Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) (29 page)

 
          
“Hello,
the house,” he shouted.

 
          
There
was no answer, and he repeated the summons, supplementing it with another
tattoo on the woodwork. In the still air of the dawn the noise he made sounded
prodigious, and it brought curious heads to windows and doors along the street.
It also brought the sheriff. He had not yet slept off his overnight liquor, and
stood staring in pop-eyed perplexity at his visitor.

 
          
“What
yu want?” he asked stupidly.

 
          
“Why,
to come in, o’ course,” Severn said, smiling easily. “I’m tired, an’ bed
listens
good
to me.
Also five
hundred dollars.
I can use that money. Have yu got it about yu,
Sheriff?”

 
          
“No,
I ain’t, an’ yu wouldn’t git it if I had,” Tyler snapped, his muddled brain
clearing a little.

 
          
By
this time the buildings had vomited their occupants, and a goodly crowd of
nondescriptly-attired onlookers had assembled to witness the unusual spectacle
of a criminal clamouring to be reinstated in his cell. This was what the Lazy M
man had played for. He promptly appealed to them.

 
          
“What
sort of a town is this?” he asked grievedly. “It offers a reward for bringin’
in Jim Severn, an’ when I fill the bill an’ fetch him in, the sheriff renigs.
Ain’t there
no
honesty in this burg?”

 
          
The
twinkling eyes belied the indignant tone, and there was a burst of merriment
from the mercurial citizens, several of whom advised Tyler to “pay up an’ look
pleasant.”

 
          
“Where
yu been then?” Tyler queried.

 
          
“Well,
I’ll tell yu,” grinned the prisoner. “Yu see, that hole yu put me into ain’t
none too well ventilated—yu oughta see to that, sheriff, or yu’ll lose
custom—an’ so I took a walk.”

 
          
The
whimsical explanation, delivered in a drawling, nonchalant voice, tickled the
onlookers. The amusement created apprised the sheriff that he was again being
made a figure of fun, and as usual, it rendered him furious. Why the accused
man had returned he did not know, but here he was, unarmed and helpless. By
some miracle, he, Tyler, had been delivered from the wrath of Bartholomew. His
bullying nature reasserted itself.

 
          
“Took
a walk, huh?” he sneered. “Well, yu won’t take another till yu go to the tree.”

 
          
“Tried
me a’ready, have yu?” Severn asked quietly.

 
          
With
a gesture of rage, the sheriff turned to his two deputies, who had now
appeared.

 
          
“Take
him in an’ tie his hands an’ feet this time,” he ordered, and beat a retreat,
following his prisoner into the building.

 
          
“That
fella’s either loco or not guilty, an’ he
shore don’t
appear scatty,” was one comment as the spectators dispersed.

 
          
Which was the impression the prisoner had aimed to create.

 
          
FOR
hours after Bartholomew had left her, Phil sat motionless in dull despair,
waiting fearfully for his return. Her world seemed to have tumbled about her,
and she could see no gleam of hope. The prospect of marrying the Bar B owner
was utterly hateful; even had there been no other reason—and her heart told her
different—he had shown too plainly the manner of man he really was. Only once
was the silence disturbed, when the dull reports of two pistol-shots startled
her.

 
          
The
harsh grating of the padlock—a now unwelcome sound —reminded her that
Bartholomew was coming back for her answer, and she stood up. But instead of
the bulky frame she expected, she saw that her visitor was the little one-eyed,
bearded stranger she had seen in Hope. He beckoned to her.

 
          
“C’mon,”
he said hoarsely, but the girl shrank back.

 
          
“Where?” she asked nervously.
“Is this a trap?”

 
          
“Shore
it’s a trap an’ I’m takin’ yu out of it,” he retorted. “Glad yu done what I
whispered to yu through the logs there.”

 
          
“So
it was you,” she breathed, still doubtful.

 
          
The
man nodded, and noting that yet she hesitated, said quietly, “I’m takin’ yu to
a friend. If yu’d rather wait for Black Bart—”

 
          
“No,
no, I’ll come with you,” she replied hurriedly.

 
          
He
led the way through the pines to another hut very similar to the one they had
left, and unlocking the door, motioned her to enter. Standing facing the door,
a look of grim expectancy on his face, was a man she recognised.

 
          
“Judge
Embley !
” she cried, and her hopes sank again, for
she could not forget that this man was Severn’s friend, and was, according to
Bartholomew, in the plot against her. The Judge’s expression changed when he
saw who his visitor was.

 
          
“So
it is you, and not that blackguard from the Bar B,” he said. He looked at the
one-eyed man. “What’s the game, my friend?” he asked.

 
          
The
man shrugged his shoulders. “No game, Judge,” he replied. “I’m willin’ to make
a dicker with yu.” Embley looked his question. “There’s a fella here passin’ in
his checks.” He paused as the other nodded understandingly. “No, I didn’t shoot
him,” he continued. “He got his in that ruckus the other day with Severn an’
his men at the Cavern. Well, he’s somethin’ on his mind an’ wants to go out
with a clean slate. If yu’ll come an’ write down his statement an’ the young
lady will witness it, I’ll take the both o’ yu away from here.”

 
          
Embley
considered only for a moment, and then, “Lead the way,” he said.

