Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) (21 page)

 
          
As
briefly as possible he explained the situation, and the little gunman listened
patiently to the end. Then in a rasping tone he
said :

 
          
“Did
I hear yu mention a fella called Shady?”

 
          
“Shore, a square-built chap, wide as he is long, pretty nigh.
Know him?”

 
          
Snap’s
eyes gleamed. “His finger’s the on’y square thing about him,” he said huskily.
“He bushwhacked a bunkie o’ mine for his roll years ago. I’m damned glad I
come. What yu want I should do?”

 
          
“Hang
about in Hope, an’ remember yu don’t know me for now,” Severn answered. “Bent,
who runs a saloon, is one white man, an’ Ridge of the XT is another. Yu’ll be
my ace in the hole, an’ I shore got a good one. Better be driftin’ now.
S’long.”

 
          
The
newcomer climbed into his saddle and with a wave of his hand trotted towards
town, while Severn went on his way to the ranch.

 
          
“Snap
an’ Larry an’ m’self—that’s three to draw to instead of a pair,” he informed
the air, and playfully pulled his pony’s ears. “Boy, we’ll beat ‘em yet, an’ it
ain’t no good yu standin’ on one leg; use all four of ‘em, yu misfit, an’ get
agoin’.”

 
          
In
fact, the unexpected advent of Snap Lunt, the grim little gunman from his own
ranch, the YZ, constituted a notable addition to his forces, and one that
Severn, confident as he was in himself, was well content to have.

 
          
AT
breakfast in the bunkhouse next morning, the foreman’s battered appearance
excited speculation but no comment. Larry, whom he visited later, and whose
room he managed to reach without encountering Miss Masters, was not so
discreet. The invalid, sitting up in bed with one arm in a sling, was
discovering that even a slug from a .45 may have compensations. He regarded his
friend with frank amazement.

 
          
“Who
might yu be?” he inquired truculently.

 
          
“I
might be the President o’ the United States, but I ain’t,” retorted Severn.

 
          
Larry
looked at him critically. “I don’t like ‘em,” he said. “Don’t like what, yu
jackass?”

 
          
“Them
alterations to yore face; it warn’t nothin’ to chuck a chest about afore, but
yu ain’t improved it any. It
don’t
balance.
Hi !
get
off that hat, yu Siwash !
“

 
          
For
the foreman, sitting down, had deliberately selected the chair on which Larry’s
Stetson reposed. He stood up and lifted the crushed headgear.

 
          
“Time
yu had a new one,” he commented, and then, “There, there, sick folk mustn’t get
all het up. How’s the Princess treatin’ yu these days?”

 
          
“She’s
a lady, Don,” the boy replied.

 
          
“Yu
call me that again an’ I’ll—tell her yo’re a friend o’ mine,” Severn
threatened.

 
          
“For the love o’ Mike don’t do that,” the invalid implored.
“I’m sorry, Jim, I forgot. Yu ain’t told me the reason for the disguise yet.”

 
          
It
ain’t a disguise, yu chump. I had a triflin’ argument with Mister Bartholomew
last night, that’s all.”

 
          
“I
might ‘a’ knowed it,” Larry said disgustedly, when he had heard the details.
“The minute I ain’t around to look after yu—” He chortled joyously. “I’ll bet
he’s feelin’ sore this glad mornin’.”

 
          
“He’s
got company there,” the foreman reminded him. “
Gosh !
he
ain’t a man—he’s a gorilla.” He rose to go. “By the way,
when yo’re around again, if yu meet up with Snap in town, remember yu don’t
know him. Savvy?”

 
          
“Hi!
what
yu talkin’ about?” queried the surprised youth.
“Where’s yore blamed hurry? Why can’t yu tell a fella—” But Severn had
vanished, and Larry swore in vain.

 
          
Greatly
to his satisfaction, the foreman managed to retreat without meeting the
mistress of the house. In truth, the girl was sitting in her bedroom, staring
blankly at the window, and wondering whether she was awake or dreaming. About
no pay her customary visit to the sick man, she had paused at the door on
hearing Severn’s voice, and, though she blushed now to think of it, had stayed
there to listen. She had heard enough to convince her that the foreman was
masquerading under an assumed name, and that her patient was an old friend.
Helplessly she strove to fathom the meaning of it all, but had to give it up in
despair. The one clear point seemed to be that Larry had deceived her, and at
the thought of this she melted into angry tears; there seemed to be no one she
could trust.

 
          
Larry’s
surmise as to the owner of the Bar B was correct—he was sore both in body and
mind. Ashamed to show his damaged face, he sulked in the ranch-house, brooding
over his defeat. Penton found him so engaged, and there was a flicker of
contempt in the foreman’s expression as he listened.

 
          
“Cussin’
ain’t goin’ to git us
nowhere
,” he said quietly. “I
think I got some news for yu—an’ mebbe it ain’t good news, neither.”

 
          
“There
ain’t no good news nowadays seemin’ly,” Bart growled. “Spill it, an’ don’t take
a week.”

 
          
“We
got all the time there is, an’ anyways, I ain’t shore,” Penton returned calmly.
“Yu’ve allus been reckoned more than middlin’ swift with a gun, Bart, ain’t
yu?”

 
          
“I
never met up with a swifter,” the other admitted.

 
          
“Till
last night, huh?” Penton proceeded. “Severn made yu look slow. But yu wasn’t—I
never seen yu quicker, an’ yet he beat yu to it—easy.”

