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

by Oliver Strange

  “A fella has a right to protect his own property, I reckon,” Masters grinned. “I soon found out that while Shadwell was the nominal chief o’ the bandits, the real head was Bartholomew.”

  The Bar B owner shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “An’ I took a posse to hunt down my own men, huh?” he gibed.

  “An’ failed to find ‘em,” Bent cut in caustically. “I was one o’ the fools that follered yu that day.”

  Like a trapped beast, the discredited ruler of Hope glared round and realised that his day was done. With a shake like that of a dog, he turned savagely to the Governor.

  “A tangle o’ lies, framed up by that fella Severn an’ that damned lawyer who was helpin’ him glom on to the Lazy M,” he shouted.

  Philip Masters laughed loudly. “Severn steal the Lazy M?” he cried. “Why, yu bonehead, he as good as owns it a’ready got a mortgage on every foot o’ the land. It was him lent the money I paid to keep yore lyin’ mouth shut, though I didn’t know it when he come as foreman.”

  Bartholomew was not yet beaten; he still had a card to play. He turned on Masters.

  “Think yu’ve been damn clever, don’t yu?” he sneered. “Mebbe yo’re forgettin’ I’ve still got evidence to hang yu.”

  “Which evidence is a lie, as Embley can prove,” the other said fiercely.

  The Governor took the paper the lawyer handed to him, read it, and looked gravely at Bartholomew.

  “This is the signed and witnessed death-bed statement of a man named Mobey,” he said. “In it he confesses that he shot the Desert Edge stage-driver, and that he wrote a document fastening the crime on Masters at your instigation.”

  Bartholomew tried a laugh of incredulity, but before the stern, accusing eyes of the Governor, the sound died in his throat. Over the spot where he stood, the tree which had borne so many tragic burdens cast an ominous shadow, and he could not keep his gaze from the big branch. His mind dropped into the past. How long ago was it? Severn, who had seen and read the look, answered him.

  “Ten years back, Bartholomew,” he was saying, and his voice was ice-cold, “yu an’ some o’ yore outfit hanged an old man to that tree on a charge o’ stealin’ cattle. He was innocent—yu had altered the brands yoreself an’ put the beasts in his pasture; his on’y crime was being a `nester’.”

  The rancher moistened his dry lips. “Yu say so,” he snarled. “Prove it.”

  Severn pointed to Darby. “That man was ridin’ for yu at the time,” he said. “He was of the party. Because he protested, he’s been spared; the others, well, yu know what’s happened to them, Bartholomew.”

  Despite himself, the big man shivered. “I fired that fella—he’d say anythin’,” he defended. “Anyways, it’s his word against mine.”

  “No, there is another eye-witness here,” the foreman said.

  Bartholomew’s eyes widened as, obeying Severn’s gesture, Larry stepped forward. “Him?” he cried in derision. “Why, he musta been on’y a kid.”

  “Yu said it,” Severn told him sternly. “The kid whose father yu hanged before his eyes, whose home yu burned, Laurence Forby.”

  The revelation struck Bartholomew dumb; he did not doubt the truth of it. He could only glare at this “pup”—as he was wont to contemptuously call him—who had emerged from the obscurity of the past to put the finishing touch to his downfall. This boy, with the tense, granite face and vengeful gaze, would get all that he, Bartholomew, had schemed for—the ranch, the girl…. Madness, the madness of bitter hate, possessed him.

  “I oughta wiped yu out then, yu whelp,” he muttered, and snatching out his gun, levelled it full at Larry’s breast.

  Swift as he was, another was swifter. Before the murderous finger could squeeze the trigger, a lance of flame came from Severn’s side, the crash of the shot drowning Phil’s cry, and Bartholomew, flinging his hands high, staggered, sagged at the knees and dropped in the dust, his gun exploding harmlessly.

  Severn, leaning forward, the acrid smoke swirling about his middle, looked at his fallen foe for a moment, handed Snap back his gun, and turned away. Amid an awestruck silence, one of the Bar B outfit stooped and examined the body.

  “Plumb atween the eyes, with a strange gun snaked from’nother fella’s belt,” he announced wonderingly. “Sudden? Well, I should smile. I reckon the boss just invited hisself to his own funeral.”

  And that was Bartholomew’s epitaph.

  That same evening, as Severn was busy straightening up his shack at the Lazy M, a saucy, smiling face peeped through the open door.

  “Dad says, will you take supper with us?” its owner said.

  The foreman looked up, his face grave but his eyes crinkling with amusement.

  “I’m obliged, but I’ll eat with the outfit,” he replied.

  The girl laughed merrily. “I’ve won,” she cried to someone outside, and then to Severn, “I bet Larry ten—T bet Larry you would say just that.”

  Severn grinned at the slip she nearly made. Stepping to the door, he regarded his friend critically.

  “Larry looks just as pleased he lost,” was his comment. “O’ course, if he’s honin’ to pay that debt, why, I ain’t noticin’.”

  Phil’s face grew rosy. “There are times when I don’t like you a bit,” she pounced, but her look contradicted the words.

  “An’ me havin’ just won a bet for yu,” the foreman reproved.

  “Oh, you’re impossible,” she cried. “Bring him along, Larry. Supper is ready, and Dinah will be heartbroken if we’re late. She’s never had a real live Governor to feed before.”

  She danced on ahead, and the two men followed more soberly. The eyes of the younger were full of adoration.

  “Don,” he said, and there was a tremor in his voice, “I ain’t worthy of her.”

  Severn grinned at him. “Yu don’t reckon yo’re tellin’ me news, do yu?” he asked quizzically.

  The meal was the merriest the Lazy M had ever seen. In the course of it, Embley, with a knowing look, asked a question.

  “Was it entirely accident, Governor, that brought you to Hope Again to-day?”

  The great little man’s eyes twinkled, and he shook his head at the lawyer.

  “Playing the brand of poker you do, Judge, your faith in the element of chance should be stronger,” he replied, and then, “Well, maybe I did hear that a certain desperate young

  outlaw” —he smiled at Sudden— “had come to life again, and perhaps Bartholomew’s activities were more widely known than he wished.”

  And that was all he would say on the subject.

  Later on, from a secluded corner to which they had retired, as they fondly hoped, unobserved, Larry and Phil saw Severn come out of the lighted room, cross the veranda and lean against the rail. A lithe grey form padded noiselessly after him and squatted on its haunches at his side.

  There was no moon yet, but the great vault of the heavens was punctured by a myriad pin-pricks of light. From the bunkhouse came the metallic tinkle of a banjo and the vociferously-shouted chorus of a song. In the far distance the Mesa Mountains showed black against the deep blue of the sky.

  But the Lazy M foreman saw none of this. His vision was of another ranch-house away beyond the mountains, on the veranda of which sat a golden-haired woman—his woman—with a chubby, kicking man-child on her knee. He could see the smile in her eyes, and hear the low, chiding tones:

  “Be good now, you little—outlaw.”

  He flung away his cigarette, stooped to caress the rough head leaning against his thigh, and the watching couple caught the muttered words:

  “To-morrow, old fella, we’re goin’—home.”

  The End

 

 

 
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