Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) (10 page)

 
          
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 a state 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.

 
          
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
place dunno
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, with
authority 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
him off an’ get shut of him, 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 acclimatize 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.