Sudden Law o The Lariat (1935)

by Oliver Strange

  The goaded searcher snatched out his gun and thrust it into his captive's face. "One more yap outa yu an' I'll blow yu four ways to onct," he threatened.

  But this was where he made a slip. Severn's elbows had been dropping imperceptibly during the search and now, with an upward and outward fling of his left hand, he was able to knock the gun muzzle wide, and at the same moment his right fist, with a stiff, short-arm jolt, thudded into that centre of nerves and tissue known to scientists as the solar plexus. Under that paralysing blow the recipient doubled up like a hinge and went down gasping in agony. His companion fired but missed, and Severn, grabbing his own gun, drove a bullet into him before he could pull trigger again. One leap landed him in the saddle, and he was pounding through the canyon before the bandits realised what had happened to them.

  "Yu see," he explained to Larry that evening, when the latter came to hand over the money, "Geevor's anxiety that we should go through Skull Canyon made me suspect him. When his gun went off twice by accident, I felt pretty shore it was a signal, an' when his hoss goes lame so's he can have an excuse to fall behind, I knew. I figured he'd slip away early an' tell his friends I was goin' back alone, an' havin' missed the herd, they'd lay for me to get the dollars. They'd never suspicion I'd trust one o' the men with the roll, so they'd let the outfit go by. It worked just like I played it would."

  The foreman told no one else of his adventure, but somebody must have talked, for the outfit got to know of it, and the foreman's reputation did not suffer in consequence. On the following morning, Severn found Geevor talking with Miss Masters.

  "What became o' yu last night, Geevor?" he asked.

  "I started afore the rest, thinkin' my hoss might go lame agin, an' it did, so I couldn't make the ranch," the man said.

  "Come down to my place an' get yore time," Severn said, in a tone which conveyed his disbelief.

  "Why are you dismissing Geevor?" the girl asked sharply. "He couldn't help his horse failing."

  "He's goin' because there's times when he's ashamed to show his face, ain't that so, Geevor?" the foreman returned.

  The man flushed and scowled. "I'm not stayin' where I ain't wanted," he said truculently.

  "That's whatever," the foreman agreed. "An' keep clear o' the Lazy M or yu'll likely be stayin'--permanent."

  The girl, with one withering glance at Severn, stalked into the house. She did not see the look which followed her, and in-hetstate of anger would not have read it aright if she had. She sought comfort where she had always found it as a child--on the broad bosom of Dinah.

  "Don' yu worry, honeybird," the old negress soothed. "Sump'n tell me Massah Philip he come back, an' dat no-'count husban' o' mine say Mistah Severn good fella--he know his job."

  This was the last straw. Phil flew to her room feeling that she hadn't a friend in the world.

  Chapter VII

  THE boss of the Bar B dropped into a chair, lit up a cigar, and surveyed his surroundings with savage disgust. Tt was essentially a man's room, and the bare floor, clumsy furniture and litter of saddles, guns, ropes and other paraphernalia of the range contrasted unfavourably with the corresponding apartment at the Lazy M. Old Robbie, a cowpuncher who had got too terribly stove up in a stampede to ride again, could keep house after a fashion, but he had not the instincts of a home-maker. Hitherto the matter had not troubled Bart; when he married, they would live at the Lazy M, but to-day that event appeared somewhat remote. And it had all seemed so easy; everything was coming his way until the advent of the new foreman and the disappearance of the owner had put a new complexion on matters. He knew well enough why that marriage clause was in the will.

  His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Penton, the one man of his outfit who was admitted to a measure of familiarity. A thin-faced, sour-looking fellow, with clamped lips and small, ruthless eyes which read the bigger man's expression at a glance. Flinging his hat on the table, he sat down.

  "What's eatin' yu, Bart?" he inquired, and then, "I saw the Masters girl in Desert Edge."

  "She went to see Embley, actin' on instructions she found in her father's papers," Bartholomew explained. "The old fool's made the Judge her guardian, an' she can't do a thing without his consent."

  Penton whistled. "That postpones yore nuptials quite a piece, don't it?" he queried. "What happens if she takes a chance?"

  "She loses the ranch," Bart growled.

  "The hell she does, the cunnin' old coyote," commented the other. "She's a mighty nice gal, but the prettiest of 'em looks better framed, an' the Lazy M is shore a handsome frame."

