Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) (2 page)

 
          
THE
little town of Hope Again lay dormant under the blistering heat of the midday
sun, a heat which made exertion a curse and any sort of shade a blessing. The
origin of the somewhat quaint name was a mystery, but it is conceivable that
the place was christened by some luckless pioneer who, having survived the
maddening monotony and deadly menace of the desert which stretched to the south,
was moved to inspiration by the sight once more of water, trees and the distant
hills.

 
          
Hope—as
the dwellers therein usually called it—little warranted so encouraging a name.
A far-flung frontier settlement, it differed in no way from a hundred others of
its kind. Two straggling, irregular lines of apologies for buildings,
constructed of timber, ‘dobe or both, formed some sort of a street, and the
spaces between them, littered with tin cans and other refuse, added to the
unlovely picture. Only two of these erections aspired to the dignity of a
second story, the “hotel” and the largest of the saloons—Muger’s—which bore the
inviting title “Come Again”, and to which a dance hall was attached. The rest
of the town comprised a bank, solidly built of ‘dobe bricks, a blacksmith’s,
two general stores, one of which was also the post office, several smaller
saloons, shacks and dugouts, which sheltered the permanent population. Board
sidewalks made progress for pedestrians possible, and at one end of the dusty,
rutted road a rude timber bridge spanned the little river which, after a
tortuous journey from the Mesa Mountains in the north, supplied the town with
water and went on to lose itself in the sands of the desert less than a mile
away. And over everything an almost impalpable dust cast a grey-white mantle.

 
          
The
town appeared to be deserted save for two men standing in the doorway of one of
the lesser saloons. One was the owner of the place, Bent, a short, squat
fellow, with a craggy face in which the eyes twinkled good-humouredly. The
other was a stranger, and the saloon-keeper—as is the way of his kind—was
curious about him, but not unduly so, for in the West curiosity, like dynamite,
must be handled carefully.

 
          
He
was a tall man, apparently nearing thirty, with the wide shoulders and narrow
hips of the athlete. His clean-shaven, deeply-tanned face, with its steady
grey-blue eyes and firm jaw, had the gravity of an Indian’s, but there was a
quirk of humour in the little lines at the corners of the mouth. His cowboy rig
was plain but neat, and had evidently seen service; and the same appeared to be
the case with the two guns which hung low on his hips, the ends of the holsters
tied down to facilitate the draw. A furtive examination of his horse in the
corral behind the saloon had told Bent nothing. He did not know the brand.

 
          
Bent,
covertly regarding the lithe, lounging figure, continued his inward
speculation. Was he an out-of-work puncher, a gun-man, or both, and what had
brought him to Hope, which was on the direct route to nowhere? His meditations
were interrupted in a curious manner. From up the street came a crack like a
pistol-shot, a yelp of animal pain and a volley of oaths. Then from the door of
the “Come Again” saloon a dog hurtled forth as though forcibly propelled. There
was a rope round its neck, and holding the other end
came
a cowboy wielding a wicked quirt and a still more wicked tongue. The dog,
having recovered from its ungainly sprawl in the dust, set off down the street,
the man following, tugging on the rope and flicking the animal with the whip.

 
          
“I’ll
larn yu to fly at me, yu mongrel whelp o’ the devil, if I have to lift the hide
off’n yu an inch at a lick,” he yelled. “Take that, yu—”

 
          
With
the savage words the whip cracked again, and a fresh bleeding spon on the dog’s
back showed when the cruel end of the lash had bitten, removing hair and skin.
The yelp of the tortured beast and the laugh of its persecutor rang out
together. The apparent report of a firearm peopled the place as if by magic. From
doors and windows heads protruded, while a few men, more curious or more
venturesome than their fellows, came out on the sidewalk, but cautiously, for
lead might be flying about, and a bullet is no respecter of persons. When they
saw what was happening several of them smiled. “Mad” Martin was at his tricks
again.

 
          
“Stay
with him, boy. Ride him,” one shouted.

 
          
“I’ll
ride him to hell an’ back,” yelled the cowboy, as, dragged by the nearly
demented dog, he jerked by, his dug-in heels sending up clouds of dust.
Opposite Benn’s saloon he swung his quirt for another blow.

 
          
“Drop
that whip
! ”
came a curt command.

 
          
The
stranger had suddenly come alive; one stride took him to the edge of the
sidewalk, and it was he who had spoken. Martin stared at him, a savage surprise
in his beady eyes. Leaning back, he checked his progress for a moment.

 
          
“Yu
can go plumb to hell,” he retorted.

 
          
“Drop
it, yu skunk,”
came
the further order, and this time
there was a cold menace in the tone.

 
          
Martin
recognised it and knew that he must either obey or fight. He elected to do
both. Dropping the quirt he snatched at his gun. The other man appeared to make
no move until the weapon was clear of the holster, and then came a spurt of
smoke from his right hip, and Martin toppled sideways into the dust, letting
fall his own gun and the rope as he did so. The stranger stepped into the
street and stood over the prostrate man. “That dawg belong to yu?” he asked.

 
          
“Yes,
an’ what the hell business is it o’ yores, anyways?” spat out the other, his
baleful eyes glaring murder.

 
          
“I’ve
made it my business, an’ I’m buyin’ yore dawg,” replied the stranger coolly, as
he took a roll of bills from his pocket peeled off one and flung it down.
“That’s five times the dawg’s value an’ fifty times yores,” he added
contemptuously.

 
          
“
This don’t
finish here—I’ll get yu,” Martin gritted.

