ranch. I come in to tell yu the Judge ain’t there. ‘Pears that two-three nights ago, four fellas called to see him an’ he rode away with ‘em. Hard-looking lot, with their faces pretty well hidden, his landlady said; she didn’t know ‘em, but she fancied one o’ the party had been there before. Embley ain’t been heard of since.”
This was bad news for the foreman, but he took the blow with his customary calm.
“So they’ve got him too,” he said. “They ain’t overlookin’ no bets, I’m tellin’ yu.”
“Yu ain’t tellin’ me. Who is `they’ an’ where have they got him?” Barton asked peevishly.
” `They’ is the unknown quantity we’re a-lookin’ for, an’ the Judge is in the Pinnacles with the girl,” he was told.
The reminder that the actual whereabouts of his lady was yet to be discovered moved Larry to express himself. Severn regarded him sardonically.
“When yu’ve finished poisonin’ the atmosphere, we’ll push along,” he suggested.
Larry subsided. “Where yu headin’ for?” he asked.
The foreman told him, and the boy promptly swore again. “Yu must be loco,” he said. “Don’t yu know that half the town is spraddled over the country searchin’ for yu right now, an’ yu make for the very place—”
“Where they wouldn’t expect to find me,” Severn finished. “Anyways, I’m goin’—I got business there.”
“Yu got no business there, an’ yu know it,” grumbled the other. “Yore on’y business is to be punchin’ the breeze for parts unknown. Like as not yu’ll find Mister Penton at the Bar B, waitin’ for yu with a gun in his paw.
“I guess not,” his friend said. “Didn’t yu come past the old shack?”
“Nope; heard yu an’ took a short cut. Gawd knows yu was makin’ noise enough,” Larry accused. “What’s the shack gotta do with it?”
Severn told him why Penton would not be at the Bar B to welcome them, and the boy’s face hardened to granite as he listened. Then he looked at the dog trotting contentedly beside them, and it stiffened again.
“Good old Quirt,” he said. “T take it back; yu ain’t no fleabag—yo’re folks.”
Half an hour later they halted in the brush fifty yards from the Bartholomew ranch. Telling his companion to stay there with the horses and to keep the dog quiet, Severn stole forward. No lights were showing, and as he cat-footed past the bunkhouse, no sound came from within.
“Pretty plain Bart ain’t scared o’ the White Masks,” the intruder smiled to himself.
Though this was his first visit to the place, he guessed that the two windows in the front were probably those of the living-room, and a glance through one of them told him he was right. Pushing up the sash, which was unfastened, he climbed in and looked round. At one side of the room was a writing-desk littered with books and papers. Hurriedly turning them over, he found what he was looking for—an old account book, one of the numbered pages of which was missing. He then tried the drawers of the desk, and finding one fastened, forced it open with the blade of his knife, lately the property of Penton. Lying just inside the drawer as though it had been put there in haste, was a roll of notes. Severn snatched them out, and by the light of the moon was able to decipher the numbers; they were the ones he had received frorn Rapson when he withdrew the herd money.
“Yu certainly stacked the cards good, Mister Bartholomew, but the hand ain’t played out yet,” he soliloquised. “I’m bound to admit yu got somethin’ besides sawdust in that ugly head o’ yores.”
Having methodically searched the rest of the drawers and found nothing of moment, he rejoined Larry, who was getting impatient.
“Ain’t yu fetched the ranch with yu?” he asked. “Yu’ve been long enough to pack it up.”
“Sunset, there’s times when yu don’t show no more sense than a sage-hen,” the foreman reproved. “I got what I wanted, an’ here it is.”
He produced his plunder, and the boy’s eyes opened as Severn explained their significance.
“That means Bart is in cahoots with the White Masks,” he said.
“I was hopin’ I wouldn’t have to tell yu that,” the elder man smiled.
“Aw right, Solomon, what’s the next move?”
“Climb yore cayuse an’ carry these things to Bent; he’ll take care of ‘em an’ have ‘em handy when they’re wanted. Take Quirt with yu an’ keep off the trails.”
“What yu aimin’ to do?”
“Go back to the sheriff, o’ course, to claim than five hundred wheels.”
Larry stared at him in doubt, which changed to blank astonishment when he saw that Severn was entirely serious. “Yu are loco,” he declared. “Plumb loco.”
“I should be if I ran away,” the other pointed out. “Why, it would be twin-brother to ownin’ up. Even yu oughna be able to see that.”
Larry could see it, but he was not going to say so, and he knew that when Severn spoke in that tone it was useless for him to argue. He mounted, called the dog, and turned to depart.
“Yo’re every sort of a damn fool, Don,” he said. “They’ll stretch yu, shore.”
