Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) (11 page)

 
          
“They’ll
shore be on hand when yu want ‘em,” Bent assured him. “An’ they’ll come painted
for war, yu bet yu.”

 
          
The
adjacent store was the next place of call, for supplies were needed at the
ranch. The proprietor, Callahan, a dried-up little Irishman, looked at them
with snapping eyes.

 
          
“Yis,
this is where Mister
Masters
allus bought,” he said,
in answer to a question from the foreman. “But I’ve had orders not to sarve
ye.”

 
          
Severn
stared at him. “Then I’d better go over to
Winter
,” he
said, naming the other storekeeper.

 
          
Callahan
laughed. “Shure, Bart owns him, lock, stock an’ barrel, an’ he’ll be after
havin’ instructions too,” he countered. “Then the Desert Edge merchants are
shore in luck,” the foreman retorted.

 
          
“Aisy
now,” smiled the Irishman. “As I said, I’ve had orders but divil a bit did I
say I was goin’ to give
anny
heed to ‘em. Bent is a
good friend o’ mine, an’ Black Bart’s order not to supply yu was the first I
ever had from him. Now,
what’re ye wantin’
?”

 
          
Severn
detailed the various articles required, arranged to send in for them the
following day, and the two men drifted out in search of a meal. In the course
of it, Larry, after a long silence, made a casual comment.

 
          
“This
burg ain’t
so
composed o’ tame animals as I was
reckonin’.”

 
          
“No,
some has got ideas o’ their own,” his friend agreed.

 
          
Muger’s
saloon, the “Come Again”, was, for a small cow town, a place of luxury. Both
the bar, which was also the portion devoted to the Goddess of Chance, and the
dance hall were lavishly supplied with gilt mirrors, and there were pictures,
mostly of women in various stages of undress, on the walls; the furniture was
good of its kind. A long bar, plentifully stocked with an assortment of
liquors, faced the main entrance, and the intervening space was filled with
tables and chairs. These were pretty well occupied when Severn entered—alone—and
sauntered to the bar. Calling for a drink, he sipped it leisurely and looked
about.

 
          
He
knew that his appearance had provoked comment, for he saw men whispering and
glancing in his direction. The only one who did not seem to be interested was a
young red-faced puncher who had entered almost on his heels, and now leaned
against one end of the bar cuddling his glass as though it was a lost friend,
although by the look of him the separation had not been a long one. At the
other end, Black Bart was chatting with Penton and Martin, but the latter
disappeared almost immediately. Severn was about midway between the solitary
cowboy and the Bar B group.

 
          
Idly
he wondered how many of Bent’s “good men” were present. He did not quite know
why he had thus invaded the headquarters of the Bartholomew faction; it was
largely a gesture of defiance, a “grand-stand play”, as he defined it in his
own mind. He did not expect anything to happen, but there was a chance of
picking up information. Larry, after a vigorous protest, had declined to
accompany him, and Severn smiled to himself when he saw his friend sneak in.

 
          
Men
who spend their lives in an atmosphere of danger develop a kind of instinct
which warns them when peril is present, and Severn had not been in the saloon
very long before he divined that something was going to happen after all.
Martin’s exit was not natural, for it made him appear cowardly, and he would
not risk such an imputation without a good reason. Leaning sideways against the
bar, Severn kept a wary eye on the Bar B couple, arguing that any trouble would
be likely to originate there. This was sound reasoning, but he was to learn
that Bartholomew had depths he had not yet plumbed. Obsessed by the idea that
he must watch Black Bart, he did not notice the entry of another customer, who
slouched in, greeted no one and took up a position at the bar behind, and only
a yard or two distant from, the Lazy M foreman.

 
          
The
newcomer was not unworthy of attention. Of medium height, his great breadth of
body made him appear shorter than he really was. His attire was that of a range
worker, and he wore two guns, low down on his hips, and tied. The long,
claw-like right hand was burnt brown by the sun, a fact instantly noted by
Larry, who was scanning the fellow covertly but closely.

 
          
“I’ve
seen him afore, some place,” he mused. “Where’s he come from an’ what’s he
doin’ here? Dasn’t
wear
a glove on that right paw.
He’s a killer, shore enough.”

 
          
The
man looked it. His heavy face, with knobbed muscles round the square jaw,
colourless cold eyes, dirty yellow skin and the limp moustache, which did not
conceal thin lips, conveyed an impression of soulless indifference, repellent,
nauseating, altogether inhuman. The drink he poured himself from the bottle
pushed forward by the bar-tender was of modest dimensions, a fact the watching
cowboy instantly noted.

 
          
Larry
called for a cigar, lit it with the inexpertness of one who has imbibed a shade
too freely, and took a surreptitious peep around the room.

 
          
“Who’s
he after?” he muttered. “Bet m’self two dollars suthin’s goin’ to bust loose
‘fore long. Hello, here’s the sheriff; mebbe that’ll cramp his game some.”

 
          
Henry
Tyler, his nickel star well in evidence, followed by Martin and another
citizen, promptly joined the Bar B couple, and, as though he had been waiting
for them, Black Bart at once made a move for the bar.

 
          
“Set
‘em up, Sam,” he said to the dispenser of drinks.

 
          
As
the five men lined up at the counter, Severn was compelled to move further
along in order to give them room. This brought him close to the stranger, of
whose presence he was still unaware. Then
came
the
tinkle of a smashed glass.