  Bartholomew scowled his agreement with the sentiment. "Yu find out anythin'?" he asked.

  "Precious little, 'cept that Embley don't love yu," Penton replied.

  "That's news," sneered his employer. "Yu didn't say yu come from me, did yu?"

  "No need--he knew, an' as soon as I mentioned Severn he tells me I can get all the information nearer home--from Severn himself, an' bows me out, grinnin' like a cat."

  Bartholomew nodded comprehendingly; he had met the Judge more than once, and he knew that grin.

  "Severn ain't well known in Desert Edge--came there a few times to see Embley, but nobody knows where from," Penton went on. "Yu remember Fallan bein' wiped out there by a stranger? Well, it was Mister Severn. Oh, there ain't no fuss; it was more than an even break, an' the deceased warn't popular. The on'y mourners were the folks he owed money to. He was the first to go."

  "What're yu drivin' at?" Bartholomew asked, but Penton preferred to tell the story his own way.

  "Comin' back I took the trail past the old Forby placedunno why," he resumed.

  "The big cottonwood is bearin' fruit agin--there was a body hangin' from the same old branch, an' when I got it down I found it was Ignacio; he'd been shot in the throat an' then strung up. Odd, ain't it?"

  Black Bart ground out an oath of surprise.

  "Yeah, an' on the trunk o' the tree there's two notches, new cut, over the Forby brand," added Penton. "Now Fallan an' the Greaser were in that business, an' there's five of us left, yu, me, Darby, Devint an' Geevor. I'm wonderin' which of us the next notch'll be cut for."

  The rancher laughed harshly.

  "Bah, yo're losin' yore nerve an' seein' things, Pent," he said. "Ten years ago : why, somebody's bound to get bumped off in that time. As for the Greaser, he warn't no-ways popular, though I'll admit it's curious the chap who downed him should have picked on that particular tree as a gallows. Now, see here, that can wait; we got somethin' bigger to think of. I hear that Severn took his herd through to Ridge an' got back with the cash, so there he is firm in the saddle at the Lazy M, withauthority an' money to carry on. What we goin' to do about it?"

  Penton was silent for a while, his cold eyes, half-lidded like reptile's, staring vacantly at the wall. Presently he spoke, an from his tone no one would have supposed that he was suggesting the murder of a fellow-creature.

  "Put Shady on to him--he's fast with a gun an' he ain't known in Hope, so we needn't to show in it," he advised.

  "He's fast all right, but I doubt if he could beat Severn to it on an even break, an' we don't wanta lose Shady," Bartholomew objected.

  "Who said anythin' about an even break?" queried the other coolly. "Shady can frame him; we're strong enough in town to see that he makes his getaway."

  The Bar B owner pondered on the proposition, his face set in a savage sneer. His decision was soon made.

  "Reckon yo're right," he said. "I'll fix it, an' in the meantime it won't do no harm to sorta hint that Severn knows somethin' o' Masters' disappearance. Savvy?"

  "Bump hirn off an' get shut of hirn, that's my hunch," Penton said. "Who's goin' to care, seein' he's a stranger here? I'm tellin' yu, he's bad medicine for yu an' me, an' I'll feel a heap easier when he's buzzard-meat."

  "Dropped 'em in a cleft, way off the trail, where they won't be found. We don't want no inquiries," was the callous reply. Black Bart nodded his agreement, and Penton
left him.

  It was late in the afternoon when Severn and Larry rode into Hope and pulled up in front of the bank. The foreman was carrying a sum of about two thousand dollars, and wished to rid himself of the responsibility. The bank staff consisted of a manager and an assistant, and the latter being out on an errand, the former attended to the visitors himself. Mr. Rapson was an Easterner, and had never been able to acclimatise himself. A short, fat man, his wrinkled, black frock-coat, shiny bald head and spectacles gave him rather the appearance of a parson down on his luck. When the transaction was concluded, Severn began to chat about the town, and the banker immediately declared himself.

  "As a business man, Mister Severn, I make it a rule never to take part in any local controversy," he stated. "I cannot afford to. The facilities of this establishment are at the disposal of any reputable person."

  He puffed out his chest as he pompously gave vent to these sentiments, and Larry smothered a yelp of delight. It tickled him to death to hear someone hurling what he termed "dictionary stuff" at his friend, and he eagerly awaited the volley of high-flown language he expected would be the reply. But Severn sold him.

