Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) (8 page)

 
          
“Quite
right,” the Judge said. “I’ve had the handling of your father’s business for
some years now, and a few months ago I drew up his will, under the terms of
which I now become your guardian. May I say that while I deplore the necessity,
I’m very proud of the
position.
” He bowed with an
old-fashioned courtesy which gave point to the compliment. Then, seeing that
she did not quite understand, he added, “It amounts to this, until your father
returns or we have definite news concerning him, I stand in loco parentis as we
lawyers phrase it, or, in plain English, I take his place until you are of
age.”

 
          
The
girl was silent, pondering. “And suppose—I wanted—to get married,” she said
slowly. “Your consent would be necessary?”

 
          
The
shrewd old eyes under the bushy brows twinkled a little. “I am afraid that is
so,” he admitted. “The will specially provides for such a contingency, and,
failing my consent, your inheritance is reduced to a small annual income. What
reason your father had for inserting that clause I cannot say, but apparently
he regarded it as important.”

 
          
Again
the girl was silent. She had vaguely thought of marriage with Bartholomew as a
means of ousting Severn from the position of authority he had assumed, if all
else failed. Had the clause been directed at the owner of the Bar B? Her father
had always been friendly with the big man, but she had begun to suspect lately
that he did not like him.

 
          
“If
you are concerned about the conduct of the ranch, you need not be,” the Judge
remarked. “You have a good foreman.”

 
          
“I
don’t like him,” Phil said bluntly. “He acts as if the place belonged to him.”

 
          
“He
represents the
owner,
and he’s there to give orders,”
Embley reminded her.

 
          
“Yes,
but not to me,” the girl retorted hotly.

 
          
“Has
he done so?” the Judge queried.

 
          
The
girl hesitated. “Well, no, not exactly,” she admitted, “but he refused to obey
my instructions.” She related the incident regarding the steers Bartholomew had
asked for.

 
          
“He
was entirely right,” the old man said gravely. “I am fairly conversant with
your father’s affairs, and I know of no debt to this man Bartholomew. I may
tell you that I recommended Severn to your father, and I am pleased to find
that he is justifying my confidence.”

 
          
‘
His tone was kindly, but in it there was a note of determination which told her
that it would be useless to suggest the foreman’s dismissal, as she had been on
the point of doing. The astute old lawyer had divined this, and had cleverly
saved both her and
himself
the pain of a refusal.
Also, his reference to Bartholomew had made it plain that he did not entertain
a high opinion of the owner of the Bar B ranch. Bitterly aware of a fruitless
errand, she stood up to go; the Judge misread her doleful expression.

 
          
“Now,
my dear, don’t assume the worst,” he said. “I am having inquiries made in all
the outlying towns, and I’ve no doubt we shall hear of your father before very
long. Come or send to me if you are in any difficulty, and—you can trust your
foreman.”

 
          
Larry
had a very silent companion on the ride back to the ranch, and in truth the
girl had plenty to occupy her thoughts. She had set out in the morning full of
hope that the Judge would be able to establish her authority and set her
masterful foreman in his place, or, better still, out of it, and instead he had
only given her a fuller realisation of her helplessness. Mainly the visit had
been a gesture of revolt against Severn, and it failed. Her heart grew hot
within her at the thought of this cool, confident stranger controlling her and
her property. At least he should get no help from her, and Bartholomew was on
her side and would know h w to deal with him.

 
          
When
the owner of the Bar B came over on the following morning, she told him enough
of her conversation with the Judge to let him understand her position, and
though he concealed his chagrin fairly well, he was frowning heavily when she
finished.

 
          
“Wonder
why yore dad” put that old fool Embley in the saddle?” he speculated. “There’s
somethin’ funny behind all this. We gotta watch out, girl; it may be a
frame-up.”

 
          
“How do you mean?” she.
asked
.

 
          
“Well,
I don’t say it’s so, but listen to this,” the rancher replied. “Embley draws up
yore father’s will an’ gets
himself
made executor an’
yore guardian. Stevens is rubbed out, an’ he introduces Severn. Then yore dad
vanishes an’ Embley an’ Severn get control o’ the best ranch in the county.
Say, I’m bettin’ yu can’t marry without the Judge’s consent, eh?”

 
          
“Not
until I’m of age,” the girl admitted.

 
          
“I
knew it,” Bartholomew cried. “Damn ‘em, they’ve got every hole stopped. Don’t
yu see how it all fits in? When they’ve got control o’ the ranch, Severn makes
up to yu—” The girl smiled wryly, and he guessed her thought. “
Don’t make no
mistake—some men think the only way to attract
a woman is to hold her off an’ ride her on the curb. I’ll lay the Judge would
say `yes’ to that proposition fast enough, but we won’t give him the chance,
eh, Phil? We’ll beat Mister Severn in spite o’ the stacked deck. How’s he fixed
for funds?”

 
          
“He’s
selling four-score head to Ridge.”

 
          
“When
is
he
sendin’ ‘em up?”

 
          
“The day after to-morrow.”

 
          
“Good
enough,” the big man grinned. “That’ll give me time to put a little crimp in
his plans.”

 
          
She
did not ask what he intended to do; she suspected that he would in some way
prevent the delivery of the cattle, so that Severn would not get the cash he
would be needing, but her resentment against the man made her blind to the fact
that she might be working in opposition to her own interest. Bartholomew’s
specious reasoning had so poisoned her mind that she was ready to believe in
the reality of the vile plot he had outlined, and to do anything to circumvent
it.

