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

his
gun out too, an’ he shore meant business.”
                 “An
even break—the old excuse of the professional killer,” she sneered. “That is
what you are, I suppose, and all you cared about was adding another notch to your
gun. Why, you laughed when you fired! “
                 With
a sudden movement the man lifted the handles of his guns so that she could see
them, but he spoke to the dog squatting contentedly at his feet, “Shore, I like
to see ‘em kick,” he grinned. “Reckon I’ll have to get some nicks put on these
guns though; that’s a bet we’ve overlooked, pup.”
                 The
girl glared at him with stormy eyes. “You’re utterly contemptible,” she said,
and stalked into the store.
                 The
man replaced his hat and pulled the dog’s ears. “We ain’t a mite popular, old
fella,” he told it. ” `Less than the dust’ don’t begin to describe us with her,
but she shore rests the eyes, an’ I reckon when she smiles—”
                 His
speculations were cut short by the sudden advent of four riders, who pulled
their mounts to a sliding stop in front of the saloon. The leader, a big,
black-haired man, with a hooked nose, was obviously in no amiable mood.
                 “Yu
the fella that shot up one o’ my men?” he blurted out.
                 The
stranger straightened up and looked at him.
                 “Speakin’
to me?” he asked, and then, “I put a bullet into a two-legged skunk just now,
but if he’s one o’ yore outfit I reckon yo’re a mighty poor picker o’ men.”
                 The
big man ignored the slur on his judgment. “What dam right yu got to interfere
between a man an’ his dawg?” he asked.
                 “I
got a right—an’ a left,” grinned the stranger, his fingers sweeping the butts
of his guns.
                 “Huh!
One o’ them funny jiggers, eh?” sneered the other. “What’s yore business
hereabouts?”
                 “My
business,” retorted the stranger emphatically. “You the
sheriff—or somethin’?”
                 The
slow drawl and the tone in which the words were uttered rendered them plainly
insulting, and the big man’s jaw clenched. “I ain’t the sheriff,” he said,
“but—”
                 “Yu
own him,” interrupted the mocking voice. “Well, that’s just as good, ain’t it?”
And then, in a different tone: “If that fella behind yu don’t keep his hands still yu’ll likely be shy another man.”
                 “Stay
out o’ this, Penton, I’m runnin’ it,” the leader said, and to the man on the sidewalk : “I asked what yore business here is. Yu better
not try my patience too much.”
                 The
unknown laughed. “Try yore patience!” he echoed. “Well, yu got yore nerve—we’ll
try that.” His hands flashed to his sides, and in an instant both his guns were
covering them. “Now,” he rasped out, “I can put the four o’ yu on yore backs in
as many seconds. Roll yore tails, every dam one o’ yu—I’m short on patience my
own self.”
                 The
whole aspect of the man had changed. The lounging, nonchalant figure was now
tense, the narrowed eyes grim and alert, and though there was a smile on the
lips it was no more suggestive of mirth than the bared teeth of a savage
animal. There was no mistaking the reality of the threat. Utterly taken by
surprise, the four men had no option, and with one accord they turned their
horses’ heads up the street. Their leader, the last to go, had a final word.
                 “Yu
got the drop—this time,” he scowled. “But there’ll be others.”
                 “I’m
hopin’ that,” retorted the unknown.
                 Watched
by the wondering population, the discomfited riders paced slowly back to