Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) (19 page)

 
          
“I’m
right distressed to give yu all this trouble,” he said. “Yu oughta let the boys
look after me.”

 
          
She
shook her head, and then, “Oh, why did you do it? To cold-bloodedly go in
search of a fellow-creature to kill him; it is horrible.”

 
          
She
saw his pale face flush and the lines about his mouth harden.

 
          
“Devint’s
kind ain’t fellow-creatures no more than a rattler is,” he said slowly. “Let me
tell yu somethin’ about him. He an’ some others once hanged an old man on a
charge they knew he was innocent f. Devint put the noose round his neck, an’
because he spoke, struck him in the face. That’s a true story.”

 
          
“But
why should you punish him—there’s a law to do that,” she protested.

 
          
“What
I’ve told yu happened ten years ago; the law is a mite slow,” he said, and
after a pause, “I would do the same again.”

 
          
She
knew that he was right; but she would not admit it. She knew, too, that had
anyone but Larry done the killing it would not have affected her so deeply, but
this again she would not admit, even to herself.

 
          
It
was not until the following morning that she heard the real story of the
shooting. She had ridden in to Hope, and had just dismounted in front of
Callahan’s store when Bartholomew came along. His face grew darker at the sight
of her.

 
          
“‘Lo,
Phil,” he said. “Reckon yu’ll allow now that I was right. Yu see what’s come o’
yore foolishness, ridin’ around with a hand; one man dead an’ another
perforated.”

 
          
“But
that had nothing to do with it,” she cried.

 
          
“It
had everythin’ to do with it,” Bartholomew said angrily. “Devint’s in the `Come
Again’ shootin’ off his mouth ‘bout seein’ yu an’ that pup kissin’ an’ cuddlin’
in Snake Coulee, an’ Barton tells him he is a liar.”

 
          
Phil’s
heart sang within her. Larry had fought for her good name; he was not a
cold-blooded slayer.

 
          
“I
got there too late, or I’d ‘a’ wiped the houn’ out myself,” the Bar B owner
went on. “O’ course I don’t believe it, but it ain’t a very nice tale for a
fella to hear about his future wife.”

 
          
The
girl looked up quickly. “I am not that, Mr. Bartholomew,” she said. “If I have
ever given you any reason to think I might be, I am sorry. You must forget it.”

 
          
Her
tone was cold and decisive, and a spasm of rage contracted the rancher’s
features. He knew that she meant every word, but he would not allow himself to
think so. With an effort he forced a smile.

 
          
“Aw,
don’t get sore at me, Phil,” he said placatingly. “I haven’t got the trick o’
makin’ pretty speeches, but I want yu, girl, an’ I ain’t takin’ that as yore
final answer.”

 
          
“I
shall not change,” she said quietly, and walked away.

 
          
Bartholomew
stared after her for a moment, his rage again uppermost, and then turned and
strode up the street. Blind with passion, he blundered into a pedestrian coming
the other way, and with an oath and a sweep of his fist, hurled him from the
board sidewalk into the dusty roadway. The victim of his wrath, a smallish man
who wore
a stubble
of grey beard and a patch over one
eye, picked himself up and glared malevolently. He was wearing a gun, and Phil
fully expected to see the bully shot down, but with a rumbled threat the
stranger went on his way, directing a curious glance at the girl as he passed
her.

 
          
THE
discovery of Phil’s real state of mind regarding him was a bitter blow to
Bartholomew’s hopes and his vanity. So that for the rest of the day his outfit
had a trying time, and when Penton dropped in at the Bar B ranch-house in the
evening, he found the owner in anything but a pleasant frame of mind. The
foreman, who had not seen him for twenty-four hours, came to the point at once.

 
          
“What’s
wrong?” he asked.

 
          
“Damn
near everythin’,” was the surly reply. “Heard about Devint?”

 
          
“I
just met up with him,” Penton said.

 
          
“What?
Devint’s dead. Yu ain’t drunk are yu?” snapped he rancher.

 
          
“Not
so as yu’d notice it,” Penton told him. “Like I said, I met up with Devint—he’s
hangin’ on the tree by Forby’s shack, an’ there’s a fourth notch cut.”

 
          
Bartholomew
glared at him. “Severn’s still playin’ that of of game, is he?” he growled.

 
          
“Yu
oughta
done
what I said an’ bumped Severn off right
away,” Penton told him. “The girl would ‘a’ found some means o’ gettin’ round
Embley. It ain’t too late now—she’d soon
forget,
him.”

 
          
“Damnation!
She
don’t
care no more for Severn than a cat likes
swimmin’,” Bart burst out. “It’s that cursed pup what downed Devint.”

 
          
He
related his meeting with Phil in the morning.

 
          
“So
she gave you the frozen mitt, eh?” Penton said. “That’s a hoss with a different
brand, ain’t it? I reckon yu gotta say farewell to the Lazy M, Bart, an’ be
content to be second-best man at the weddin’.”

 
          
The
big man looked at the bitter, sarcastic face of the speaker, and his own grew
blacker.

 
          
“I
ain’t feelin’ funny, Penton,” he warned.

 
          
“I
don’t see nothin’ humorous about it my own self,” his foreman rejoined. “I
thought mebbe I was expressin’ yore own sentiments, though I gotta admit I
ain’t ever found yu a quitter before.”

