Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) (32 page)

 
          
Some
of the spectators, remembering the scene of the morning, guffawed at the
recollection. Bartholomew leant back in his chair and also laughed.

 
          
“Mighty
smart, Severn,” he said. “Yu oughta be writin’ books, not stealin’ ‘em.” He
looked round the room. “Well, boys, yu better take an’ string me up for
collarin’ my own coin.”

 
          
The
Judge, jury and a number of those present smiled widely at the joke, but there
were some who looked dubious. Bartholomew evidently noticed this, for he
directed a meaning glance at the jury, and immediately Muger, who was acting as
foreman, spoke.

 
          
“See
here, Judge,” he said. “All this jaw ain’t gettin’ us
nowhere
.
The
jury don’t
want to hear no more about the robbery;
this fella’s found with the goods on him; it’s an open an’ shut case.”

 
          
“If
you have come to a decision on that charge, gentlemen, we can get on with the
murder,” Lufton said.

 
          
“Whose
murder—mine?” asked Severn sarcastically. “It amounts to that, yu know, because
the man who could prove I had nothin’ to gain by Masters’ death ain’t here. I
mean Judge Embley.”

 
          
“He
is under grave suspicion of being your accomplice,” Lufton said severely. “And
the fact that he is not to be found bears it out. He got you your present job?”

 
          
“It
was through him I met Masters,” Severn admitted.

 
          
“And
soon after you go to the Lazy M, your employer disappears,” the Judge went on.
“How did you get the rifle he was known to have taken with him?”

 
          
If
he had hoped the abrupt question would discompose the accused he was
disappointed; Severn told a plain story of the slaying of Ignacio and the
finding of the weapon.

 
          
“An’
that’s a lie!” Bartholomew burst out. “Ignacio was heard of in Mexico a few
weeks back, as my foreman, Penton, can testify.”

 
          
The
prisoner smiled grimly; he had his doubts about that. Again he produced a slip
of paper. “Here’s somethin’ else I found on the Greaser,” he said. “Yu’ll
notice it’s another imitation o’ Bartholomew’s penmanship.”

 
          
The
Judge gave it a casual glance, and then for a moment his eyes met those of the
Bar B owner meaningly.

 
          
“You
seem fond of writing,” he said. “Did yu tell anyone about the gun?”

 
          
“On’y
Miss Masters,” was the reply.

 
          
“And
she’s missing, too; all the people who might corroborate your statements appear
to be,” Lufton commented cuttingly.
“Any more evidence,
sheriff?”

 
          
This
was Tyler’s great moment, and he prepared to make the most of it. Strutting
forward, he told how he and his deputy, Jake, riding through The Sink, had
noticed tracks, followed them up, and found the missing rancher’s clothes. One
by one he produced the garments, handing them to the Judge.

 
          
“An’
underneath ‘em we found this,” he finished. “Yu’ll see it’s got the prisoner’s
initials on it.”

 
          
Tense
silence reigned as the weapon was passed first to the Judge and then, at his
direction, to the accused man who examined it curiously.

 
          
“Is
that yours?”
came
the question.

 
          
“Yeah,
it was taken from me by the White Masks,” the puncher replied without
hesitation. “But it didn’t have
them
letters on it
then. Yu don’t print as well as yu write, Bartholomew.”

 
          
“Pretty
good at findin’ answers, ain’t he?” the Bar B cattleman mocked, and the jury,
at whom the remark was directed, smiled in agreement.

 
          
Bent
stepped forward and held up a hand. “‘Scuse me, Judge, I’m puttin’ in a protest
that thisyer trial ain’t reg’ler,” he said. “
It’s
bin
rushed an’ the accused ain’t had no chanct to prepare a defence or git his
witnesses. The prosecution ain’t proved any motive for his bumping off Masters,
an’ the evidence makes him out a plain dam fool, which every man here knows he
ain’t. He tries to cash bills at the bank he stole ‘em from, an’ he hides the
clothes o’ the fella he murdered an’ leaves his gun with his initials on with
‘em. I put it to the
jury,
does the prisoner look
plumb loco?”

 
          
Lufton’s
smile was oily as he replied to this appeal.

 
          
“Mister
Bent, as a friend of the accused, has to raise objections,” he explained to the
jury. “What he does not realise is that clever criminals get over-confident and
make mistakes. As for motive, the court knows that the murder was part of a
deep plot to obtain the dead man’s property.” He looked craftily at the twelve
citizens. “If more evidence is required—” Muger shook his head. “Very well,
gentlemen, you may retire and consider your verdict.”

 
          
Then
Bartholomew flung his bombshell.

 
          
“I
reckon the jury oughta know, Judge, that this fella who’s been masqueradin’
here under the name o’ Severn, used to be better knowed as Sudden, the outlaw,”
he rasped out, with a vindictive glare in the direction of the dock.

 
          
The
whistle of indrawn breath and a medley of ejaculations greeted the
announcement, and every man in the room pressed forward to get a good look at
the famous gunman, as though they were seeing him for the first time. Excited
whispers passed from mouth to mouth as stories of his exploits were recalled.
Given his guns, he might have walked out of the court unhurt, such had been his
repute, but lacking them … In the midst of it all, the man himself sat, his
face a mask of immobility, his eyes coolly contemplating the men who were to
decide whether he lived or died. The low buzz of conversation and the scraping
of shifted feet on the sanded floor ceased when Muger, who had been whispering
to his men, stood up.