 
          
“Well?”
said the big man sourly, for he did not relish this rubbing in of his
discomfiture.

 
          
“Who
cleaned up Tarman’s gang over to Hatchett’s Folly?” the foreman asked, and
Bartholomew straightened up in his chair.

 
          
“Sudden,”
he said. “Yu tellin’ me that Severn is—”

 
          
“I’m
on’y guessin’,” Penton broke in. “It sticks in my mind that Sudden’s front name
turned out to be Donald, an’ that young sidekicker o’ Severn’s called him `Don’
that night in the `Come Again’.”

 
          
The
Bar B owner’s swarthy face went a shade paler. If his foreman was right, he
himself must have stood on the very brink of the Valley of Shadows when he had
tried to draw on Severn. After the utter destruction of Tarman’s band of range
thieves, Sudden, the so-called outlaw, had vanished, merged in the personality
of a law-abiding cattleman, but his fame as a fighter was not forgotten.

 
          
Bart
sat silent, his damaged lips pursed into an ugly pout. When at length he looked
up there was dogged determination in his outthrust jaw.

 
          
“Sudden
or no, he’s human, an’ I’ll get him,” he snarled. “If the
yarns
about him is
true, he come mighty near bein’ stretched once or twice,
an’ his luck can’t last forever. Now, see here, keep this notion behind yore
teeth; if it gets known in Hope, some o’ them cowardly coyotes’ll eat outa his
hand from sheer funk.”

 
          
“That’s
Gawspel truth,” Penton agreed. “As for gettin’ him, we gotta, or he’ll get us.
My medicine is a bullet in the back, but mebbe vu has other ideas.”

 
          
“I
gotta card up my sleeve no one else knows,” Bart said. “When the time comes
I’ll play that same; it’s a shore winner, an’ will take the pot.”

 
          
Long
after Penton had gone, the rancher sat there, chewing the butt of his cigar,
his forehead ridged in a heavy frown. Despite his boastfulness, his foreman’s
news had shaken him. But the Lazy M was a prize worth fighting for, and—he
hungered for the girl. A curse broke from his lips as he recalled their last
meeting.

 
          
“I’ll
have her, willing or unwilling,” he grated. “An’ as for that damned
interloper—”

 
          
Big
Boy, having
zigzagged
his pony up the steep, sandy
side of a gully and forced his way through the thick scrub at the top, suddenly
pulled up with an oath of astonishment. Five or six hundred yards away on the
open range, half a dozen men were leisurely gathering a herd of steers which he
knew to be the property of the Lazy M. He did not recognise the men, but the
white handkerchiefs concealing the lower part of their faces told him all that
was necessary. He tried to back into the brush unseen, but the vicious hum of a
bullet past his ear warned him that they had been on the watch. Snatching out
his rifle, he dived from the saddle and gained the shelter of a tangled tussock
of grass. He had no sooner accomplished this than there came the thud of a
striking slug, followed by the report, and his horse crashed down, quivered and
lay still.

 
          
Thrusting
the muzzle of his Winchester through the grass, he fired three rapid rounds,
and had the satisfaction of seeing one of the strangers lurch in his saddle.

 
          
“Yu
got me, yu coyotes,” he snarled, “but I’ll shore make yu pay first.”

 
          
For
he knew his situation was hopeless; they could surround and shoot him down at
their leisure. To his surprise, however, they seemed more intent on getting the
cattle out of range, and though he fired several times without doing any more
damage, no shots came in reply. As quickly as possible, the herd was rounded up
and driven off by the horsemen. When the raiders had become a mere blot on the
plain, the cowboy arose from his place of concealment.

 
          
“Well,
if
that don’t
beat ice in hell,” he ejaculated. He
surveyed his dead mount ruefully. “Yu warn’t never a prizewinner, old fella,
but I’d shore give a coupla months’ pay for yu now,” he said. “I must be near
ten miles from the ranch, cuss the rotten
luck !
“

 
          
To
men who almost live on horseback, walking is an abomination, and the puncher
shuddered at the prospect of a long tramp under the blazing sun in his tight
high-heeled boots, and carrying a forty-pound saddle in addition to his rifle
and other trappings. But it had to be done; the news of the robbery must be got
to the Lazy M with all speed, and bestowing another hearty curse on those
responsible, he set out.

 
          
The
journey proved to be all he anticipated, and more. The first mile or two
brought blisters on his
feet,
and every step became an
agony. The saddle, which for convenience and as a protection from the sun, he
carried on his head, seemed to weigh double what he knew it did, and the heavy
wooden stirrups banged his body as he staggered over the stretches of sand and
bunch-grass, and every bump brought blasphemy until his parched throat could no
longer form the phrases.

 
          
Plugging
doggedly on, sometimes only at the pace a man could crawl, he estimated he had
done half the trip. Then he came upon a little stream, fringed with willows and
cottonwoods, and after drinking and refilling his canteen, he flung himself
down to rest in the welcome shade. The approach of evening brought relief from
the scorching sun, but none for the blistered extremities of the traveller.
Staggering, stumbling, and whispering strange oaths, he plodded on, and at
last, through the gathering gloom, he glimpsed a light shining amidst the black
bulk of buildings. He almost crawled the final few hundred yards, and lurching
into the bunkhouse, flung the saddle on the floor and flopped into the nearest chair.

 
          
“What
yu bin walkin’ for?” Linley asked.

 
          
“
‘Cause
I ain’t got no wings, yu lunkhead,” retorted the
weary one. “Gimme some grub an’ fetch Jim.”