Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) (3 page)

 
          
“Yu
got the drop—this time,” he scowled. “But there’ll be others.”

 
          
“I’m
hopin’ that,” retorted the unknown.

 
          
Watched
by the wondering population, the discomfited riders paced slowly back to the
“Come Again” saloon, and when they vanished behind its doors the stranger
turned to find Bent regarding him with a look in which amazement and
consternation were oddly mixed.

 
          
“What’s
the trouble, old-timer?” he inquired.

 
          
“Trouble?”
repeated the saloon-keeper. “My ghost, yu shore have bought into a packet of it
yoreself. Yu know who that was?”
And when the visitor shook
his head.
“That was Black Bart; most o’ the folks in this burg sit up
an’ beg when he talks.”

 
          
“Is
that so?” returned the stranger easily. “Well, it musta been quite a change for
him to find one that didn’t.” And then, with a quick grin, he
added :
“Though I gotta admit he didn’t look none pleased.”

 
          
“It
ain’t
no
laughin’ matter,” reproved Bent. “He’s got
all the power round here, an’ if he comes back with his outfit they’ll just
naturally shoot yu to bits.”

 
          
“Then
I hope the town’s got a nice roomy graveyard an’ a hospital, for both’ll be
wanted,” returned the other grimly.

 
          
“That’s
all right—no doubt yu’d git some of ‘em, but what’s the use? One man can’t win
agin twenty, an’ though I ain’t
lovin’
Bart any, I
don’t want my joint shot up—though, if it comes to it, yo’re right welcome.”

 
          
The
stranger’s eyes lit up. “Yu are shore white, seh, an’ yu’ve called the turn,”
he said. “I’ll be on my way—for now.”

 
          
Going
to the corral he saddled his horse and brought it round to the front of the
saloon. There was no haste in his movements, for he knew that he was being
watched, and had no desire to give the impression that he was running away. But
the discomfited quartette made no further demonstration, and after a leisurely
drink with the proprietor the unknown came out of the saloon, mounted and
jogged slowly out of town on the trail to the east.

 
          
Quirt—for
so he had named the dog—scampered ahead, chasing imaginary rabbits, and
returning at short intervals to salute his new master with joyful yelps.

 
          
“Yo’re
a grateful cuss, ain’t yu?” the rider apostrophized, after one of these
ebullitions. “But don’t yu be cheerful too soon; yu ain’t nearly paid for yet,
or I miss my guess.”

 
          
The
saloon-keeper watched him depart, and returned to his empty bar in a reflective
mood.

 
          
“Gentlemen,
hush,” he muttered. “I’m tellin’ myself the
news :
a
man has come to town.”

 
          
PHILIP
MASTERS, owner of the Lazy M, was sitting on the broad veranda of the
ranch-house, chewing the butt of a black cigar and moodily watching the trail,
which like a narrow white ribbon, wound down the slope and across the open range
in the direction of Hope Again, some twenty miles distant. A short, sturdy man
of fifty, with greying hair and a clean-shaven face, on which the mark of
mental stress was plainly set, he was somewhat of a problem to those who knew
him. Though at times he could be jovial and carefree, he had, during the last
few years, become a prey to spells of black depression utterly out of keeping
with his apparent prosperity. For Masters’ was reckoned the best ranch in the
county, and unlike most of the big cattlemen, he actually owned many square
miles of the land his herds ranged over.

 
          
Presently
the ranchman’s trained eye caught sight of a dot far away on the trail, and his
face cleared a little. Fifteen minutes passed and the dot resolved itself into
a rider, with a smaller dot running ahead.

 
          
“Must
be him, but
what’s he doin
’—chasin’ a coyote?”
muttered the watching man.

 
          
At
the foot of the rise to the ranch-house the trail twisted and the rider was
lost to view behind the ranch buildings, consisting of a roomy bunkhouse,
blacksmith’s shop, a big barn and several corrals. Impatiently the ranch-owner
rose and paced up and down the veranda. He had not long to wait; soon the rider
appeared, raised his hand in salutation, and, halting the horse a score of
yards away, dismounted and trailed the reins.

 
          
“Lo,
Severn, glad to see yu,” greeted the cattleman.
“Come inside
out o’ this blame’ sun.”

 
          
The
room they entered was, for the time and place, a luxurious one. There was a
carpet on the floor, the heavy oak furniture was solid and comfortable, and the
visitor noted with some surprise, a piano. All of these articles must have been
brought by wagon from the nearest railway point, forty miles away. The pelt of
a grizzly bear lay in front of the open fireplace, and the walls were adorned
with numerous hunting and Indian trophies. The host set out a bottle and
glasses and pushed over a box of cigars. The guest helped himself, and waited.

 
          
“Somebody
got Stevens, my foreman, two weeks ago,” Masters began abruptly. “His hoss
drifted in an’ I sent the boys out searchin’. They found him in a gully up
towards the Pinnacles; he’d been bushwhacked—shot from behind. A steady, quiet
fella, hadn’t
no
enemies that ever I heard of, but—he
was loyal to me. The man who takes his place runs the same risk. Yu get that?”

 
          
“Shorely,”
replied Severn unconcernedly.

 
          
“For
years now a man has had me where the hair’s short,” the cattleman went on.
“I’ve handed over money till I can
raise
no more, an’
now he’s takin’ cattle; next it’ll be the ranch, which is what he’s after. I
got a scheme to beat him, but I can’t put it in operation without a good man to
take charge here. It’s a gamble an’ I may lose out, but that’s why I sent for
yu. What’s the word?”

 
          
“Who’s
the man?” countered the visitor.

