Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) (20 page)

 
          
For
an instant the rancher stared in surprise, and then a gleam of unholy joy shone
in his eyes. There was no man in the Territory who could live with him in a
rough and tumble encounter; the lamb had come willingly to the slaughter. His
astonishment was shared by the others in the room, all of whom knew the big
man’s reputation. Ridge’s expression betrayed deep concern.

 
          
“Yu
must be loco, Severn,” he whispered. “They say he killed a fella with his bare
hands in Desert Edge.”

 
          
“Don’t
yu worry, old-timer,” was the quiet reply.

 
          
Both
men removed their vests, belts and spurs, while eager hands pushed aside tables
and chairs, clearing a space round which Muger’s customers, drinks and games
forgotten, ranged themselves in close-pressed ranks. Every moment the door
opened to admit newcomers as the tidings of the impending battle spread, until
nearly the entire male population was congregated around the arena. A clamour
of arguing voices had succeeded the silence.

 
          
Amidst
it all stood Severn, watching his man, a surge of satisfaction in his heart. He
knew that he was taking a great risk—his opponent was bigger-built, heavier,
and though older, still in the prime of life—but he did not care.

 
          
To
the onlookers the contest seemed almost unfair. They saw the great bulk of the
rancher,
whose
every movement brought the muscles
rippling into ridges beneath his shirt, and contrasted it with the slim, wiry
figure of the puncher. Few of them had any doubt as to the issue. It would be
brute force against brains.

 
          
“Bart’ll
eat him, without salt,” said one.

 
          
“He’ll
find him a tough mouthful,” retorted his neighbour, who had been eyeing the
puncher closely. “Barb-wire an’ rawhide is what that fella’s made of, an’ he’s
fit.”

 
          
“Allasame,
I’m layin’ two to one on the big ‘un,” the first speaker said loudly.

 
          
“Take
that—to fifty,” snapped Ridge instantly.

 
          
One
or two other of Severn’s friends supported him, but they were few, and
Bartholomew laughed when the odds were increased and still there were no
takers.

 
          
“Too
bad yu can’t get
no
bets, boys, for it’s goin’ to be
easy money,” he called out. “I’ll break every bone in his body.”

 
          
“Chatter
is cheap,” Severn retorted. “Come an’ do it, Mister —Mask.”

 
          
He
had not raised his voice, and probably few, if any, of the jostling, excited
crowd caught the epithet. But Bartholomew heard it, was guilty of a little
start of surprise, and swore when he saw the foreman’s grin of comprehension.

 
          
For
a short moment the two men faced one another, and then Severn, determined to
get in the first punch, darted in like lightning, drove a right and left just
above Bartholomew’s belt-line and was out of reach before the other had
recovered his breath. With a bellow of rage—for he had figured on commencing
the combat—the rancher rushed in, swinging his formidable fists, dealing blows
which had they landed might well have ended the battle then and there. But the
foreman was wary; he knew that at close quarters he would be at a disadvantage;
his only hope was to keep his opponent on the move, jumping in when opportunity
offered to strike. Bartholomew fell into the trap; believing that his man was
afraid, he went after him eagerly, only to find that the light, quick-footed
puncher was somewhere else. The tactics irritated not only the rancher but his
friends, and shouts of derision, mingled with entreaties to “stand an’ fight
like a man” came from the spectators.

 
          
Severn
took no notice; he knew perfectly well what he was about; it was not the first
time he had fought a bigger man than himself. Time after time he darted in,
slammed one fist and then the other into his opponent’s body, and got away
laughing. The shouting crowd, thrusting and squirming to get a good view,
swayed back and forth, gradually narrowing the space cleared for the
combatants. Dust rose in clouds from the boards under the stamping, scuffling
feet of fighters and followers. Tobacco smoke hung like a haze over the room;
the smell of kerosene, and an intolerable heat added to the discomfort. Shouts
of encouragement, mostly for Bartholomew, mingled with the curses of those
unfortunate enough to get hurt in the melee.

 
          
Despite
all that Ridge and one or two others could do, the ring soon grew smaller
again, and Severn found himself forced into close quarters with the big man
who, quick to see his advantage, rushed in, flailing the air with his great
arms. The puncher, unable to retreat, dodged what blows he could, took the
remainder, and fought back doggedly, aiming for the body, which he had already
selected as Bartholomew’s weak spot. His lips drawn back in a snarling smile,
his jaws clenched and narrowed eyes alert, he endured a shower of blows which
would have beaten a less agile man to the ground, and every now and then his
fists thudded into the bigger man’s midriff. The succession of punches in one
place was beginning to have its effect, the Bar B man was breathing gustily,
and he winced obviously when Severn got a hit home.

 
          
The
Lazy M man, too, was being severely punished; he could not evade all the blows,
and presently a whirling right caught and sent him to his knees. Amidst a howl
of jubilation from his supporters, Bart jumped forward and aimed a venomous
kick at the puncher’s head. Severn, on his feet but not upright, twisted aside,
caught the big man’s ankle and stood up. Thrown off his balance, Bartholomew
crashed to the floor and lay there breathless and half stunned. Severn stood
wanching him, glad of the respite. In similar circumstances, the Bar B owner
would have stamped the life out of his foe, but the cowboy did not fight that
way. A tense silence gripped the spectators as they waited, and then someone
said
satirically :

 
          
“Goo’-night, Bart; pleasant dreams.”

 
          
As
if electrified, the fallen giant got to his feet and sprang at Severn.

