Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) (7 page)

 
          
The
girl’s face grew pale. “If it is about my father I want to hear what you have
to say,” she said sharply.

 
          
Seeing
that the cowboy still hesitated, Severn said, “Go ahead, Darby; what’s yore
news?”

 
          
“The
Old Man’s hoss has just drifted in—it’s down there by the corral.”

 
          
Phil
said nothing, but, white to her trembling lips, walked towards the corral, the
two men following. As they did so, Darby contrived to
whisper
:

 
          
“Can’t
yu keep her away? There’s blood on the saddle.”

 
          
Severn
shook his head, and indeed it was too late, for the girl’s quick strides soon
brought her to where the horse was standing, muzzle drooping, and evidently
played out. The reins were over the horn, where they might have lodged
accidentally as the rider lost his seat, the rifle was gone, and on the
saddle-flaps ominous dark stains were visible. The girl stared at them with a
growing horror in her eyes, and as she realised what they might mean, a gusty
sob burst from her lips. It was Severn who broke the tension.

 
          
“Get
busy, boys,” he said. “
Hosses,
guns an’ grub; we gotta
comb the range.’ The sharp order brought the girl out of her stupor of misery.

 
          
“I
shall need my horse, too,” she said, almost defiantly, looking at Severn as
though expecting opposition.

 
          
But
the foreman made no demur. “Shore, yu’ll want to help,” he said. “An’ yu know
the country.”

 
          
Split
up into pairs and with orders to stay together, the men were sent on their
quest, each couple having a section of the range to cover. Phil was coupled with
Rayton, one of the older
hands,
while Severn, the last
to leave, was alone, save for his dog. He had allotted himself the task of
searching the country towards the Pinnacles, where Stevens’ body had been
found.

 
          
Turning
things over in his mind as he rode, he had to confess himself puzzled. The
return of the horse was unexpected, for in the cattle country no man
deliberately sets himself afoot, and this, with the bloodstains and missing
rifle, seemed to point to an unexpected disturbance of Masters’ plans. Had he
met the fate of the old foreman, and, if so, who was the assassin? Clearly
Black Bart could not be involved, since his interests depended upon the
ranch-owner being alive. Had Masters unknowingly incurred the entity of the
mysterious White Masks? Impatiently he dismissed the hopeless problem from his
mind and set himself to the task in hand.

 
          
But
his search proved abortive, and when he returned to the Lazy M, it was to find
that the others had also been unsuccessful. Day after day the hunt went on,
messengers being sent to Hope and Desert Edge, but no trace could be found of
the missing man. It was early on the morning of the sixth day that Severn,
going to the ranch-house, found Bartholomew and Phil on the veranda. The big
man was explaining that he had been away, and had only just heard of her
trouble. His face settled into a scowl when he saw the foreman.

 
          
“Yu
can have my outfit if yu want it, Phil,” he said. “Beats me where he can have
got to. S’pose yore fellas have covered the ground pretty well?”
This to Severn, who nodded.
“Can’t see much good in
searchin’ anymore,” the visitor went on. “If he’s above ground, he’ll turn up;
if he ain’t—” He shrugged his shoulders expressively, and suddenly darted a
question at the foreman. “Yu got any ideas about it?”

 
          
“No,
I’m in the dark,” Severn replied, meeting the keen gaze unconcernedly, and
Bartholomew turned again to the girl.

 
          
“Nothin’
to do but carry on an’ hope for the best,” he said. “An’, by the way, yore
father promised me seventy-five three-year-olds to fill up a trail herd.”

 
          
“You
will see they are delivered,” the girl directed Severn.
“What
price yu payin’?” asked the foreman.

 
          
Black
Bart’s face darkened. “There ain’t
no
question of
price,” he said. “The cows are in part payment of a debt,” he added, to Phil.

 
          
‘Got
any writin’ to prove that?” Severn persisted.

 
          
‘What
the hell’s that gotta do with yu?” stormed the other. “Yu’ve had yore orders.”

 
          
“I
ain’t takin’ orders—certainly not from yu,”
came
the
cool retort. “I’m in charge, an’ while I’m willin’ to study Miss Masters’
wishes in reason, I ain’t handin’ over property I’m responsible for on the
say-so of any man, ‘cept the owner.”

 
          
“Yo’re
in charge, huh?” jeered Bartholomew. “Well, now yu ain’t—Miss Masters is firin’
yu right away.”

 
          
The
foreman looked at the girl. Her face was flushed, her lips trembling, and it
was evident that she was content to let the rancher speak for her.

 
          
“That’s
somethin’ she can’t do,” Severn said quietly.

 
          
“Can’t,
eh?” Bartholomew sneered. “The ranch ain’t hers, I s’pose?”

 
          
“Yore
s’pos’n is correct,” the other pointed out. “It
don’t
belong to her until her father’s death is proved, an’ only then when she’s of
age. Masters put me here an’ I’m stayin’ put, an’ that’s somethin’ yu can bet
high on.”

 
          
There
was a cold finality in his tone, and, having delivered this ultimatum, he
turned and went about his business. Bartholomew stared after him for a moment,
and then said to the
girl :

 
          
“That
fella is due for a lesson, an’ I’m goin’ to see that he gets it. Yu leave him
to me an’ don’t yu worry.”