 
          
They
followed him out of the pines, across a bare plateau to where
stood
a larger cabin, sheltered by an overhanging shelf of
rock. It consisted of two rooms, the second of which, from the piles of
blankets, was evidently a sleeping apartment. On two of these piles men were
lying, one silent and the other moaning feebly. It was to the latter that the
one-eyed man conducted them. The Judge looked at the other bed.

 
          
“Who
is that?” he asked.

 
          
“Oh,
Slick, actin’ boss o’ this crew,” was the reply. “He’s just—sleepin’.”

 
          
Despite
the careless tone, the girl shivered; she remembered the shots she had heard.
The still figure lying in the shadow looked unnatural, and she could detect no
movement. The occupant of the second bed claimed her attention. By the light of
the lantern on an up-ended box, she could see that he was of a type common
enough on the frontier, a man of middle-age, with coarse, brutal features now
somewhat softened by suffering. His tanned, unshaven face seemed to have been
drained of blood, and his eyes had sunk in their sockets. He coughed almost
incessantly, and after each bout there was a stain of red on his lips.

 
          
“‘Lo,
Patch,” he greeted feebly.

 
          
“‘Lo,
Mobey, how’re yu makin’ it?” asked the one-eyed man, and without waiting for a reply,
continued, “I’ve fetched the Judge an’ the young lady like I promised.” He
turned to the lawyer and whispered, “Better get busy, he’s down to his last
chip “

 
          
Embley
took paper and pencil from his pocket and motioned the girl to listen. The sick
man understood.

 
          
“I
ain’t got much time, Judge, an’ I’m puttin’ things plain,” he began. “Yu’ll
remember the holdin’ up o’ the Desert Edge stage some years back, when Tug
Satters, the driver, was killed?” The judge nodded. “I was one o’ the four what
done it, an’ I shot Satters,” the other went on. “I didn’t have
no
grudge agin him, but when we halted ‘em, Tug dropped his
lines an’ reached back. I thought he was goin’ for his gun, an’ let drive. I
figured after that he just forget to put his paws up an’ was feelin’ for his
baccy, ‘
cause
he hadn’t got no gun. Well, I was sorry
for Tug, but it was just a mistake, an’ it ain’t that I’m frettin’ about.
Here’s the real reason I wanted yu, Judge; soon after the robbery I wrote out
an’ signed a paper sayin’ the shootin’ was did by another—a fella who warn’t in
the hold-up a-tall. I had to do it, Judge, or go to the pen myself
for-somethin’ else.”

 
          
The
weak voice faded out and a violent fit of coughing shook the man’s frame; his
fingers gripped the blanket until it seemed the bones must burst the sun-burned
skin. When he could speak again it was little more than a whisper.

 
          
“The
name—I had to put—in that paper was—Philip Masters,” he said painfully.

 
          
“My
father,” the girl breathed.

 
          
The
Judge waved her to silence. Bending forward he said, “And the man who made you
write it was—?”

 
          
“Bartholomew,
o’ the Bar
B !
” the dying bandit gasped.

 
          
Embley
saw that the end was near. Hurriedly he read aloud what he had written, and
held up by Patch, Mobey scrawled his name on the paper. He watched eagerly
while the Judge and the girl did the like, and then with a sigh of content,
dropped back.”Bartholomew is—” he began, and said no more.

 
          
The
lawyer drew the blanket over the face, folded up the paper and bestowed it in
his pocket, and turned to the one-eyed man.

 
          
“What
now?” he asked. “And how are we to name you, my friend?”

 
          
“Yu
heard what he called me,” the other replied with a jerk of his thumb towards
the bed. “That name’ll do as well as another.”

 
          
The
Judge glanced again curiously at the other occupied shakedown. “That man sleeps
very soundly,” he said.

 
          
“Yeah,
Slick’s a good sleeper,” Patch replied indifferently, and then, “We gotta be
movin’—the other four’ll be showin’ up any time now, an’ they’d make trouble.”

 
          
“The other four?”
Embley queried.

 
          
“All
that’s left o’ the White Masks ‘cept me—an’ Slick,” the man explained.

 
          
Evidently
he had made his preparations, for concealed in the shadow at the end of the hut
they found three horses, saddled and bridled. It was darker now, for the moon
was hidden by a big bank of cloud, but there was light enough to show, towering
above them, a black bulk of mountain which Phil guessed must be the second of
the Pinnacles. Their guide, however, gave them little time to study the scenery.

 
          
“Gotta
hurry,” he said in his curious gruff voice. “There’s on’y one trail for the
first few miles.”

 
          
When
they were mounted he went ahead, the girl following, and Embley bringing up the
rear. The pathway, for it was nothing more, led along the face of the mountain.
The girl shuddered as she remembered that she must have ridden this route
blindfold.

 
          
Her
mind, however, was too full to dwell long even on present danger. The dead
bandit’s revelation had made it clear why her father had hated and yet suffered
Bartholomew, but it did not explain the mystery of his disappearance, and it
left her still guessing as to Severn. And the queer little outlaw who for no
apparent reason was effecting their escape, what part did he play in this
tangled web of intrigue and crime? Silently, slumped forward in his saddle, he
paced ahead of her, for the road was too narrow and rough to permit more than a
walking gait.