 
          
“Damn
yu, yu clumsy cow-thumper. I’ll teach yu to keep yore hoofs to yoreself,”
snarled a savage voice behind him, and he felt a hard, round object which he
knew to be a gun-barrel jammed in the small of his back. “One move an’ I’ll
just naturally blow yu apart,” the voice continued.

 
          
Severn
stiffened; he knew he had been caught, and the rasping, metallic tone of the
threat told him that it was no idle one; the least movement on his part would
mean death. His eyes met those of Bartholomew, and noted the interest, mingled
with a gleam of amusement, in the Bar B owner’s face. The whole room was now
silent, tense; the flip of cards and rattle of poker chips had ceased.

 
          
“Don’t
yu,” warned another voice, and there was no mistaking the menace in it. “If
that gun ain’t dropped when I’ve counted three, yu will be. One—two—”

 
          
The
stranger cast a hurried glance over his shoulder and saw that the speaker was
the young cowpuncher. He had apparently got over his intoxication, for the gun
in his hand was unwavering, the pale eyes were like chilled steel and the lips
clamped on the cigar gave him
a ferocity
oddly out of
keeping with his age. The unknown’s gun clattered on the floor.

 
          
“All
right, Don; I’ve pulled his teeth, yu can handle him now,” said the man with
the drop, but he did not lower his gun. Like a flash Severn turned, and, as he
did so, his right fist came round and up, with all the impetus of his body
movement behind it. The blow caught the stranger fairly on the left point of
his jaw, lifted him clear of the ground and hurled him, a senseless mass, on to
a neighbouring card-table. The piece of furniture instantly became kindling
wood, cards and chips went flying, and two of the players executed pretty back
somersaults. Severn stepped forward, his hands in close proximity to his guns,
then turned to face an angry sheriff. Tyler was not at any time an imposing
person; his bloated face and mean eyes betrayed him for what he was—a
blustering bully.

 
          
“What’s
yore idea?” he bellowed. “Comin’ here a-disturbin’ the peace an’ knockin’
respectable folks about. I’ve half a mind—”

 
          
“Yo’re
flatterin’ yoreself, sheriff; I shouldn’t say yu had that much,” Severn
retorted, and a snicker went round the room, which infuriated the officer still
more. “O’ course, I didn’t know this fella was a friend o’ yores.”

 
          
“Friend
nothin’—I never seen him afore,” the sheriff disclaimed, “but I represent the
law—”

 
          
“Ain’t
yu a mite late gettin’ into the game, sheriff?” queried Severn sarcastically.
“When that fella had his gun jammed into my back yu gave a pretty good
imitation of a gob of mud. Yu saw him jump me.”

 
          
“I
saw yu deliberately spill his drink an’ tromp on his feet,” the sheriff
returned viciously. “An’ if he’d beefed yu it would ‘a’ served yu right.”

 
          
Severn
smiled at the circle of spectators, which now included everyone in the room.

 
          
“Yu
oughta get yore eyesight seen to, sheriff,” he said. “It’ll play yu a trick one
o’ these days.” And then the mirth died out of his face. “I’ve seen quite a few
sheriffs an’ marshals, but yo’re the worst specimen ever,” he said acidly.
“What’s the matter with this town that it has to go into the desert an’ fetch
in a poison toad like yu to hang a star on?”

 
          
The
officer’s face grew pale, his cheeks puffed out, and his beady eyes snapped
with rage until he actually suggested the reptile to which he had been likened.

 
          
“Yo’re
insultin’ an’ opposin’ the law,” he screamed.

 
          
In
sheer desperation, Tyler’s hand went to his gun, and, in a tone he tried hard
to make convincing, he
said :

 
          
“Put
up yore hands, I’m arrestin’ yu.”

 
          
Severn,
lolling easily against the bar, laughed in his face. “Why, yu pore skate, I
could blow yu to bits before yu could get that cannon out,” he jeered. “See
here, sheriff, I’ll make yu an offer. We’ll get a deck o’ cards—a new one—an’
have one cut each. The man who cuts the high card has first shot at the other
from two paces—even yu couldn’t miss that far away. That’ll give yu an even
break. What about it?”

 
          
The
sheriff’s face palpably lost some of its colour as he heard this amazing
suggestion. He had made his bluff and the other man had called it. He swept a
furtive glance at the onlookers, but could see nothing but eager curiosity. If
he asked for help to arrest the puncher, he would probably die swiftly—Severn’s
eyes had told him as much. On the other hand, the thing he would have called
his soul shivered at the thought of staking his life on a cut of the cards.
Fair as it undoubtedly was, the very cold-bloodedness of the proposition
appalled him. And he knew he would lose—one look at the mocking, satirical face
of the challenger, radiating confidence, settled the issue. A loophole occurred
to him.

 
          
“Pretty
cheap bluff,” he croaked. “Yu know dam well I can’t take yu up wearin’ this,”
and he touched his badge of office.

 
          
“It
ain’t sewn to yore skin, is it?” queried the other, and then, “Well, I didn’t
think yu’d jump at it, sheriff; sorta guessed yu’d find a hole to crawl into,
but just to show I warn’t bluffin’, the offer is open to any o’ yore friends—or
his.”

 
          
He
pointed to the senseless figure on the floor, but his eyes were on Bartholomew.
The Bar B owner shrugged his shoulders as he
replied :

 
          
“That
jasper’s a stranger to me. I fight my own battles, my own way.”

 
          
“So
I’ve heard,” Severn commented, and his sneering smile conveyed anything but a
compliment. “Tell that fella when he comes round where he can find me,” he said
to the bar-tender, and unconcernedly turning his back, walked out of the room.