  "I reckon yo're right, seh," was all he said.

  Barton swore disgustedly as they emerged. "Cuss the fella; yu never can tell what he's liable to do."

  "If yo're referrin' to that windbag, yo're wrong," his companion replied. "It's a shore thing he'll play safe every time."

  Larry let it go at that and followed his foreman along the street to Bent's Saloon. It proved to be empty of customers, but from behind the bar the proprietor smiled a wide welcome.

  "Which I shore am pleased to see yu again, gents," he said, reaching for a bottle on a back shelf. "That's the brand I take my own self, an' I think yu'll like it. How yu makin' it at the Lazy M?"

  Severn sampled the liquor and pronounced it good before he answered the question. "Fine and dandy," he said easily. "We ain't had no trouble as yet."

  Bent slapped his thigh delightedly. "Yo're the fella I've dreamt of--the fella this town needs bad," he said.

  " `One man can't win agin twenty,' " Severn quoted with twinkling eyes.

  "Awright, I said it an' I don't take it back," Bent grinned. "But the right fella, with a few good men to back his play, can win agin double the number, see?"

  "Shore," Severn agreed. "How would Ridge of the XT do for one?"

  "Which I should say so," replied Bent with evident enthusiasm. "He's as square as they make 'em, an' he's got friends. Yu seen him? But o' course yu have--yu got yore herd through; they was bettin' three to one agin it at the `Come Again'."

  Severn digested this information in silence. Did the frequenters of Muger's know that an attempt would be made to lift the cattle, or were they gambling on the chance of the White Masks seizing the opportunity? One thing was very clear--someone was keeping a sharp eye on what was happening at the Lazy M.

  "Them bandits in the Pinnacles don't 'pear to be interfered with," he remarked casually.

  "Well, they ain't bothered Hope none as yet, an' Tyler, the sheriff, won't never lose his eyesight lookin' for work," the saloon-keeper replied.

  "I'm leavin' the findin' of them goodt men to yu," the Lazy M foreman said as they left the saloon.

  "They'll shore be on hand when yu want 'em," Bent assured him. "An' they'll come painted for war, yu bet yu."

  The adjacent store was the next place of call, for supplieswere needed at the ranch. The proprietor, Callahan, a dried-up little Irishman, looked at them with snapping eyes.

  "Yis, this is where Mister Masters allus bought," he said, in answer to a question from the foreman. "But I've had orders not to sarve ye."

  Severn stared at him. "Then I'd better go over to Winter," he said, naming the other storekeeper.

  Callahan laughed. "Shure, Bart owns him, lock, stock an' barrel, an' he'll be after havin' instructions too," he countered. "Then the Desert Edge merchants are shore in luck," the foreman retorted.

  "Aisy now," smiled the Irishman. "As I said, I've had orders but divil a bit did I say I was goin' to give anny heed to 'em. Bent is a good friend o' mine, an' Black Bart's order not to supply yu was the first I ever had from him. Now, what're ye wantin'?"

  Severn detailed the various articles required, arranged to send in for them the following day, and the two men drifted out in search of a meal. In the course of it, Larry, after a long silence, made a casual comment.

  "This burg ain't so composed o' tame animiles as I was reckonin'."

  "No, some has got ideas o' their own," his friend agreed.

  Muger's saloon, the "Come Again", was, for a small cow town, a place of luxury. Both the bar, which was also the portion devoted to the Goddess of Chance, and the dance hall were lavishly supplied with gilt mirrors, and there were pictures, mostly of women in various stages of undress, on the walls; the furniture was good of its kind. A long bar, plentifully stocked with an assortment of liquors, faced the main entrance, and the intervening space was filled with tables and chairs. These were pretty well occupied when Severn entered--alone--and sauntered to the bar. Calling for a drink, he sipped it leisurely and looked about.

  He knew that his appearance had provoked comment, for he saw men whispering and glancing in his direction. The only one who did not seem to be interested was a young red-faced puncher who had entered almost on his heels, and now leaned against one end of the bar cuddling his glass as though it was a lost friend, although by the look of him the separation had not been a long one. At the other end, Black Bart was chatting with Penton and Martin, but the latter disappeared almost immedi- ately. Severn was about midway between the solitary cowboy and the Bar B group.

