Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) (24 page)

 
          
“I
dunno—
never
bin there,” the prisoner returned. “I
ain’t throwed in with this crush long an’ wish I’d never seen ‘em.”

 
          
“Who
was the boss o’ this outfit?” was the next question.

 
          
“Can’t say.
We took orders from a square-set chap by name o’
Shadwell,” the man answered. “None of us knew the others well ‘
cause
mostly we had our mugs draped.”

 
          
Somehow
Severn believed that the outlaw was telling the truth. “Yu can take a hoss an’
some grub an’ beat it outa the country,” he told him. “An’ if yu got any regard
for yore health, don’t dawdle.” The man slouched away and Severn turned to
Ridge just as Lunt came up. “Some of ‘em musta got
clear–there’s
a passage out to a ledge higher up the rock face. I’m thinkin’ that hombre gave
us the straight goods—the girl ain’t here.”

 
          
“Pity
we missed that fella Shadwell,” Ridge regretted. “We didn’t,” Snap said grimly,
and passed on.

 
          
Ridge’s
glance followed him. “
Don’t waste no
words, does he?”
was his remark.

 
          
Severn
smiled. “Point is, what we goin’ to do now?”

 
          
“Leave
a couple o’ chaps to search out this other cache an’ hike home,” Ridge replied.
“Nothin’ else to do—yet.”

 
          
Severn
agreed. One cowboy from each outfit remained behind with instructions to comb
the country and send word immediately they hit upon the second hideout. The
rest returned to their respective ranches.

 
          
THE
daylight raid on the Lazy M ranch and the carrying off of its young mistress,
coming so soon after the impudent despoiling of the bank, aroused a wave of
indignation in Hope, the universal opinion being that it was quite time the
bandits were vigorously dealt with. But when the news came that this had been
attempted, some of the inhabitants found offence in that. This singular point
of view originated with the sheriff and was carefully fostered by him. He
affected to regard the joint action of the two ranches as a direct slight, not
only to himself and his office, but to the whole settlement.

 
          
Thus
vindicated his face wore a smug, satisfied expression when he called at the Bar
B the following morning. The big man’s welcome was not flattering; he had a wholesome
contempt for men who allowed him to use them, and did not always trouble to
hide it.

 
          
“Yo’re
lookin’ pretty pleased with yoreself this mornin’,” he sneered. “What’s the
glad tidin’s?”

 
          
“I
put a crimp in Mister Severn,” the sheriff gloated. “If he’s expectin’ a pat on
the back for tacklin’
them
outlaws he’s due for a
disappointment, yu betcha.”

 
          
“Fine,”
gibed the other. “That’ll scare him most to death, o’ course. What do yu reckon
he’ll do—leave the country?”

 
          
The
complacency vanished from Tyler’s face as though wiped away with a sponge. He
wriggled uncomfortably in his seat and did not reply. Having thus reduced him
to the state of mind he required, Bartholomew delivered the next blow.

 
          
“Yo’re
a middlin’ pore sheriff, ain’t yu?” he began. “How long
d’yu
reckon
yu’d keep yore job if I wasn’t back o’ yu?”

 
          
The
visitor’s puffy, crimson face took on a purplish tint at this home question.

 
          
“I
know yu bin a good friend, Bart,” he quavered. “I never forget it.”

 
          
“Yu
better not,” Bart told him grimly. “I’m about the on’y one yu got. When yu
goin’ to arrest Severn?”

 
          
“Arrest
him?”
goggled
Tyler.
“Whaffor?”

 
          
“Pickin’
flowers outa yore front garden, o’ course,” the big man said with savage irony.
“For the murder o’ Philip Masters, to begin with.”

 
          
“But
I ain’t got a shred o’ evidence,” the officer protested.

 
          
“No,
bein’ sheriff, yu wouldn’t have—others has to do yore job for yu,” Bart
retorted. “But yu needn’t to worry about that; I’ve got a-plenty.”

 
          
“Yu
can prove he bumped off Masters?” gasped the astounded sheriff.

 
          
Bart
nodded triumphantly. “He’s as good as hanged,” he said. “Climb yore cayuse an’
I’ll show yu.”

 
          
Half
an hour later they rode into The Sink and turned up the little gully where
Bartholomew had happened upon the clothes of the missing rancher. When they
reached the bush which concealed the hiding-place, the Bar B man pointed to it,
and
said :

 
          
“Take
a peep for yoreself.”

 
          
Thrusting
aside the foliage the sheriff pulled out the wrinkled garments one by one,
examining them closely. When he came to the hat his pig-like eyes widened.

 
          
“That’s
Masters’ lid, shore enough—they must be his duds,” he said. “Hello, what’s
this?”

 
          
Underneath
the clothes, and half-hidden at the bottom of the crack was a gleam of metal.
The sheriff reached down and lifted the object into view—a Winchester repeater.
The barrel of the weapon was foul, not having been cleaned since last fired,
and on the stock the initials “J.S.” were rudely scratched. At sight of these
Tyler emitted a whoop of exultation.

 
          
“Them
letters stands for Jim Severn, I reckon,” he pronounced, with the air of one
who has worked out a difficult problem.

 
          
“What
a head yu got, Hen,” Bart said, in anything but an admiring tone. “Allasame,
it’s possible they might mean John Smith.”

