Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) (31 page)

 
          
There
was a sinister suggestion in the last words which made the other man look up
apprehensively.

 
          
“You
mustn’t forget that I represent the law, Mr. Bartholomew,” he pointed out, with
a rather ludicrous attempt at dignity.

 
          
“Ain’t
that the very reason I’m askin’ yu to take charge?” the big man retorted. “Now,
see here, Judge; the folks in thisyer town are gettin’ all het up over this
case—most of ‘em lost money m the robbery, an’ the fella as was rubbed out was
plenty popular. I’ve got ‘em millin’ as yet, but if they stampede there’ll be a
neck-tie party shore as yo’re born, an’ that won’t look too good with a reg’ler
judge in the town who might ‘a’ given the accused a fair trial an’ done things
legal.”

 
          
Lufton
emptied his glass, replenishing it with a shaky hand. He had experience of the
West, had seen mob law at work, and knew that in the state of tension the town
was now in, a spark would cause an explosion. Surely, in the interest of law
and order, it was his duty to step in and see justice meted out to the
malefactor. Bartholomew’s next remark decided him.

 
          
“There’ll
be a fee o’ two hundred dollars,” he said. “Course, if yu’d rather we waited
for Embley …”

 
          
Lufton
winced like a spurred horse; he hated the Desert Edge jurist, a fact of which
Bartholomew was well aware.

 
          
“No
need for that,” he said. “I’ll take the case.”

 
          
“Good
for yu,” Bartholomew smiled. “I don’t mind admittin’ that I’m glad. Embley
ain’t popular round here, he’s a pal o’ the prisoner, an’ there’s more than a
suspicion that he’s in cahoots with him to grab the murdered man’s property.”

 
          
Lufton’s
eyes gleamed evilly. “Shouldn’t be surprised,” he sneered. “There’s usually mud
at the bottom o’ still water. When yu startin’ the trial?”

 
          
“Half
an hour’s time,” replied the rancher. “No sense in waitin’, an’ it wouldn’t be
safe anyways. I’ll tell Muger to get this place cleared for it.”

 
          
The
news that the accused was to be tried at once by Judge Lufton spread like
wildfire through the town, and the general feeling was one of satisfaction.
Never before had Hope Again enjoyed such a sensation. Killings, followed by
summary justice were not unknown, but a regular trial by an official judge was
a novelty, and the “Come Again” soon bore witness to the fact. Indeference to
Lufton’s position, some endeavour was made to give the room a court-like
appearance. The judge’s bench was represented by a table, with seats on either
side for the more important citizens. Twelve chairs were arranged for the jury,
another for the sheriff. Immediately in front of the Judge were three more
chairs, the middle one for the prisoner, and the others for the deputies
guarding him; this was the dock. The onlookers perched themselves on such
support as they could find, or lolled against the walls.

 
          
Severn’s
first intimation that he was to be put on his trial immediately came from the
deputy, Jake, whom he had treated so unceremoniously the night before. The man
appeared to bear no malice, for he grinned cheerfully through the spyhole as he
said :

 
          
“Better
be gittin’ ready to speak yore piece, Severn; the Judge’ll be wantin’ yu at the
court mighty soon.”

 
          
“Has
Embley turned up, then?” asked the prisoner.

 
          
“Now,
Lufton’s goin’ to try yu, an’ I’m bound to say it’s mean luck he should happen
along. If yu got any argyments yu better think ‘em up, for yu’ll need some.”

 
          
The
voice of the other deputy broke in. “Fetch him along—just got word he’s
needed.”

 
          
“There,
I’ve done wasted yore time,” Jake said regretfully. “Yu’ll have to think up
suthin’ on the way.”

 
          
Certainly
the prisoner had plenty to occupy his mind as, with an armed deputy on either
side, he paced up the street. Calculating his chances the night before, he had
come to the conclusion that apart from a possibility of being lynched, he was
in no immediate danger; either he would be tried in Hope by Judge Embley, or
sent to the capital. The advent of a strange and possibly hostile judge was, as
he had to admit, “
a
hoss of a different brand,” and
this indecent haste to bring him to account looked ominous. He wished now that
he had not ordered his outfit to keep away from Hope; if it came to the worst …

 
          
The
entry of the accused increased the buzz of conversation in the crowded
court-room. With calm confidence he walked to the dock, took off his hat, and
sat down. His bonds had been removed, but the deputies drew their guns as they
sat beside him. There was a suspicion of a smile on Severn’s face as he noted
the precaution. He looked at the Judge, then the jury—which had already been empanelled—and
realised that he stood no chance; the twelve “good men and true” were all
supporters of Bartholomew, and had been chosen for that reason. His steady eyes
swept the audience. He saw Bent, Callahan and Larry, and was searching for Lunt
when the little gunman entered, followed by four of the Bar B outfit. His face
told Severn a story.

 
          
“Snap’s
killin’ mad,” he concluded. “Reckon when he heard o’ this he started to fetch
the
boys,
an’ them four jaspers held him up an’ are
ridin’ herd on him. Bart don’t want
no
interference.”

 
          
Lounging
in a chair by the side of the Judge, with Martin, and several of his men,
Bartholomew could not keep the gloating satisfaction out of his eyes.
Nevertheless, from time to time he glanced expectantly at the door, and the
prisoner smiled grimly —Bartholomew was wondering what had become of his
foreman. A rap on the judge’s table stopped the hum of conversation.

 
          
“Well,
sheriff, what is the charge against the prisoner?” Lufton asked.