“Sh
ucks, I’ll dance at yore weddin’ yet, yu red-faced little rooster,” the foreman replied affectionately, and swinging his horse round, headed for town.
He took his time, for he had no desire to get back before the early morning, and it was necessary to avoid any zealous reward-hunters, for to be ignominiously conducted back to confinement was no part of his plan. So he ambled along by a circuitous route, and a golden glow was spreading in the sky behind the eastern range when he again sighted the unlovely, squalid huddle of huts which the optimists who dwelt there called “Hope”.
Under cover of the brush, Severn dismounted, turned the horse’s head in the direction of the Bar B, and gave it a vigorous smack on the rump; he knew the beast would drift homewards. He then threw pistol and knife into the undergrowth and made his way to the open street, stopping at the sheriff’s quarters. Picking up a lump of rock he hammered upon the door.
“Hello, the house,” he shouted.
There was no answer, and he repeated the summons, supplementing it with another tattoo on the woodwork. In the still air of the dawn the noise he made sounded prodigious, and it brought curious heads to windows and doors along the street. It also brought the sheriff. He had not yet slept off his overnight liquor, and stood staring in pop-eyed perplexity at his visitor.
“What yu want?” he asked stupidly.
“Why, to come in, o’ course,” Severn said, smiling easily. “I’m tired, an’ bed listens good to me. Also five hundred dollars. I can use that money. Have yu got it about yu, Sheriff?”
“No, I ain’t, an’ yu wouldn’t git it if I had,” Tyler snapped, his muddled brain clearing a little.
By this time the buildings had vomited their occupants, and a goodly crowd of nondescriptly-attired onlookers had assembled to witness the unusual spectacle of a criminal clamouring to be reinstated in his cell. This was what the Lazy M man had played for. He promptly appealed to them.
“What sort of a town is this?” he asked grievedly. “It offers a reward for bringin’ in Jim Severn, an’ when I fill the bill an’ fetch him in, the sheriff renigs. Ain’t there no honesty in this burg?”
The twinkling eyes belied the indignant tone, and there was a burst of merriment from the mercurial citizens, several of whom advised Tyler to “pay up an’ look pleasant.”
“Where yu been then?” Tyler queried.
“Well, I’ll tell yu,” grinned the prisoner. “Yu see, that hole yu put me into ain’t none too well ventilated—yu oughta see to that, sheriff, or yu’ll lose custom—an’ so I took a walk.”
The whimsical explanation, delivered in a drawling, nonchalant voice, tickled the onlookers. The amusement created apprised the sheriff that he was again being made a figure of fun, and as usual, it rendered him furious. Why the accused man had returned he did not know, but here he was, unarmed and helpless. By some miracle, he, Tyler, had been delivered from the wrath of Bartholomew. His bullying nature reasserted itself.
“Took a walk, huh?” he sneered. “Well, yu won’t take another till yu go to the tree.”
“Tried me a’ready, have yu?” Severn asked quietly.
With a gesture of rage, the sheriff turned to his two deputies, who had now appeared.
“Take him in an’ tie his hands an’ feet this time,” he ordered, and beat a retreat, following his prisoner into the building.
“That fella’s either loco or not guilty, an’ he shore don’t appear scatty,” was one comment as the spectators dispersed.
Which was the impression the prisoner had aimed to create.
Chapter XX
FOR hours after Bartholomew had left her, Phil sat motionless in dull despair, waiting fearfully for his return. Her world seemed to have tumbled about her, and she could see no gleam of hope. The prospect of marrying the Bar B owner was utterly hateful; even had there been no other reason—and her heart told her different—he had shown too plainly the manner of man he really was. Only once was the silence disturbed, when the dull reports of two pistol-shots startled her.
The harsh grating of the padlock—a now unwelcome sound —reminded her that Bartholomew was coming back for her answer, and she stood up. But instead of the bulky frame she expected, she saw that her visitor was the little one-eyed, bearded stranger she had seen in Hope. He beckoned to her.
“C’mon,” he said hoarsely, but the girl shrank back.
“Where?” she asked nervously. “Is this a trap?”
“Shore it’s a trap an’ I’m takin’ yu out of it,” he retorted. “Glad yu done what I whispered to yu through the logs there.”
“So it was you,” she breathed, still doubtful.
The man nodded, and noting that yet she hesitated, said quietly, “I’m takin’ yu to a friend. If yu’d rather wait for Black Bart—”
“No, no, I’ll come with you,” she replied hurriedly.
He led the way through the pines to another hut very similar to the one they had left, and unlocking the door, motioned her to enter. Standing facing the door, a look of grim expectancy on his face, was a man she recognised.