 
          
The
sheriff looked at him doubtfully. “Yu think it’s his gun?” he asked.

 
          
“I
know it is, yu fool,” Bart assured him, and at his meaning look Tyler grinned
with understanding. “Now, see here,” the rancher continued, “put them things
back as they
was
. I didn’t find ‘em, remember. Yu an’
one o’ yore deppities, ridin’ through here, will notice the tracks, roller ‘em
up an’ discover the duds. Savvy?”

 
          
The
sheriff did, plainly enough, and his evil little eyes glittered. This would
show some of those cheap-wits in Hope what sort of a sheriff they had. He well
knew that his reputation badly needed a tonic, and here it was, “made and
provided”, like the statutes.

 
          
“Yu
shorely have got brains, Bart,” he said admiringly, as he replaced the
articles.

 
          
As
they turned their horses’ heads again towards the Bar B Tyler asked, “Anythin’
else to tell me ‘bout Severn?”

 
          
“Yu
can charge him with the bank robbery an’ shootin’ Rapson,” Bartholomew replied
coolly, and the sheriff fairly jumped in his saddle.

 
          
“Yu
can prove that, too?” he cried incredulously.

 
          
“There’ll
be no need—he’ll do that for yu hisself,” the rancher told him.”But I thought—”
began the bewildered officer.

 
          
“Great mistake.
Fella like yu shouldn’t think—too big a
strain on your intellects,”
sneered
Bart. “Lemme do it
for yu, Hen; yu’ll find it safer.”

 
          
The
sheriff subsided like a burst bladder. He was well aware that he was wholly at
the mercy of this jeering devil, and must obey blindly, for though he knew a
little, and suspected much, Bart had never admitted him to his confidence. He
was a mere tool, to be used, rewarded or discarded at his master’s whim.

 
          
“Whyfor
did Severn want to abolish Masters?” he ventured. “I figure him an’ Embley are
after the Lazy M,” Bartholomew explained. “An’ with the girl outa the way,
there don’t seem to be much to stop ‘em—barrin’ me.”

 
          
“But
the White Masks took the gal an’ he tried to git her back,” Tyler argued.

 
          
“Men
wearin’ white masks, yu mean, same as when the bank was looted,” the other
corrected. “First off, I thought he was in with the Pinnacles’ gang, but I can
see now he’s just used ‘em. They didn’t find the girl, did they? Oh, he’s
clever, damn him.”

 
          
“What
d’yu reckon
they done with her?”

 
          
“Planted
her, likely as not,”
lied
the Bar B owner. “With no heirs—I
never heard Masters mention any family—an’ Embley executor o’ the will, why,
it’s
pie like mother used to make.”

 
          
“The
Judge has a name for bein’ straight,” Tyler offered. “The cleverest crook allus
has,” was Bart’s caustic comment. When they parted at the Bar B ranch-house,
the owner had a final
word :

 
          
“I
hear Rapson is better an’ is startin’ up his bank again. Keep an eye on it;
I’ve a hunch yu’ll get yore chance there. Have a coupla yore men allus handy,
but don’t move till Severn gives yu the invite. I gotta take a little trip an’
I’m leavin’ this to yu. Bungle it, an’ yu an’
me
take
different trails. Savvy?”

 
          
The
sheriff nodded and went away, the big man’s eyes following him contemptuously.

 
          
“If
I’d ‘a’ told him it was Sudden he’d gotta arrest he’d be p’intin’ for Mexico
right now,” he soliloquised.

 
          
“An’
I dunno as I’d blame him much at that,” said another voice, and Bartholomew
turned to find his foreman.

 
          
“Hello,
Pent,” he greeted. “How’d it go?”

 
          
“Easy
as takin’ a drink,” replied Penton. “No trouble a-tall. Yu got the sheriff
primed up?”

 
          
“Shore,
but hang around town in case he wants help,” Bart said. “Things
is
shapin’ up right for us, an’ I don’t want any fool
blunders.”

**

       
In a rude but strongly-built log shack,
hidden in a clump of wind-whipped, stunted pines on the slopes of the second
Pinnacle, was Phil Masters. From the moment when, in the hallway at the Lazy M,
masked men had flung a blanket over her head, carried her out and tied her on
the back of a horse, her mind had been in a state of numbed bewilderment. She
was conscious of having been jolned about like a helpless sack on the back of a
pony through an interminable ride. After the first hour the stifling blanket
which muffled her head had been removed and she was able to breathe freely
again and look about.

 
          
There
were four men with her, two riding in front and two behind, well-armed, dressed
in ragged range costume and masked. The towering peak far ahead told her that
they were pointing for the mysterious region she had once expressed a desire to
explore. Her escort took no notice of her, and, if they spoke, did so in
whispers she could not hear; it was like riding with the dumb.

 
          
Hour
after hour they plodded on, and at last, when they were beneath the shadow of
the first Pinnacle, a halt was called. The men got down, lifted Phil from her
saddle, and the journey was continued on foot up a narrow cliff pathway. She
had guessed, of course, that she was in the hands of the dreaded White Masks,
and she now recognised the place from the description Larry had given her. As
she toiled up the steep slope she found herself wondering if Severn would come
to her rescue.

 
          
She
spent a sleepless night sitting on a blanket in a black hole adjoining the main
cave. In the morning one of her captors brought bread, bacon and coffee.