Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) (35 page)

 
          
“Yeah,
an’ I’m thankin’ yu,” the foreman replied. “I couldn’t figure who sent ‘em, but
they was shore useful.”

 
          
“A
fella has a right to protect his own property, I reckon,” Masters grinned. “I
soon found out that while Shadwell was the nominal chief o’ the bandits, the
real head was Bartholomew.”

 
          
The
Bar B owner shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “An’ I took a posse to hunt
down my own men, huh?” he gibed.

 
          
“An’
failed to find ‘em,” Bent cut in caustically. “I was one o’ the fools that
follered yu that day.”

 
          
Like
a trapped beast, the discredited ruler of Hope glared round and realised that
his day was done. With a shake like that of a dog, he turned savagely to the
Governor.

 
          
“A
tangle o’ lies, framed up by that fella Severn an’ that damned lawyer who was
helpin’ him glom on to the Lazy M,” he shouted.

 
          
Philip
Masters laughed loudly. “Severn
steal
the Lazy M?” he
cried. “Why, yu bonehead, he as good as owns it a’ready got a mortgage on every
foot o’ the land. It was him lent the money I paid to keep yore lyin’ mouth
shut, though I didn’t know it when he come as foreman.”

 
          
Bartholomew
was not yet beaten; he still had a card to play. He turned on Masters.

 
          
“Think
yu’ve been damn clever, don’t yu?” he sneered. “Mebbe yo’re forgettin’ I’ve
still got evidence to hang yu.”

 
          
“Which
evidence is a lie, as Embley can prove,” the other said fiercely.

 
          
The
Governor took the paper the lawyer handed to him, read it, and looked gravely
at Bartholomew.

 
          
“This
is the signed and witnessed death-bed statement of a man named Mobey,” he said.
“In it he confesses that he shot the Desert Edge stage-driver, and that he
wrote a document fastening the crime on Masters at your instigation.”

 
          
Bartholomew
tried a laugh of incredulity, but before the stern, accusing eyes of the
Governor, the sound died in his throat. Over the spot where he stood, the tree
which had borne so many tragic burdens cast an ominous shadow, and he could not
keep his gaze from the big branch. His mind dropped into the past. How long ago
was it? Severn, who had seen and read the look, answered him.

 
          
“Ten
years back, Bartholomew,” he was saying, and his voice was ice-cold, “yu an’
some o’ yore outfit hanged an old man to that tree on a charge o’ stealin’
cattle. He was innocent—yu had altered the brands yoreself an’ put the beasts
in his pasture; his on’y crime was being a `nester’.”

 
          
The
rancher moistened his dry lips. “Yu say so,” he snarled. “Prove it.”

 
          
Severn
pointed to Darby. “That man was ridin’ for yu at the time,” he said. “He was of
the party. Because he protested, he’s been spared; the others, well, yu know
what’s happened to them, Bartholomew.”

 
          
Despite
himself, the big man shivered. “I fired that fella—he’d say anythin’,” he
defended. “Anyways, it’s his word against mine.”

 
          
“No,
there is another eye-witness here,” the foreman said.

 
          
Bartholomew’s
eyes widened as, obeying Severn’s gesture, Larry stepped forward. “Him?” he
cried in derision. “Why, he musta been on’y a kid.”

 
          
“Yu
said it,” Severn told him sternly.
“The kid whose father yu
hanged before his eyes, whose home yu burned, Laurence Forby.”

 
          
The
revelation struck Bartholomew dumb; he did not doubt the truth of it. He could
only glare at this “pup”—as he was wont to contemptuously call him—who had
emerged from the obscurity of the past to put the finishing touch to his
downfall. This boy, with the tense, granite face and vengeful gaze, would get
all that he, Bartholomew, had schemed for—the ranch, the girl…. Madness, the
madness of bitter hate, possessed him.

 
          
“I
oughta wiped yu out then, yu whelp,” he muttered, and snatching out his gun,
levelled it full at Larry’s breast.