 
          
“An’
I don’t aim to be now,” the Bar B owner said harshly. “What I go after, I get,
come hell or high water. It ain’t goin’ to be as easy as I hoped, that’s all.
We gotta take chances.”

 
          
“Well,
we’ve done that afore an’ got away with it,” Penton allowed.
“No
means o’ gettin’ Embley on our side, I s’pose?”
Bartholomew’s smile was
satanic. “Yu must be a blighted thought-reader, Pent,” he said. “Yes, there is
a way, but I ain’t got it worked out yet. For now, just keep on puttin’ it
about that Severn likely rubbed out Masters.”

 
          
Penton
nodded. “Can’t pin Stevens on him too, eh?” he asked.

 
          
“It
wouldn’t do,” Bart said. “He could easy prove he warn’t in the neighbourhood
then.”

 
          
“Gettin’
rid o’ Stevens to make room for Severn didn’t do us
no
good,” the foreman remarked.

 
          
“Yo’re
damn right, it didn’t, but who’d ‘a’ thought Masters would bring in a
stranger?” Bartholomew growled. “We reckoned on his givin’ the job to Devint.”

 
          
“Masters
warn’t quite
so
dumb as we figured,” Penton said as he
went out.

 
          
Bartholomew’s
grunt was one of affirmation; he was beginning to realise that he had
underrated the late owner of the Lazy M.

 
          
It
was a message from Ridge, conveyed by one of his
riders, that
brought Severn into Hope several days after the shooting. On his way to Bent’s,
where the XT man had arranged to meet him, the foreman sensed a difference in
the attitude of the inhabitants towards himself. Several men to whom he had
nodded or spoke before, passed without apparently seeing him. Ridge, who was
waiting, soon explained the reason for this.

 
          
“Ain’t
wantin’
to make more trouble for yu, but I reckon yu
oughta know that it’s bein’ generally spread around that yu downed Masters,”
the rancher said bluntly.

 
          
“Bart’s
men seem to be doin’ the talkin’,” Bent added. “
Me
an’
Ridge thought yu might have a word to say about it.” Severn’s eyes darkened. “I
have,” he said quietly.
“I’m agoin’ up to the `Come Again’
right now to say it—to Mister Bartholomew.”

 
          
“Yu
ain’t goin’ alone, neither,” the XT man put in.

 
          
“If
I could leave here—” the saloon-keeper began, but Severn waved him to silence.

 
          
“I’m
obliged, but stay put, old-timer,” he said. “No call for yu to mix in this.”

 
          
The
big bar-room at the “Come Again” was well patronised, and had Severn needed
confirmation of the rumour about himself, the fact that only one or two men
returned his greeting would have provided it. Bartholomew, Penton, Martin and
several others were standing in a group. The Lazy M foreman walked straight up
to them.

 
          
“Bartholomew,”
he said. “I hear yo’re accusin’ me o’ murderin’ Masters.”

 
          
The
big man was obviously nonplussed for a moment; he had not expected such a
direct challenge. But he soon recovered his poise, and with a sneering grin at
those about him,
retorted :

 
          
“Well,
s’pos’n it’s so; what about it?”

 
          
“On’y
this,” Severn said coolly. “Yu will produce any evidence yu got, eat yore
words, or—fight.”

 
          
“I
ain’t takin’ orders from yu,” Bartholomew replied.

 
          
“No?
Well, yo’re takin’ this, yu dirty coward,” Severn flashed back.

 
          
With
the words, he stepped forward and his open hand slapped the Bar B owner smartly
across the cheek. The force of the blow was such that the recipient staggered
back, his face livid. With an inarticulate growl of fury he snatched at his
gun. He had got it half out of the holster when a drawling voice warned:

 
          
“I
wouldn’t.”

 
          
Bartholomew
hesitated, glaring. Severn’s right hand Colt was covering him, though no man
had seen him pull it. A gasp of astonishment came from the onlookers; Black
Bart was esteemed the quickest on the draw for miles round, and he had been
hopelessly beaten. For perhaps thirty seconds there was a tense heart-stopping
silence, and then the man who had the drop
spoke :

 
          
“Yu
went for yore gun, Bartholomew, an’ I got every right to down yu, but—stand
awful still; a move of one inch’ll land yu plumb in hell.”

 
          
The
acid in the voice bit into the big man’s brain. His hand was still on his gun,
but he dared not draw. That crouching figure with the narrowed implacable eyes
would not hesitate.

 
          
Helpless
as a tied steer, Bartholomew stood waiting the will of the man he hated, beads
of perspiration on his brow, his eyes like live coals.

 
          
“I’ve
shown yu how easy it would be for me to kill yu,” Severn said quietly. “But for
reasons o’ my own, I’m agoin’ to let yu live a bit longer.”

 
          
The
foreman’s pronouncement relaxed the terrific tension of the room in some
degree, but all knew the incident was not over. The reprieve from what appeared
to be certain death brought back a lintle of his habitual insolence to
Bartholomew, and he waited with a bitter sneer on his face for the next move.
When the foreman spoke again, his voice was low, vibrant.

 
          
“I’ve
been told, Bartholomew, that yu are anxious to get yore hands on me,” he stated.
“I’m givin’ yu the opportunity now. Shuck yore belt.”