 
          
This
time, the foreman, instead of retreating, came to meet him, and the next few
minutes were an orgy of sheer ferocity; neither man made any attempt to guard
himself, each being intent only on hurting the other. Severn knew that he was
mad to do it, but the lust to pound the poisonously puffed face of the coward
who had tried to kick him when he was down was too strong. In this he had
succeeded, for one of Bart’s eyes was closing, and the blood was streaming from
a cut in his cheek; Severn’s face also was bruised and gashed. He felt, too,
that he was weakening, his head throbbed, and his arms were like lead, but he
knew his opponent was in no better shape. In truth, Bartholomew’s fall had
shaken him; he was finding it difficult to get air enough into his lungs, his
blows no longer had the same elasticity, and he moved more slowly.

 
          
“Even
money the little ‘un,” shouted the man who had wished Bart “good-night”.

 
          
If
his purpose was to spur the big fellow to renewed efforts he accomplished it.
Amidst the yells and oaths of the nearly demented audience, who had by now
reduced the space for the battle by more than half, Bart closed, and the fight
became a medley of flying fists again, from which came the thud of bone meeting
bone, the sob of starved lungs, and the grunt which told of a blow successfully
given. Suddenly Bartholomew drew himself up and swung his right arm. Severn saw
the blow coming and stepped back, only to stumble over an outstretched foot and
stagger sideways. The fist whistled harmless over his shoulder, but ere he
could recover his balance, two great hands closed on his throat, the thumbs
sinking in until they seemed to be crushing the bones. Choking, the lights of
the saloon and the bestial ring of eager, writhing faces faded out, and he
could see only that of his foe, a livid, malignant mask of savagery. With a
last effort of expiring consciousness, he dashed his fist into it. For an
instant all went dark, and then he opened his eyes to find Ridge and Callahan supporting
him. Awkwardly sprawled on the floor lay the form of Bartholomew, breathing
stertorously but senseless. Some of the crowd frankly smiled and gave him a
cheer; others, if they felt hostile, took care not to show it. Severn grinned
feebly; he was all in, and his throat made speech difficult.

 
          
“What
happened?” he inquired.

 
          
“What
happened?” repeated Ridge, his face split by a wide smile.
“Oh,
nothin’ much.
Yu just tapped him on the chin an’ he lay down to think it
over. I reckon he’s got his needin’s for tonight, anyways. Come along to Bent’s
an’ git cleaned up; yore face looks like an Injun massacre.”

 
          
Almost
unheeded by the milling throng round the fallen fighter, the three of them left
the saloon. One man only watched them covertly—a short, middle-aged cowboy,
with a dried-up wizened face, legs badly bowed by constant riding, and two
worn, black-handled guns which hung low on his thighs. Severn saw him but took
no notice.

 
          
“The
son of a gun,” muttered the stranger, with a twisted smile, and went in search
of his horse.

 
          
An
hour later, the foreman, having removed the traces of the combat as far as
possible, set out for the Lazy M. Bitterly bruised and aching as he was, his
principal feeling was one of deep satisfaction; he had set himself a task and
had done it, and the recollection of the battered hulk he had left on the
saloon floor paid in full for his present pain. About a mile from town his
horse whickered, and an indistinct form showed from behind a bush at the side
of the trail.

 
          
“H’ist
‘em,” said a voice, but there was chuckle behind the command.

 
          
“H’ist
nothin’,” the traveller retorted. “Come outa that, yu ornery little runt, an’
explain yoreself.”

 
          
The bow-legged puncher who had been in the “Come Again” stepped
into view.

 
          
“Orders
from the boss,” he grinned.

 
          
“So I ain’t yore boss no longer, huh?”
Severn queried.
“Didn’t I say for yu to stay at the YZ?”

 
          
“Orders from yore boss.
Yessir, Miss Norry—” He paused at
the other’s laugh, and then resumed, “Oh, I know she’s bin married two-three
years, but she’s still `Miss Norry’ to the outfit, an’ allus will be. Well, she
says, `Snap, I got a letter from that man o’ mine tellin’ me everythin’ is ca’m
an’ peaceful, an’ things is workin’ out fine. It’s shore too good to be true;
the better he makes it, the wuss it is. Yu fork a cayuse an’ mosey along.’
Reckon yu overplayed yore hand some.”

 
          
The
foreman grinned ruefully. “I’ll never understand women,” he said. “Yu can’t
fool ‘em. If I’d told her things were a bit promiscuous, she’d ‘a’ sent yu just
the same. How’s everybody at the old homestead?”

 
          
“Fine
as silk,” Snap Lunt replied. “That yearling o’ yores gets bigger while yu
watch. I misdoubt he’ll be a wuss hellion than his daddy. Tried to take my gun
off’n me the other
day,
an’ shore raised the roof when
he couldn’t have it.”

 
          
“I’ll
bet he did—
there ain’t nothin’ the matter with that young
fella’s lungs,
” the foreman agreed with paternal pride. “When
d’yu
get here, Snap?”

 
          
“Just
in time for the show,” Lunt said. “Yu ain’t
forgot
how
to use yore paws, Don.”

 
          
“I
ain’t `Don’ around here, Snap; I’m Jim Severn, even whenwe seem to be alone,”
the other warned him. “Yu come near bein’ in time for my funeral—I shore
thought he’d got me.”

 
          
“That
last was a daddy of a wallop—me, I’d sooner be kicked by an outlaw hoss,” Lunt
told him. “I’m glad I come; things don’t seem so painfully peaceful around
here.”

 
          
“To
tell yu the truth, old-timer, they ain’t all Sunday school,” Severn admitted.
“Listen, this is the way of it.”