 
          
Tyler
rose, puffing out his chest in a hopeless attempt to appear dignified. The
sheriff was very satisfied with himself. “There’s a right smart o’ charges,
Judge,” he stated. “Attemptin’ to kill Mister Martin here, robbin’ the bank an’
shootin’ the manager, murderin’ Philip Masters, breakin’ gaol—”

 
          
“Well,
well, I reckon that’ll do to go on with,” Lufton interrupted. “We’ll take the
bank robbery and the murder. If he’s guilty of them we can let him off the
rest.”

 
          
The
bitter witticism sent a ripple of merriment round the room, and the maker of it
permitted himself a thin-lipped smile. “The court will deal with the robbery
first,” he decided. “Call your evidence, sheriff.”

 
          
Rapson,
the banker, stepped forward and gave his account of the raid. Questioned by the
Judge, he admitted that the robbers’ faces were so hidden that he could not see
them, but in clothes, height and build the man who shot at him might have been
the accused. Further, Severn had drawn out his money just before the robbery
took place, and the notes handed to him did not include those he was trying to
cash when arrested, which were part of the plunder. Lufton looked severely at
the prisoner.

 
          
“You
want to put any questions?” he asked.

 
          
Severn
stood up. “Shore,” he said, and turned to the witness. “Yu certain the man who
downed yu was not smaller than me?”

 
          
“Quite,”
returned the banker. “Looking at you now I have an impression he was even
bigger.”

 
          
Severn
nodded. “So that, as yu couldn’t see his face, it might ‘a’ been any fella as
big as
me,
or a bit bigger.” His eyes roamed round the
room.
“Mister Bartholomew, for example?”

 
          
The
witness protested volubly. The suggestion was absurd. Mr. Bartholomew had been
most kind, and he had five thousand dollars deposited in the bank.

 
          
“Which he wouldn’t lose if he robbed yu,” Severn pointedout.
“An’ if I was goin’ to, why should I trouble to draw my money?”

 
          
“Why
did you?” asked the Judge.

 
          
The
foreman explained, handing up the warning he had received. Lufton glanced at it
superciliously and passed it to the jury. They scanned it in turn, and then one
of them remarked
sourly :

 
          
“Yu
kept this mighty dark, didn’t yu?”

 
          
Bent
jumped up. “Severn showed it to me an’ Ridge of the XT,” he volunteered. “We
didn’t know what was back of it any more than he did, but we both drawed our
balances out. Anybody think we done the robbery?”

 
          
“Nobody’s
suggesting that anyone but the accused did the stealing, sir,” remarked the
Judge.

 
          
Though
this pompous remark may have impressed some of the audience, it only drew an
impudent grin from the prisoner. “That’s where yo’re wrong, Judge,” he said.
“I’m suggestin’ that the man sittin’ beside yu,
Bartholomew,
oughta be standin’ here instead o’ me, an’ I’ve got evidence to prove it.”

 
          
A
shuffling of feet and craning of necks proclaimed the sensation this statement
evoked. In response to a nod from Severn, the saloon-keeper handed to him the
book and notes taken from the Bar B ranch. Bartholomew answered the accusation
with a scornful laugh.

 
          
“Trot
out yore proof,” he cried.

 
          
Severn
held up the account book. “
That yores
?” he asked.

 
          
The
rancher stared surprisedly. “I reckon it is, though howyu—”

 
          
“The
writin’ in it would be yores, too?”

 
          
“O’ course.
What’s that gotta do with it?”

 
          
“I’m
tellin’ yu. When the White Masks run off one o’ my outfit, they left a notice
behind sayin’ what I had to do to get him back. Here’s the notice, an’ it’s
written on a page taken outa that book, as yu can see by the number on it, an’
the handwritin’ is the same.”

 
          
There
was hardly a sound in the room as he passed the book and the paper up to the
Judge, who examined them and looked inquiringly at Bartholomew. The rancher,
who had been doing some quick thinking, had his reply ready.

 
          
“I
missed that book ‘bout a month or so ago,” he began. “I reckon it was
stole
by a fella named Darby who had a grudge against me,
an’ is now ridin’ for the Lazy M. The writin’ is a pretty good imitation o’
mine.”

 
          
“Which
yu didn’t recognise when I showed yu the notice at the time I brought Shadwell
in,” Severn reminded him. “
Bah !
I scarcely looked at
it,” Bartholomew lied.

 
          
“As
for the book bein’ stole, that’s correct; I took it from theBar B ranch-house
last night—there’s another charge for yu, sheriff,” pursued the prisoner
smilingly. “An’ at the same time, in a locked drawer o’ yore desk, Bartholomew,
I found these. Rapson will tell us what they are.”

 
          
He
handed the roll of bills to the banker, who compared them with a list he took
from his pocket. “I paid these to the prisoner when he drew out his money,”
Rapson said.

 
          
Bartholomew
and the Judge were whispering together. Then the latter looked at the prisoner.

 
          
“Well,”
he sneered. “What’s your point?”

 
          
Severn
saw that he was fighting a hopeless battle, but it was not in the man’s nature
to give in.

 
          
“It
oughtn’t to need explainin’,” he said acidly. “That book an’ the notice prove
that Bartholomew is chief o’ the White Masks. When they raided the Lazy M an’
abducted Miss Masters, they took my bills an’ substituted stolen ones to
implicate me. I might as well add, Judge, that I broke outa gaol to get them
things, an’ I returned o’ my own free will.” A whimsical smile hovered on his
lips. “I had to make a devil of a row to get back into gaol again.”