“Judge Embley ! ” she cried, and her hopes sank again, for she could not forget that this man was Severn’s friend, and was, according to Bartholomew, in the plot against her. The Judge’s expression changed when he saw who his visitor was.
“So it is you, and not that blackguard from the Bar B,” he said. He looked at the one-eyed man. “What’s the game, my friend?” he asked.
The man shrugged his shoulders. “No game, Judge,” he replied. “I’m willin’ to make a dicker with yu.” Embley looked his question. “There’s a fella here passin’ in his checks.” He paused as the other nodded understandingly. “No, I didn’t shoot him,” he continued. “He got his in that ruckus the other day with Severn an’ his men at the Cavern. Well, he’s somethin’ on his mind an’ wants to go out with a clean slate. If yu’ll come an’ write down his statement an’ the young lady will witness it, I’ll take the both o’ yu away from here.”
Embley considered only for a moment, and then, “Lead the way,” he said.
They followed him out of the pines, across a bare plateau to where stood a larger cabin, sheltered by an overhanging shelf of rock. It consisted of two rooms, the second of which, from the piles of blankets, was evidently a sleeping apartment. On two of these piles men were lying, one silent and the other moaning feebly. It was to the latter that the one-eyed man conducted them. The Judge looked at the other bed.
“Who is that?” he asked.
“Oh, Slick, actin’ boss o’ this crew,” was the reply. “He’s just—sleepin’.”
Despite the careless tone, the girl shivered; she remembered the shots she had heard. The still figure lying in the shadow looked unnatural, and she could detect no movement. The occupant of the second bed claimed her attention. By the light of the lantern on an up-ended box, she could see that he was of a type common enough on the frontier, a man of middle-age, with coarse, brutal features now somewhat softened by suffering. His tanned, unshaven face seemed to have been drained of blood, and his eyes had sunk in their sockets. He coughed almost incessantly, and after each bout there was a stain of red on his lips.
“‘Lo, Patch,” he greeted feebly.
“‘Lo, Mobey, how’re yu makin’ it?” asked the one-eyed man, and without waiting for a reply, continued, “I’ve fetched the Judge an’ the young lady like I promised.” He turned to the lawyer and whispered, “Better get busy, he’s down to his last chip “
Embley took paper and pencil from his pocket and motioned the girl to listen. The sick man understood.
“I ain’t got much time, Judge, an’ I’m puttin’ things plain,” he began. “Yu’ll remember the holdin’ up o’ the Desert Edge stage some years back, when Tug Satters, the driver, was killed?” The judge nodded. “I was one o’ the four what done it, an’ I shot Satters,” the other went on. “I didn’t have no grudge agin him, but when we halted ‘em, Tug dropped his lines an’ reached back. I thought he was goin�
�� for his gun, an’ let drive. I figured after that he just forget to put his paws up an’ was feelin’ for his baccy, ‘cause he hadn’t got no gun. Well, I was sorry for Tug, but it was just a mistake, an’ it ain’t that I’m frettin’ about. Here’s the real reason I wanted yu, Judge; soon after the robbery I wrote out an’ signed a paper sayin’ the shootin’ was did by another—a fella who warn’t in the hold-up a-tall. I had to do it, Judge, or go to the pen myself for-somethin’ else.”
The weak voice faded out and a violent fit of coughing shook the man’s frame; his fingers gripped the blanket until it seemed the bones must burst the sun-burned skin. When he could speak again it was little more than a whisper.
“The name—I had to put—in that paper was—Philip Masters,” he said painfully.
“My father,” the girl breathed.
The Judge waved her to silence. Bending forward he said, “And the man who made you write it was—?”
“Bartholomew, o’ the Bar B ! ” the dying bandit gasped.
Embley saw that the end was near. Hurriedly he read aloud what he had written, and held up by Patch, Mobey scrawled his name on the paper. He watched eagerly while the Judge and the girl did the like, and then with a sigh of content, dropped back.”Bartholomew is—” he began, and said no more.
The lawyer drew the blanket over the face, folded up the paper and bestowed it in his pocket, and turned to the one-eyed man.
“What now?” he asked. “And how are we to name you, my friend?”
“Yu heard what he called me,” the other replied with a jerk of his thumb towards the bed. “That name’ll do as well as another.”
The Judge glanced again curiously at the other occupied shakedown. “That man sleeps very soundly,” he said.
“Yeah, Slick’s a good sleeper,” Patch replied indifferently, and then, “We gotta be movin’—the other four’ll be showin’ up any time now, an’ they’d make trouble.”
“The other four?” Embley queried.
“All that’s left o’ the White Masks ‘cept me—an’ Slick,” the man explained.
Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) Page 17