Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) (18 page)

 
          
“Shore
am
sorry to have butted in,” he said, and there was
that in his tone which made the remark an insult.

 
          
Receiving
no reply, he loped slowly on, and with a mocking wave of the hand vanished
round a further curve. Phil, stealing an
embarrassed
glance at her companion, saw that he was staring after the intruder, his eyes
bleak and his jaws clamped together.

 
          
“Who’s
that fella?” he asked, almost roughly.

 
          
“Devint,”
she replied. “I wish he hadn’t seen us; he’s sore at the Lazy M because the
foreman fired him, and he’ll—talk.”

 
          
“Huh!
We better
be
gettin’ back,” Larry said.

 
          
The
ride home was made almost in silence. The cowboy was forcing the pace, as
though in a hurry to get home. He spoke seldom, and all the gaiety had gone
from his face, to be replaced by a grim intentness. The girl tried to rouse
him.

 
          
“You
look as if you were going to kill someone,” she bantered. His head came round
with a jerk, and she saw his cheeks redden. Then he laughed.

 
          
“I
am,” he said. “I’m agoin’ to just naturally slay Jonah if he ain’t got a good
meal ready.”

 
          
Phil
said no more; the jocular reply had only served to deepen her doubts; she felt
uneasy, frightened. When they arrived at the ranch, Larry took the ponies to
the corral straight away, which was unusual, and presently she saw him, mounted
on a fresh horse, shoot out on the trail for town; he had not waited to feed.
Her feeling of unrest pursued her, and when Severn returned with the outfit,
she called him aside and related the incident of the afternoon.

 
          
“Larry
looked as if he recognised Devint, and—hated him, yet he asked me who he was,”
she said. “Of course, the man was insolent, but I somehow feel it wasn’t only
that.”

 
          
“Damnation,”
swore the foreman, and forgot to apologise. “I reckon yo’re right, Miss
Masters. For some reason or other, he’s gone to find that scallywag. Devint’s
yellow, an’ a bad actor, but he’s reckoned fast with a gun.”

 
          
“Oh,
hurry, perhaps you’ll be in time to prevent their meeting,” she urged.

 
          
“If
I ain’t, an’ anythin’ happened to Larry, Mister Devint won’t see another
sunrise,” was Severn’s sinister promise.

 
          
Striding
down to the corral, he caught and saddled a horse and set out for the town at
full speed. He had no hope of catching Barton, but there was a chance that the
two men had not yet met.

 
          
The
“Come Again” was filling up for the evening festivities, and Muger, the fat,
oily-faced proprietor, rubbed his hands and smirked contentedly as he glanced
over the gathering; it looked like being a profitable night.

 
          
“Wonder
what’s bitin’ Bart?” he muttered.

 
          
In
truth, the Bar B owner’s face justified the title by which he was commonly
known. Standing apart, he was talking in low tones to Devint, and it was very
evident that the conversation was not of a pleasing nature so far as the
rancher was concerned. The cowboy had, in fact, been relating his encounter
with Phil in the afternoon, and with the savage malice of one who delights in
giving pain, he had lied, cunningly but convincingly. Bartholomew’s rage,
fanned to fury by the recital, showed plainly in his distorted features.

 
          
“I’ll
give five hundred bucks to the man who puts that pup outa business,” he said
vehemently, and then seeing the satirical look of inquiry on the other’s face,
he added, “I’d do it myself an’ be a heap pleased to, but iI’d get me in wrong
with the girl.”

 
          
Devint
nodded, satisfied with the explanation and the chance of earning the money. The
fact that he had to extinguish a human life to do so
meant
nothing to him; he had killed men before, and for less reward. It was at this
moment that Larry entered the saloon.

 
          
“There’s
the fella himself,” Bart whispered, and immediately left the man whose gun he
had hired and went out of the saloon.

 
          
Larry’s
quick eye had seen the movement, and he guessed that Devint had wasted no time
in telling his tale. He looked round the room, nodded to Ridge, who was playing
poker with two of his outfit and the storekeeper, Callahan, and then fixed his
attention to Devint, who was now talking to three other men.

 
          
“Bah!
Wimmeln is all alike,” the bully sneered. “Take that Masters girl, f’r
instance; I come on her this afternoon in Snake Coulee, a-kissin’ an’ cuddlin’
one of her own men, a ornery forty per cowpunch, who ain’t been in the outfit
more’n a month or so.”

 
          
He
leered triumphantly at his audience, some of whom sniggered.
Others
who had been only half listening, suddenly became aware that there was a
purpose behind the talk, and ceased their games to watch. Utter silence seized
the room, and all eyes were turned upon the alert, tense figure of the Lazy M
cowboy, at whom it was evident the slander had been directed.

 
          
“Devint!”

 
          
The
word came like a shot from lips tightly set, and was followed by a scraping of
chairs and shuffling of feet, as those in the vicinity unostentatiously
withdrew from the line of fire between the two men. Larry, his right hand
hanging by his side with fingers apart, glared at the bully through slitted
eyes, oblivious to all else. The rage which filled him was not patent to the
spectators, he was not even conscious of it himself; all he knew was that
something evil stood before him and he must destroy it.

 
          
As
for the traducer, his brutal face betrayed one feeling only —that of venomous
satisfaction; he had obtained the necessary provocation to justify the killing.
So he grinned insolently as he
answered :

 
          
“My name.
Why, gents, if it ain’t the guy I bin tellin’ yu
about—Phil Masters’ latest fancy. Look at him a-blushin’.”