 
          
“Better
get—yoreself,” the stranger warned sardonically.

 
          
The
wounded man staggered to his feet and floundered back up the street, clutching
his hurt arm, from the fingers of which the blood dripped redly. The victor
watched him for a few moments and then stepped to the sidewalk again, whistling
to the dog, which had paused uncertainly a few dozen yards away. Apparently
recognising a friend, the animal, little more than a pup, of a mixed breed in
which the wolfhound predominated, obeyed the call, alternately cringing and
wagging its tail. The rescuer stooped and scratched its head.

 
          
“Yu
shore have
had a raw deal, old fella,” he said. “An’
by the look o’ yore ribs meal times ain’t been any too regular. We’ll have to
find somethin’ to fill out them dimples.”

 
          
“You
coward !
“

 
          
The
voice was low and should have been sweet, but now it was charged with anger and
scorn. In startled amazement the dog petter looked up to find that the words
had been spoken by a girl, who had apparently emerged from the neighbouring
store. Despite her evident temper, he had to admit she made a pretty picture.
Of medium height, her slim, rounded figure showed to advantage in the short
riding skirt, high-laced boots and shirtwaist, with a gay handkerchief knotted
round her throat cowboy fashion. Her soft slouched hat did not entirely conceal
a profusion of brown hair, to which the sun added a gleam of new bronze.

 
          
“You
might have killed him,” she went on vehemently.

 
          
Instinctively
the stranger removed his hat. He knew, of course, that she was referring to the
dog’s late owner, and there was a spark of devilment in his eyes.

 
          
“Shore
I might—if I’d wanted to,” he said gravely. “But I on’y winged him—just put him
out of action; he’ll be as good as new in two-three weeks. I take it yu don’t
like dawgs, ma’am?”

 
          
“Yu
take it wrong—I’m very fond of them,” the girl retorted. “But I don’t place
them on the same level as human beings.”

 
          
The
stranger’s eyes twinkled. “Yo’re dead right, ma’am,” he agreed. “Sometimes that
wouldn’t be fair to the dawg.”

 
          
The
girl bit her lip. “You provoked that man into drawing his gun knowing you could
shoot first,” she accused.

 
          
“An’
me not havin’ seen the fella afore,” the unknown reproved gently. “He got his
gun out too, an’ he shore meant business.”

 
          
“An
even break—the old excuse of the professional killer,” she sneered. “That is
what you are, I suppose, and all you cared about was adding another notch to your
gun. Why, you laughed when you fired! “

 
          
With
a sudden movement the man lifted the handles of his guns so that she could see
them, but he spoke to the dog squatting contentedly at his feet, “Shore, I like
to see ‘em kick,” he grinned. “Reckon I’ll have to get some nicks put on these
guns though; that’s a bet we’ve overlooked, pup.”

 
          
The
girl glared at him with stormy eyes. “You’re utterly contemptible,” she said,
and stalked into the store.

 
          
The
man replaced his hat and pulled the dog’s ears. “We ain’t a mite popular, old
fella,” he told it. ” `Less than the dust’ don’t begin to describe us with her,
but she shore rests the eyes, an’ I reckon when she smiles—”

 
          
His
speculations were cut short by the sudden advent of four riders, who pulled
their mounts to a sliding stop in front of the saloon. The leader, a big,
black-haired man, with a hooked nose, was obviously in no amiable mood.

 
          
“Yu
the fella that shot up one o’ my men?” he blurted out.

 
          
The
stranger straightened up and looked at him.

 
          
“Speakin’
to me?” he asked, and then, “I put a bullet into a two-legged skunk just now,
but if he’s one o’ yore outfit I reckon yo’re a mighty poor picker o’ men.”

 
          
The
big man ignored the slur on his judgment. “What dam right yu got to interfere
between a man an’ his dawg?” he asked.

 
          
“I
got a right—an’ a left,” grinned the stranger, his fingers sweeping the butts
of his guns.

 
          
“Huh!
One o’ them funny jiggers, eh?” sneered the other. “What’s yore business
hereabouts?”

 
          
“My
business,” retorted the stranger emphatically.
“You the
sheriff—or somethin’?”

 
          
The
slow drawl and the tone in which the words were uttered rendered them plainly
insulting, and the big man’s jaw clenched. “I ain’t the sheriff,” he said,
“but—”

 
          
“Yu
own him,” interrupted the mocking voice. “Well, that’s just as good, ain’t it?”
And then, in a different tone: “If
that fella behind yu don’t
keep his hands still yu’ll likely be shy another man.”

 
          
“Stay
out o’ this, Penton, I’m runnin’ it,” the leader said, and to the man on the
sidewalk :
“I asked what yore business here is. Yu better
not try my patience too much.”

 
          
The
unknown laughed. “Try yore patience!” he echoed. “Well, yu got yore nerve—we’ll
try that.” His hands flashed to his sides, and in an instant both his guns were
covering them. “Now,” he rasped out, “I can put the four o’ yu on yore backs in
as many seconds. Roll yore tails, every dam one o’ yu—I’m short on patience my
own self.”

 
          
The
whole aspect of the man had changed. The lounging, nonchalant figure was now
tense, the narrowed eyes grim and alert, and though there was a smile on the
lips it was no more suggestive of mirth than the bared teeth of a savage
animal. There was no mistaking the reality of the threat. Utterly taken by
surprise, the four men had no option, and with one accord they turned their
horses’ heads up the street. Their leader, the last to go, had a final word.