Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) (17 page)

 
          
“It’s
a lot o’ damn lies. I dunno nothin’ about a girl, an’ the on’y time I seen
these fellas afore was when one of ‘em held me up an’ the other slugged me in
the saloon yonder. I was ridin’ the Desert Edge trail ‘s’afternoon when these
two jumped me an’ fetched me here.”

 
          
“An’
this ain’t your’n, o’ course,” Severn said, fishing the dirty white mask from
his pocket.

 
          
“Never
seed it,” the prisoner lied stolidly. He turned to Tyler. “Yo’re the sheriff, I
believe; these jaspers yore deppities?”

 
          
“They
ain’t,” replied that worthy emphatically.

 
          
There
was a stir as the crowd opened to let Barthomew through. The big man looked at
the outlaw, and there was not a trace of recognition in his glance.

 
          
“So
that’s yore bandit chief, is it?” he said. “Well he’s ugly enough.” Some of the
crowd laughed, and
Sever ,
who was watching Shadwell,
saw an angry gleam come to his eyes. “Ain’t he the fella that was in the ruckus
at the ‘Come Again’? What’s the yarn?” Bartholomew went on.

 
          
The
sheriff repeated what Severn had
told ,
and the Bar B
rancher turned to the foreman “Yu go that notice they served?”

 
          
Bart
glanced over it, and at his suggestion the prisoner was taken into the
sheriff’s office, given paper and pencil, and made to write down the words of
the notice, which Bart read out to him. A comparison of the two plainly showed
they were written by different hands.

 
          
“That
don’t help us,” the big man said, and put the papers in his pocket.

 
          
Instantly
Severn stepped forward. “That notice belongs to me, an’ I’ll trouble yu for
it,” he said.

 
          
“Rightly,
it’s
evidence, an’ the sheriff takes charge of it,”
was the reply.

 
          
“When
he wants it I’ll be on hand,” the foreman retorted, and there was a threat in
his tone. “Pass it over.”

 
          
For
an instant Bartholomew hesitated, his face dark with passion, and then he flung
the paper on the table.

 
          
“Yu
keep a-pilin’ up the score, Severn,” he rasped. “There’s gotta be a settlin’
some time.”

 
          
Severn
picked up the document, looked to make sure it was the original and laughed as
he thrust it back into the pocket of his vest.

 
          
“Shore,
an’ in full,” he said, and turning to the sheriff he added, “If yu got pluck
enough to smoke out these coyotes, gather yore posse an’ I’ll guide yu to their
hang-out.”

 
          
“When
I want yore help I’ll ask for it,” the officer blustered. “As for this fella—”
He looked at the Bar B owner.

 
          
“Yu
better take charge of him,” Bart said. “I’ll be seein’ Miss Masters in the
mornin’ an’ we’ll know how much o’ this kidnapped cowboy yarn is true. I ain’t
takin’ the word o’ any man from the Lazy M.”

 
          
“Not
since the men yu put there to spy left the country,” Severn came back at him,
and had the satisfaction of seeing the other give a little start of surprise.
He did not reply, however, and Severn went in search of his horse, satisfied
with having put the sheriff in an embarrassing position.

 
          
A
burst of cheering from the bunkhouse brought Phil to the veranda, and she
witnessed the triumphal entry of the foreman and the man he had gone to fetch.
Her first impulse was to run down and welcome them, but a thought which brought
a blush to her cheek restrained her. Intermittent merriment from within the
bunkhouse whetted her curiosity, but she had to wait for the appearance of
Jonah before it was satisfied. And then, when the grinning darkie had told the
story, she did not know what to think. Was it possible that this one man had
gone into a nest of desperadoes, outwitted them, and brought away not only the
captive but the chief of the captors? It seemed incredible, and yet, knowing
the man
himself
, cold, confident, quick-thinking, she
realised that it was not. That he now had the outfit with him to a man she
knew; had he plotted the whole episode with just that end in view? She gave it
up in despair.

 
          
It
was a curiously shy but smiling girl who responded to Larry’s hail next
morning, when that young man came to know if she wished to `go a-ridin’.” After
she had told him how glad she was to see him safely back again, she
said :

 
          
“I
don’t feel like a ride to-day, Larry.”

 
          
The
boy’s face fell; he had wanted to tell his tale.

 
          
“We
could go south,” he suggested.

 
          
She
shook her head. “No, I’ve a visitor coming,” she smiled. Larry knew who it was,
and smothered a curse. “Well, soon then,” he pleaded, and his heart was in his
eyes.

 
          
She
nodded consent, and as he turned away, Bartholomew cantered up. His bold gaze
followed the retreating cowboy from under bent brows.

 
          
“Mornin’,
Phil, what’s that pup want?” was his greeting, as he swung from the saddle.

 
          
The
girl’s forehead creased in a little frown; she did not like his tone or the
epithet, and her mental comparison of the clean-limbed, smiling youth with the
hard-bitten, aggressive older man was not to the latter’s advantage.

 
          
“He
came to ask if I intended to ride this morning; nowadays I have to have an
escort—the country is not safe, even for a girl,” she said rather pointedly,
and went on to tell of her encounter with the White Masks. “So you see,” she
concluded, “adventures are `comin’ in bunches’, as Larry would say.”

 
          
The
man’s frown deepened at her familiar reference to the cowboy; here was a
possibility he had not figured on.

