Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 05 - Law O' The Lariat(1935) Read Free

the
sidewalk, and it was he who had spoken. Martin stared at him, a savage surprise
in his beady eyes. Leaning back, he checked his progress for a moment.
                 “Yu
can go plumb to hell,” he retorted.
                 “Drop
it, yu skunk,” came the further order, and this time
there was a cold menace in the tone.
                 Martin
recognised it and knew that he must either obey or fight. He elected to do
both. Dropping the quirt he snatched at his gun. The other man appeared to make
no move until the weapon was clear of the holster, and then came a spurt of
smoke from his right hip, and Martin toppled sideways into the dust, letting
fall his own gun and the rope as he did so. The stranger stepped into the
street and stood over the prostrate man. “That dawg belong to yu?” he asked.
                 “Yes,
an’ what the hell business is it o’ yores, anyways?” spat out the other, his
baleful eyes glaring murder.
                 “I’ve
made it my business, an’ I’m buyin’ yore dawg,” replied the stranger coolly, as
he took a roll of bills from his pocket peeled off one and flung it down.
“That’s five times the dawg’s value an’ fifty times yores,” he added
contemptuously.
                 “ This don’t finish here—I’ll get yu,” Martin gritted.
                 “Better
get—yoreself,” the stranger warned sardonically.
                 The
wounded man staggered to his feet and floundered back up the street, clutching
his hurt arm, from the fingers of which the blood dripped redly. The victor
watched him for a few moments and then stepped to the sidewalk again, whistling
to the dog, which had paused uncertainly a few dozen yards away. Apparently
recognising a friend, the animal, little more than a pup, of a mixed breed in
which the wolfhound predominated, obeyed the call, alternately cringing and
wagging its tail. The rescuer stooped and scratched its head.
                 “Yu shore have had a raw deal, old fella,” he said. “An’
by the look o’ yore ribs meal times ain’t been any too regular. We’ll have to
find somethin’ to fill out them dimples.”
                 “You coward ! “
                 The
voice was low and should have been sweet, but now it was charged with anger and
scorn. In startled amazement the dog petter looked up to find that the words
had been spoken by a girl, who had apparently emerged from the neighbouring
store. Despite her evident temper, he had to admit she made a pretty picture.
Of medium height, her slim, rounded figure showed to advantage in the short
riding skirt, high-laced boots and shirtwaist, with a gay handkerchief knotted
round her throat cowboy fashion. Her soft slouched hat did not entirely conceal
a profusion of brown hair, to which the sun added a gleam of new bronze.
                 “You
might have killed him,” she went on vehemently.
                 Instinctively
the stranger removed his hat. He knew, of course, that she was referring to the
dog’s late owner, and there was a spark of devilment in his eyes.
                 “Shore
I might—if I’d wanted to,” he said gravely. “But I on’y winged him—just put him
out of action; he’ll be as good as new in two-three weeks. I take it yu don’t
like dawgs, ma’am?”
                 “Yu
take it wrong—I’m very fond of them,” the girl retorted. “But I don’t place
them on the same level as human beings.”
                 The
stranger’s eyes twinkled. “Yo’re dead right, ma’am,” he agreed. “Sometimes that
wouldn’t be fair to the dawg.”
                 The
girl bit her lip. “You provoked that man into drawing his gun knowing you could
shoot first,” she accused.
                 “An’
me not havin’ seen the fella afore,” the unknown reproved gently. “He got