 
          
“There
ain’t
no
need to retire, Judge,” he stated. “We’re all
agreed.”

 
          
“And
your verdict is?”

 
          
“Guilty as hell.”

 
          
The
Judge turned his gaze upon the accused. “You have heard the jury’s decision,”
he said.
“Anything to say?”

 
          
Severn’s
narrowed eyes were coldly contemptuous. “I reckon yore reputation flatters yu,
seh,” he drawled.

 
          
The
gibe penetrated even Lufton’s tough hide. His yellow, pasty face took on a
crimson tint, and his thin lips contorted into an ugly snarl.

 
          
“You
have been rightly found guilty of the crimes charged against you,” he said. “It
only remains for me to pronounce the penalty, which is, that you be hanged by
the neck till you are dead.” He turned to Tyler. “Sheriff, you will see to it
that the prisoner is conducted to the capital, where the sentence will be
carried out.”

 
          
The
harsh voice, with its travesty of judicial gravity, could not conceal the
speaker’s inward satisfaction; he almost seemed to exult in the power that
enabled him to send a younger man than himself to his death. Having thus
cunningly evaded all responsibility for what he knew was about to happen, he
leant back in his chair and lit a cigar. For a moment there was silence, and
then the meaning of the Judge’s pronouncement dawned upon the assembly. A
hoarse, murmuring growl like that of a savage beast deprived of its prey
rumbled through the room. Mad Martin leapt upon a chair.

 
          
“To
hell with sendin’ him to the
capital !
” he shouted.
“He’s mebbe got a pull there; that’s how he got off afore. I’m sayin’ this
town’s got ropes an’ trees enough to do its own hangin’.”

 
          
“That’s
the talk,” said another, and instantly the cry was taken up from all parts of
the court-room. Bartholomew was silent, a smile of sardonic satisfaction on his
cruel lips. The Judge rapped on his table and managed to get a hearing.

 
          
“Sheriff,
I shall hold you responsible for seeing that the law is observed,” he warned.

 
          
Again
the uproar broke out, and the sheriff, his recently-acquired self-esteem all
gone, might easily have been mistaken for the condemned man, so woeful did he
appear. He looked appealingly at Bartholomew, but the big man shook his head
and laughed.

 
          
“It’s
yore job, sheriff,” he said.

 
          
“Ropes
an’ horses,” Martin yelled. “Fetch him along, boys.”

 
          
A
rush was made, and despite the fact that a number of the more moderate citizens
strove to help them, the sheriff and his deputies were brushed aside like
flies, and the prisoner was hustled out into the open street.

 
          
“Where
now?” asked a dozen.

 
          
“Take
him to Forby’s—the ghost there must be gittin’ lonesome,” Martin cried, and the
suggestion was adopted with a shout of approval.

 
          
On
the back of a horse, with the loop of a lariat round his neck, and surrounded
by men with drawn guns, Severn began what he did not doubt was his last ride,
for the levity and rough humour, typical of a Western mob, was no indication
that the grim programme would not be carried out. These men were primitive;
their reasoning was crude; they saw only the obvious. Bartholomew had money in
the bank, therefore he would not rob it; Severn’s gun found with the clothes
was to them conclusive proof that he had murdered the missing man. The
temperate citizens, who might have considered the more subtle evidence
produced, were carried away by the turbulent faction.

 
          
To
a man, all who had been in the court-room joined the procession. Bartholomew
rode with the sheriff and Lufton, the latter knowing that to save his own face
he must protest to the end.

 
          
The
condemned man’s features were as impassive as a statue’s. He had played, lost,
and must pay, though the cards had been stacked against him. Like most men of
his type, Severn was something of a fatalist. A violent end was an ever-present
possibility, and it was part of his creed that a man must take his medicine
without squealing. Bartholomew’s hand was evident throughout, even in the
choice of the place where he was to die. He remembered what Penton had said,
and almost smiled at the thought that the Bar B owner had yet one more blow to
receive.

 
          
The
journey did not take long. As they rode round a clump of trees and emerged into
the little glade where stood the ruined cabin, Martin, who was leading, pulled
up and yelled
excitedly :

 
          
“Hell’s
flames !
A fella’s hangin’ there a’ready.”

 
          
The
riders surged forward and grouped themselves around the big cottonwood with its
dangling, ghastly burden.

 
          
“Ain’t
that yore grey, Bent?” asked one, pointing to the dead horse.

 
          
“Shore
is. Missed him this mornin’—reckoned he’d dragged his picket-pin,” the
saloon-keeper replied.

 
          
“Old
Forby’s ghost has bin busy,” said another. “That brand’s bin re-cut, an’
what’s
them blame notches mean, anyways?”

 
          
Bartholomew
needed but one look. “It’s Penton,” he said.
“How the
devil—?”

 
          
Martin
untied the end of the rope, lowered the body to the ground, and bent over to
examine it.