 
          
In
truth, Larry’s face was red, but his voice was ice-cold, cutting, and charged
with deadly menace; the added insult did not cause the loss of self-control.

 
          
“Devint,
yu are a liar an’ a coward,” he said deliberately. There could be only one
reply to that.
Stung as by the lash of a whip, the bully
snatched at his gun.

 
          
“Yu
damned
whelp !
” he roared.

 
          
The
guns spat flame at the same second, and the Lazy M cowboy spun half-round as
from a blow under the impact of a heavy slug in his left shoulder. Devint
spluttered an oath, rocked on his feet, and pitched sideways to the floor, his
pistol clattering beside him; he had been shot through the chest. Seeing that
he was not yet dead, Larry staggered forward, and kicking away the weapon,
knelt beside him.

 
          
“Devint,”
he said. “There’s somethin’ I want yu to know.”

 
          
He
whispered a few words and the eyes of the dying man opened in wide surprise. “
Hell !
” he gasped. “Yu—” A raucous rattle in his throat
choked further utterance, and his head fell back. Devint was done with
bullying.

 
          
Larry
climbed painfully to his feet and slumped into a chair someone pushed forward.
His wound was bleeding, and he felt sick and giddy. Ridge and his men pounced
upon him and began to bandage the hurt. The hush that had endured
ended,
and the spectators of the duel began to discuss it,
crowded round to look at the stricken loser and the wounded victor. In the
midst of the excitement the sheriff arrived.

 
          
Some
of the crowd made way, and at the sight of the body, the sheriff gasped in
surprise. “Why, it’s Devint,” he said. “I thought—they told me it was someone
else.” An unprejudiced observer might have said that he was disappointed.

 
          
A
dozen eager witnesses of the fight gave him the details and the officer’s
bilious eyes turned with evil satisfaction to the hurt cowboy.

 
          
“Well,
yu’ve shore bin askin’ for trouble, an’ now yu got it,” he said. “I’m guessin’
this will put yu in the pen.”

 
          
“Better
guess again, sheriff, an’ mebbe yu’ll be right,” suggested the drawling voice
of the Lazy M foreman.

 
          
He
had come in unobserved, and now stood leaning idly against the bar, his thumbs
hooked in his belt, and a look of mingled amusement and contempt on his face.
Tyler jerked round, his hand flying to his gun-butt.

 
          
“Don’t
yu,” urged the newcomer gently. “Yu ain’t no more fit to die than yu are to
live.”

 
          
Tyler’s
face turned a pasty yellow; his gesture had been a bluff, and he was conscious
that the other man knew it. He had no intention of forcing a fight with this
cold-blooded, mocking devil. The entry of the Bar B owner heartened him, and he
tried to gather together the shattered fragments of his dignity.

 
          
“As
sheriff o’ thisyer town—” he began.

 
          
“Yo’re
a hopeless failure—yu needn’t tell us,” Severn interposed. “Now, see here,
sheriff. Our distinguished citizen, Mister Bartholomew, has joined us. He
don’t
know nothin’ o’ this ruckus, o’ course. S’pose yu ask
his opinion.”

 
          
By
this time Bartholomew had elbowed his way through the company, and Severn had
not failed to note his fleeting expression of chagrin when he saw Devint’s
body, nor the poisonous flash of hatred directed at Larry. But he instantly got
control of his features again, and listened unmoved while the sheriff, anxious
to transfer his burden of responsibility, related the facts. He saw at once the
position into which Severn had so astutely jockeyed him. As a friend of Phil
Masters he could not condemn the action of her defender. He did not hesitate.

 
          
“The
skunk deserved to die, an’ if this fella hadn’t rubbed him out I’d ‘a’ done it
myself
,” he said, with a savage emphasis which convinced
many of his hearers. “If there’s a man here who ain’t satisfied that Devint was
lyin’, p’raps he’ll step forward.” No one responding to the invitation, he
turned to the sheriff. “Yu say it was an even break?”

 
          
“I
didn’t see the scrap, but I’m told so,” Tyler had to admit.

 
          
“There ain’t nothin’ to do then,”
the rancher said, and with
a sneer to Severn, “Yu can take yore man away, but he’d better watch out; mebbe
he won’t be so lucky next time.”

 
          
“I
reckon the Lazy M can take care of itself,” the foreman told him.

 
          
With
the help of Ridge and his two riders, the wounded man was conveyed to the
ranch. This time Phil, hearing them arrive, thrust aside her scruples and went
to meet them. At the sight of Larry held on his horse by two of the others, her
heart seemed to turn over.

 
          
“What
is the matter?” she asked.

 
          
“Barton
had a run-in with Devint, an’ is drilled through the shoulder—nothin’ serious,”
Severn assured her.

 
          
“And Devint?”

 
          
“Cashed,”
was the brief reply.

 
          
The
girl shuddered and asked no more. Larry had killed a man. Barton was carried to
the ranch-house and installed in Philip Master’s bed. As she explained to
Severn, it would be easier for Dinah and herself to tend him there than in the
bunkhouse.
The invalid himself, though weak and in pain, made
light of his injury.
What hurt him much more was the cold and alof
attitude of the girl. When his wound had been re-dressed, he seized a moment
when he was alone with her.