 
          
“So
that part o’ the tale was true then,” he remarked. “By the way, Phil, I don’t
like yore cavortin’ round the country with a common puncher,” he added.

 
          
The
girl’s eyes widened and there was a flash of anger in them as she replied, “I
shall do as I please. You have no right to criticise or dictate to me.”

 
          
“I
reckon I have,” he said. “We’re goin’ to be married, yu know “

 
          
“I
don’t know, and at present, anyway, I have no wish to,” she retorted.

 
          
Although,
realising he had tried the wrong tactics, he di his best to make peace, she
refused to go riding with h. and Bartholomew left in a savage temper. He had
learned h Larry came to be at the Lazy M, and whether he was an accomplice or
not of Severn, he was a disturbing factor, and must be dealt with. The trail to
the Bar B took a north-westerly line straight across the open range and then
dipped down into a pocket of broken country for some miles, winding through
miniature forests, rock and brush-strewn ravines and tiny canyons, the walls of
which scarcely rose above the level of the surrounding plains. It was known as
The Sink. Passing the mouth of one of these canyons, Bart suddenly noticed the
tracks of a horse leading into it, and back again. They were not fresh, and in
that sheltered spot might even have been made months before. His curiosity
aroused, he followed them, forcing his way through the foliage which overhung
the sandy bottom.

 
          
At
the end of about two hundred yards, the tracks led to a thick bush growing
close to the face of the canyon wall, and the rancher was about to turn away
with an oath of disgust for his wasted time when he caught a gleam of something
through the leaves. Dismounting and pulling the bush aside, he uncovered a
fissure in the rock, and saw that it contained clothing. There was a vest—a
shiny button of which had attracted his notice—pants, a shirt and a sombrero.
One by one he drew the garments out and examined them. In the sweat-band of the
hat he found the letters P. M. in ink, and in the pocket of the vest was an
empty envelope addressed to Philip Masters, at the Lazy M ranch.

 
          
The
discovery drew a whistle of amazement from the finder. How came the clothes of
the missing ranchman, which he recognised as being the last he had seen him
wearing, in such an out-of-the-way spot? Where was the body?
For
he had no doubt now that the owner of the clothes no longer lived.
Painstakingly, foot by foot, he searched the whole of the little canyon, but
found nothing more.

 
          
“On’y
been one fella in here before me,” Bart muttered, as he carefully studied the
prints in the sand.

 
          
Sizing
things up, he came to the conclusion that the murderer must have buried the
stripped body elsewhere, or left it to the natural scavengers of the plains,
the coyotes and vultures. Then he had hidden the tell-tale clothing in the
cleft, where only one chance in a thousand would lead to its discovery.
Replacing the articles as he had found them, he rode on his way deep in
thought, and presently a grin of malicious triumph twisted his lips.

 
          
“Couldn’t be better.
I’m reckonin’ I can use yu just as well
dead, Mister Masters,” he sneered.

 
          
That
night he and Penton were closeted long together, and when they parted, even the
bitter face of the Bar B foreman wore the semblance of a smile. But it was not
a good one to see.

 
          
IT
was two days before Phil redeemed her promise to go riding again with Larry,
and in that time he had scarcely seen her.
Tn
truth
she had avoided him, an unaccountable shyness making her fight the growing
desire to see him of which she was conscious. So that it was a new Phil,
demure, tremulous, and utterly sweet, who loped beside the young cowboy towards
the southern region of the
range.
She listened eagerly
to his account of what had happened to him after she left on her wild dash to
the ranch, but his praise of the foreman left her unmoved.

 
          
“I
didn’t know he was such a friend of yours,” she remarked. “He ain’t,” Larry
lied. “But I shorely gotta be grateful; he took a big chance for me.”

 
          
“What
do you think of Mr. Bartholomew?” she asked.

 
          
Larry
was not to be caught. “I dunno much about him,” he returned. “But I wouldn’t
ride for the Bar B.”

 
          
He
could have said nothing more damaging; a torrent of abuse would have been far
less effective. The girl was silent for a time; she had been discovering of
late that it was difficult to find anyone who had a good word for the local
autocrat. True, the criticism was usually of a cautious character, but always
it condemned.

 
          
“So
you don’t think that Severn is an outlaw?” she queried presently.

 
          
Larry
shook with internal mirth. “I ain’t sayin’ that, but I’ll gamble against him
bein’ linked up with that gang in the Pinnacles,” he replied.

 
          
They
were pacing along a narrow winding draw, the rocky sides of which were splashed
with patches of dwarfed shrubs and cactus. In places the spreading branches of
larger trees met over their heads and filtered the afternoon sunshine, throwing
shifting shadows as the light breeze swayed the foliage.

 
          
“Oh,
what a beauty,” the girl cried, suddenly reining in.

 
          
Her
companion followed the direction of her pointing finger, and saw up on the rock
face, a magnificent bloom of the ocatilla. Before she realised it, he had
slipped from his saddle and was climbing the side of the draw. Phil also got
down and seated
herself
on a fallen tree-trunk. In a
few moments he was back again, and the blood-red blossom was in her hands. He was
in the act of presenting it when a rider trotted round a juttin rib of rock
which formed one of the bends in the draw; it was Devint. For an instant he
pulled on his reins, land then recognising them, came on, a grin of derision on
his as he noted their flushed faces. His hat came off in an ironically
elaborate sweep as he passed.