 
          
A
SOILED, folded scrap of paper of the kind a storekeeper might use to wrap up a
parcel, and on it, penciled in rude capital letters, the following
message :

 
          
“If
yu take the XT herd through Skull Canyon yu’ll lose it.
A
FRIEND.”

 
          
Severn
had found it thrust under the door of his shack on the morning of the second
day after Phil’s visit to Desert Edge. Sardonically he wondered as to the
identity of the unknown “friend”. Was it an attempt to delay the delivery of
the herd, on to force him to choose another route? Thrusting the warning into
his pocket, he went to the bunkhouse in search of Darby

 
          
“Is
Skull Canyon on the trail to the XT?” he asked, watching the man closely.

 
          
“Shore—’bout
halfway,” was the reply. “The trail to Ridge’: takes a turn there, an’ cuts
into the rough country around the lower slopes o’ the Pinnacles. She’s good
enough goin’ alla-same.”

 
          
“Tell
the boys we’ll make the drive to-morrow ‘stead o’ today,” Severn said.

 
          
“One
day’s good as another, I guess,” the man replied, anc his expression told the
foreman nothing.

 
          
Severn
nodded, got his horse, and followed by Quirt,
rod(
away on the northern trail; he meant to have a look at the ground himself. The
XT was twenty miles from the Lazy M and for nearly half the distance the trail
passed over the open range; then, as Darby had said, it took a turn and plunged
into a network of low wooded slopes, ridges and ravines. It was however,
well-defined, wide and practicable for cattle, being it fact the route used by
Ridge when he drove his herds to Desert Edge.

 
          
Severn
had left the open country, and was passing through a shallow basin, when from a
point in the brush covering the upper rims
came
the
flat report of a rifle, and a bullet whistled viciously past his ear. Instantly
he swung his horse, raced up the opposite slope and dived into the undergrowth,
followed by another bullet, which clipped the brim of his hat. Dismounting, he
tied the animal where a questing shot would be unlikely to find it, ordered the
dog to lie down, and, taking his rifle, made his way back to the open. His face
was grim, and promised little mercy for the bushwhacker. Flinging himself at
full length in a slight hollow, he poked his rifle forward and fired at the
spot the shots had come from, which he had/ taken care to mark down. An
answering shot from a point ten yards away showed that the unknown assailant
was taking no chances.

 
          
“Still there, huh?”
Severn grunted. “Well, friend, we’ll try
a little trick on yu. P’raps yu ain’t so smart, after all.”

 
          
Wriggling
backwards until he was/ able to stand up without disturbing the foliage, he went
and/ fetched the rope from his saddle. Tying one end to the root of a small,
thick bush, he crept away and lay down, rifle cuddled to his cheek in readiness
to fire. Then with his right hand he twitched the rope, shaking the bush to
which it was attached. Instantly a shot came from across the basin, and with
the speed of thought itself he pumped three bullets into the thinning smoke,
aiming each a shade to the left of the preceding one. No reply came, and he
shook the bush again without eliciting any. Suspecting that the other man might
have tumbled to the ruse and be playing a trick on him in turn, he lay quiet
for a while, and then fired again. Nothing happened, and Severn got up and went
to his horse.

 
          
“I
either got him or scared him off, Quirt,” he said. “We’ll go an’ see, but not
bein’ of a confidin’ nature, we’ll go cautious-like.”

 
          
Leading
the horse through the brush, he skirted round the basin until he came to the
spot from whence the ambusher had last fired. A horse tied to a tree whinnied
as they approached, and a dozen yards away a man lay, face downwards and arms
asprawl, behind a clump of brush. In the upturned heel of one boot was a cross
formed with nails. Turning the body over, Severn saw that it was Ignacio. A
bullet had perforated his throat.

 
          
“Masters
was right, an’ I kinda thought it my own self,” Severn muttered.
“Well, yu won’t go rattler-huntin’ no more, yu coyote.
Wonder if yu was layin’ for me, or if yu just grabbed Mister Opportunity?”

 
          
Methodically
he searched the dead man, but found only a fewcoins, some tobacco and a scrap
of paper. Half of this had been torn away, but on the remainder he read the
words:

 
          
“…
yore
last chance. I got no use for Bunglers.

 
          
THE MASK.”

 
          
“
Huh !
Seems I may ‘ve been steppin’ on the toes o’ these
folk without knowin’ it,” Severn commented. “He didn’t oughta use that capital
B, ‘
specially
when he makes ‘em thataway.”

 
          
Putting
the paper carefully in a pocket, he picked up the ambusher’s rifle. It was a
Winchester repeater, and on one side of the stock were the letters P. M., made
of tiny silver nails driven into the wood.

 
          
“Philip
Masters,” muttered the finder. “Now how in Hades did the Mexican get this?”

 
          
He
examined the dead man’s pistol and found that it was a .45. In all probability
Masters used a .44, which would take the same cartridge as his rifle. Severn
shook his head dubiously; he did not like the look of things. With a puzzled
frown he mounted and continued his journey to Skull Canyon. He soon recognised
it—a deep, narrow gulch, with sharply-sloping, rocky sides covered with clumps
of stunted shrubs. It was an ideal spot to waylay the herd, for the cattle
could not
spread,
there was plenty of cover for the
attackers, and practically none for the attacked. One glance was enough; the
foreman turned his horse and rode slowly back.