 
          
Swift
as he was, another was swifter. Before the murderous finger could squeeze the
trigger, a lance of flame came from Severn’s side, the crash of the shot
drowning Phil’s cry, and Bartholomew, flinging his hands high, staggered,
sagged at the knees and dropped in the dust, his gun exploding harmlessly.

 
          
Severn,
leaning forward, the acrid smoke swirling about his middle, looked at his
fallen foe for a moment, handed Snap back his gun, and turned away. Amid an
awestruck silence, one of the Bar B outfit stooped and examined the body.

 
          
“Plumb
atween the eyes, with a strange gun snaked from’nother fella’s belt,” he
announced wonderingly. “Sudden? Well, I should smile. I reckon the boss just
invited hisself to his own funeral.”

 
          
And
that was Bartholomew’s epitaph.

 
          
That
same evening, as Severn was busy straightening up his shack at the Lazy M, a
saucy, smiling face peeped through the open door.

 
          
“Dad
says,
will you take supper with us?” its owner said.

 
          
The
foreman looked up, his face grave but his eyes crinkling with amusement.

 
          
“I’m
obliged, but I’ll eat with the outfit,” he replied.

 
          
The
girl laughed merrily. “I’ve won,” she cried to someone outside, and then to
Severn, “I bet Larry ten—T bet Larry you would say just that.”

 
          
Severn
grinned at the slip she nearly made. Stepping to the door, he regarded his
friend critically.

 
          
“Larry
looks just as pleased he lost,” was his comment. “O’ course, if he’s honin’ to
pay that debt, why, I ain’t noticin’.”

 
          
Phil’s
face grew rosy. “There are times when I don’t like you a bit,” she pounced, but
her look contradicted the words.

 
          
“An’
me havin’ just won a bet for yu,” the foreman reproved.

 
          
“Oh,
you’re impossible,” she cried. “Bring him along, Larry. Supper is ready, and
Dinah will be heartbroken if we’re late. She’s never had a real live Governor
to feed before.”

 
          
She
danced on ahead, and the two men followed more soberly. The eyes of the younger
were full of adoration.

 
          
“Don,”
he said, and there was a tremor in his voice, “I ain’t worthy of her.”

 
          
Severn
grinned at him. “Yu don’t reckon yo’re tellin’ me news, do yu?” he asked
quizzically.

 
          
The
meal was the merriest the Lazy M had ever seen. In the course of it, Embley,
with a knowing look, asked a question.

 
          
“Was
it entirely accident,
Governor, that
brought you to
Hope Again to-day?”

 
          
The
great little man’s eyes twinkled, and he shook his head at the lawyer.

 
          
“Playing
the brand of poker you do, Judge, your faith in the element of chance should be
stronger,” he replied, and then, “Well, maybe I did hear that a certain
desperate young

outlaw
” —he smiled at Sudden— “had come to life
again, and perhaps Bartholomew’s activities were more widely known than he
wished.”

 
          
And
that was all he would say on the subject.

 
          
Later
on, from a secluded corner to which they had retired, as they fondly hoped,
unobserved, Larry and Phil saw Severn come out of the lighted room, cross the
veranda and lean against the rail. A lithe grey form padded noiselessly after
him and squatted on its haunches at his side.

 
          
There
was no moon yet, but the great vault of the heavens was punctured
by a myriad pin-pricks
of light. From the bunkhouse came the
metallic tinkle of a banjo and the vociferously-shouted chorus of a song. In
the far distance the Mesa Mountains showed black against the deep blue of the
sky.

 
          
But
the Lazy M foreman saw none of this. His vision was of another ranch-house away
beyond the mountains, on the veranda of which sat a golden-haired woman—his
woman—with a chubby, kicking man-child on her knee. He could see the smile in
her eyes, and hear the low, chiding tones:

 
          
“Be
good now, you little—outlaw.”

 
          
He
flung away his cigarette, stooped to caress the rough head leaning against his
thigh, and the watching couple caught the muttered words:

 
          
“To-morrow,
old fella, we’re goin’—home.”

 
          
The
End