  Idly he wondered how many of Bent's "good men" were present. He did not quite know why he had thus invaded the headquarters of the Bartholomew faction; it was largely agesture of defiance, a "grand-stand play", as he defined it in his own mind. He did not expect anything to happen, but there was a chance of picking up information. Larry, after a vigorous protest, had declined to accompany him, and Severn smiled to himself when he saw his friend sneak in.

  Men who spend their lives in an atmosphere of danger develop a kind of instinct which warns them when peril is present, and Severn had not been in the saloon very long before he divined that something was going to happen after all. Martin's exit was not natural, for it made him appear cowardly, and he would not risk such an imputation without a good reason. Leaning sideways against the bar, Severn kept a wary eye on the Bar B couple, arguing that any trouble would be likely to originate there. This was sound reasoning, but he was to learn that Bartholomew had depths he had not yet plumbed. Obsessed by the idea that he must watch Black Bart, he did not notice the entry of another customer, who slouched in, greeted no one and took up a position at the bar behind, and only a yard or two distant from, the Lazy M foreman.

  The newcomer was not unworthy of attention. Of medium height, his great breadth of body made him appear shorter than he really was. His attire was that of a range worker, and he wore two guns, low down on his hips, and tied. The long, claw-like right hand was burnt brown by the sun, a fact instantly noted by Larry, who was scanning the fellow covertly but closely.

  "I've seen him afore, some place," he mused. "Where's he come from an' what's he doin' here? Dasn't wear a glove on that right paw. He's a killer, shore enough."

  The man looked it. His heavy face, with knobbed muscles round the square jaw, colourless cold eyes, dirty yellow skin and the limp moustache, which did not conceal thin lips, conveyed an impression of soulless indifference, repellent, nauseating, altogether inhuman. The drink he poured himself from the bottle pushed forward by the bar-tender was of modest dimensions, a fact the watching cowboy instantly noted.

  Larry called for a cigar, lit it with the inexpertness of one who has imbibed a shade too freely, and took a surreptitious peep around the room.

  "Who's he after?" he muttered. "Bet m'self two dollars suthin's goin' to bust loose 'fore long. Hell
o, here's the sheriff; mebbe that'll cramp his game some."

  Henry Tyler, his nickel star well in evidence, followed by Martin and another citizen, promptly joined the Bar B couple, and, as though he had been waiting for them, Black Bart at once made a move for the bar.

  "Set 'em up, Sam," he said to the dispenser of drinks.

  As the five men lined up at the counter, Severn was cornpelled to move further along in order to give them room. This brought him close to the stranger, of whose presence he was still unaware. Then came the tinkle of a smashed glass.

  "Damn yu, yu clumsy cow-thumper. I'll teach yu to keep yore hoofs to yoreself," snarled a savage voice behind him, and he felt a hard, round object which he knew to be a gun-barrel jammed in the small of his back. "One move an' I'll just naturally blow yu apart," the voice continued.

  Severn stiffened; he knew he had been caught, and the rasping, metallic tone of the threat told him that it was no idle one; the least movement on his part would mean death. His eyes met those of Bartholomew, and noted the interest, mingled with a _-gleam of amusement, in the Bar B owner's face. The whole room was now silent, tense; the flip of cards and rattle of poker chips had ceased.

  "Don't yu," warned another voice, and there was no mistaking the menace in it. "If that gun ain't dropped when I've counted three, yu will be. One--two--"

  The stranger cast a hurried glance over his shoulder and saw that the speaker was the young cowpuncher. He had apparently got over his intoxication, for the gun in his hand was unwavering, the pale eyes were like chilled steel and the lips clamped on the cigar gave him a ferocity oddly out of keeping with his age. The unknown's gun clattered on the floor.

  "All right, Don; I've pulled his teeth, yu can handle him now," said the man with the drop, but he did not lower his gun. Like a flash Severn turned, and, as he did so, his right fist came round and up, with all the impetus of his body movement behind it. The blow caught the stranger fairly on the left point of his jaw, lifted him clear of the ground and hurled him, a senseless mass, on to a neighbouring card-table. The piece of furniture instantly became kindling wood, cards and chips went flying, and two of the players executed pretty back somersaults. Severn stepped forward, his hands in close proximity to his guns, then turned to face an angry sheriff. Tyler was not at any time an imposing person; his bloated face and mean eyes betrayed him for what he was--a blustering bully.