 
          
“Bartholomew,
owner of the Bar B over towards the Mesa Mountains,” replied the rancher.

 
          
“I’ll
go yu,” Severn said shortly.

 
          
The
ranch-owner’s face showed relief, but he was a white man. “If yu want to chew
it over, take yore time,” he warned. “I’m tellin’ yu it’s a man-sized job yu’ll
be tacklin’. Black Bart is nearly Gawd A’mighty in these parts, an’ people that
fall foul o’ him don’t last long unless it’s worth his while to let ‘em, which
explains me.”

 
          
“That’s
all right for my end of it,” Severn told him, “but there’s somethin’ yu gotta
know.” The older man looked his question, “Judge Embley introduced me to yu as
Jim Severn, but I used to be called `Sudden’. Mebbe yu’ve heard the name?”

 
          
The
rancher straightened up with a jerk and looked at his visitor incredulously.
Heard of him? Who had not? Could this be the famous outlaw, the man who was
said to bear a charmed life and whose lightning gunplay had made his name a
terror even to the most hardened “bad men” of the West? The face was quiet,
confident, smiling, but the steady, steely eyes and lean, hard jaw carried
conviction. Masters did not hesitate.

 
          
“Shake,”
he said, and then, “Jim—I reckon I better go on callin’ yu that?” Severn
nodded. “I guess my luck’s turnin’ at last. If I’d gone through the Territory
with a fine tooth-comb I couldn’t ‘a’ found a better man. Then yo’re Peterson
o’ the YZ? But why for are yu takin’ a hand in this?”

 
          
“Embley’s
an old friend o’ mine, an’ I had a reason o’ my own. I got another one now,”
Severn grinned, and proceeded to tell of the discomfiture of the Bar B owner in
Hope, omitting, however, any reference to the girl.

 
          
Masters
laughed aloud. “Hell’s bells, I’d ‘a’ give a stack o’ blues to ‘a’ seen it,” he
burst out. “Black Bart an’ three of his houn’s sent scuttlin’ by one man, an’
all Hope a-lookin’ on. I reckon that’s the bitterest dose he’s ever had to
swallow, an’ he won’t forget it. Martin, too, is as venomous as a sidewinder;
yu’ll need to watch out.”

 
          
“I’m
aimin’ to,” Severn said. “Yore outfit to be trusted?”

 
          
The
ranch-owner shook his head. “I dunno,” he replied. “That’s somethin’ yu’ll have
to find out for yoreself. Stevens reckoned some were straight, but he gave me
no names.
Several of ‘em Bartholomew sent here an’ I had to
take ‘em.
I’m givin’ yu a free hand.”

 
          
The
visitor nodded. “Yu say Bart’s takin’ yore cows. Do yu mean he’s rustlin’ ‘em?”
he
asked.

 
          
“No,
blast him,” exploded the rancher. “He just asks for fifty or a hundred to make
up a trail herd an’ I have to send ‘em. Like I told yu, there’s a reason why I
can’t refuse—yet. I’m mighty relieved to have yu here, Severn; I got a hunch
yu’ll save me an’ Phil if anybody can.”

 
          
“Phil?
I didn’t know yu had a son,” said the visitor.

 
          
“I
ain’t, but I allus wanted one, an’ when it come a girl I just had to call her
Philipina,” the cattleman explained.

 
          
From
outside came a cry of “Hello, the house,” in a fresh young voice.

 
          
“That’ll
be Phil,’ said the ranch-owner, rising. “She
don’t
know nothin’ o’ this, remember.”

 
          
Severn
followed his host through the long window opening on to the veranda. The girl
had danced up the steps and greeted her father with an impetuous hug before she
noticed the visitor. At the sight of him she shrank back.

 
          
“Phil,
meet Jim Severn, who has come to take charge here in place of Stevens,” Masters
said.

 
          
She
did not offer her hand, and there was no welcome in her eyes. “I have already
met Mr. Severn,” she said distantly.

 
          
The
rancher looked surprised, and the newcomer explained. “Miss Masters happened to
be present when I bought my dawg. As I told yu, I had to argue some with the
owner.”

 
          
He
spoke with all gravity, but the girl sensed a sardonic note of amusement, and
it increased her resentment. The rancher looked at the dog, patiently sitting
by its master’s horse.

 
          
“I
ain’t up much on dawgs, but I don’t see
no
points
about that one to call for argument,” he commented.
“‘Pears
to me just an ordinary dawg.”

 
          
“Which
yu got it—first wallop out o’ the box,” smiled the owner of the animal. “An
ordinary dawg, that’s what I liked about him. No fancy breeds for mine. That
dawg is just folks, ain’t liable to pun on frills, or h’ist his nose in the air
an’ think his boss is on’y a common cowpunch. No, sir, that dawg’s got savvy,
he’s wide between the eyes, an’ he’ll do to take along.”

 
          
The
cattleman laughed, but his daughter did not share his amusement; beneath the
gentle raillery she suspected a rebuke for herself, and her eyes remained
frosty.

 
          
“Yu
will take supper with us, Severn?” asked Masters.

 
          
“I’m
obliged, but I’ll eat with the outfit,” the new foreman said, noting that the
girl did not second the invitation.

 
          
The
rancher nodded, and then, as a group of riders scampered in, he said, “Come
along, I’ll make yu acquainted. Back soon, Phil.”

 
          
The
girl gave the visitor the curtest of bows and then stood for a moment watching
them. Though she disliked the new man, she could not help noticing the easy
grace with which he moved, so distinct from the jerky, toed-in walk common to
the cowboy. Somehow he suggested a panther on the prowl, and she shivered
without knowing why.