 
          
Long
after her visitor had gone, Phil sat trying to size up the situation. All
through the week, grief over her father’s disappearance, and the consequent
hard riding—for she had done her share with the men—had driven every other
consideration from her mind. But the clashing of wills she had just witnessed
had brought her position home to her. Though familiar with the daily routine
work of the ranch, she knew nothing of the business side, and greatly as she
resented Severn’s calm assumption of authority, she was dimly conscious of a
sense of relief. But she would not admit it; she hated him, of course, and she
would go on hating until Bartholomew succeeded in getting rid of him, a task in
which she mentally promised him her hearty support.

 
          
Two
weeks passed without news of the missing rancher, and the regular routine had
been resumed at the Lazy M. The new foreman’s handling of Devint had, as he
intended, convinced the other men that he was not one to be trifled with, and
this, added to the very evident fact that he knew his job, eliminated any
further opposition. Phil, though she persisted in regarding him as an
overbearing, tyrannical bully, had to admit that he could handle men.

 
          
One
morning, Dinah, who acted as cook and housekeeper at the ranch-house, came to
his shake with a message that “Missy Masters wanted for to see him.” He found
her waiting in the big room. She was looking pale, and there were dark shadows
under her eyes, which showed that the stress of the past two weeks was taking
its toll.

 
          
“I
hear you are getting a herd together,” she said. “I presume it is for Mr.
Bartholomew?”

 
          
“No,”
Severn replied. “It is for Ridge of the XT. Yore father had arranged the sale,
an’ I need the money.”

 
          
“You
need it?” she queried sarcastically.

 
          
“Certainly;
I gotta pay wages an’ expenses,” the man retorted. “P’raps I oughta said `we’,
but it comes to the same thing.”

 
          
“Please
don’t deliver the cattle until I return; I am going to Desert Edge,” the girl
said coldly.

 
          
Somewhat
to her disappointment he betrayed no curiosity. All he said was, “Yu can’t ride
there alone.” She waited, wondering if he would have the temerity to offer
himself as escort, and framing a crushing refusal, but again her hopes failed
to fructify. “I can spare Barton,” he said.

 
          
Thus
it came about that some time later the girl and Larry were riding at a good
road gait over the Desert Edge trail. At first the cowboy had kept a little in
the rear until Phil, tired of her own company, had requested him to keep pace
with her. In truth she liked the look of the new hand, whose rotundity of face
and figure somehow gave him such a harmless appearance. He had little of the
awkward shyness the average cowpuncher was afflicted with in the presence of
all but some women. When she asked him if he liked the ranch, he said it was a
“humdinger”, but when she put the same query about the foreman, he did not
reply either so quickly or so enthusiastically.

 
          
“He’s
certainly wise to his work,” he allowed cautiously. “But he ain’t
no
easy fella to satisfy. Yu see, Miss, he ‘pears to want
things done just so, an’ he’s liable to raise Cain an’ Abel if they ain’t.”

 
          
“Obstinate
and a bully,” the girl summarised.

 
          
Larry
squinted at her sideways and choked on a chuckle. “I wouldn’t call him
obstinate—though mebbe he’s a bit sot in his ideas,” he said.

 
          
“He
looks to me like a professional gunman,” the lady said contemptuously.

 
          
“Might
be, o’ course,” Larry agreed, “but I’d say not; that sort is usually mean about
the eyes. Allasame, I reckon a gent who pulled a gun on him would likely find
hisself a trifle late.”

 
          
He
went on to talk to her of killers and gun-fights, of Wild Bill Hickok, Slade,
Sudden and others, of the bad old times in Abilene and Dodge, and tried to show
her the big part these men and their like had played in the settlement of the
country. And when she protested that the law was there to punish evildoers, he
laughed.

 
          
“What’s
the use o’ the law to a dead man?” he asked. “No, ma’am, in those parts an’ in
these right now a man’s gotta have his law handy on his hip, where he can get
action on her speedy. Me, I’m a peaceable fella, but I like to know I got the
means to protect m’self, yu betcha.”

 
          
With
conversation of this kind he kept her amused and interested until they reached
their destination. Desert Edge was a replica of Hope Again, but on a larger
scale, plus a railway depot and pens where the cattle could await shipment.
Though Phil had visited the place several times on her way to the East, she had
but little knowledge of it. An inquiry of a shock-headed man, whose hand went
instinctively to remove a hat he was not wearing, elicited the information she
desired—the whereabouts of Judge Embley.

 
          
The
Judge, whose title was official and not one of courtesy only, was a tall man of
sixty, with a square, rugged but kindly face, and an unruly mop of grey hair
which brush and comb were powerless to subdue. He was in his shirt-sleeves when
his landlady entered the apartment which served as sitting-room and office,
with the information that a young lady wished to see him. Slipping on his long
black coat, he laid aside his cigar and greeted his visitor with a smile.

 
          
“So
you are Philip Masters’ little girl, eh?” he said when she had told her name.
“No news of your father yet, I suppose?” And when she shook her head, he added,
“Well, well, it’s too soon to despair yet, you know. Now sit down and tell me
how I can help you.”

 
          
The
girl took the chair he placed for her; she liked the old man at once, and felt
that he could be trusted.

 
          
“I’ve
been looking through Daddy’s papers,” she began, “and I found one saying that
if anything happened to him”—her voice shook a little—”I was to come and see
you.”