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

the
“Come Again” saloon, and when they vanished behind its doors the stranger
turned to find Bent regarding him with a look in which amazement and
consternation were oddly mixed.
                 “What’s
the trouble, old-timer?” he inquired.
                 “Trouble?”
repeated the saloon-keeper. “My ghost, yu shore have bought into a packet of it
yoreself. Yu know who that was?” And when the visitor shook
his head. “That was Black Bart; most o’ the folks in this burg sit up
an’ beg when he talks.”
                 “Is
that so?” returned the stranger easily. “Well, it musta been quite a change for
him to find one that didn’t.” And then, with a quick grin, he added : “Though I gotta admit he didn’t look none pleased.”
                 “It
ain’t no laughin’ matter,” reproved Bent. “He’s got
all the power round here, an’ if he comes back with his outfit they’ll just
naturally shoot yu to bits.”
                 “Then
I hope the town’s got a nice roomy graveyard an’ a hospital, for both’ll be
wanted,” returned the other grimly.
                 “That’s
all right—no doubt yu’d git some of ‘em, but what’s the use? One man can’t win
agin twenty, an’ though I ain’t lovin’ Bart any, I
don’t want my joint shot up—though, if it comes to it, yo’re right welcome.”
                 The
stranger’s eyes lit up. “Yu are shore white, seh, an’ yu’ve called the turn,”
he said. “I’ll be on my way—for now.”
                 Going
to the corral he saddled his horse and brought it round to the front of the
saloon. There was no haste in his movements, for he knew that he was being
watched, and had no desire to give the impression that he was running away. But
the discomfited quartette made no further demonstration, and after a leisurely
drink with the proprietor the unknown came out of the saloon, mounted and
jogged slowly out of town on the trail to the east.
                 Quirt—for
so he had named the dog—scampered ahead, chasing imaginary rabbits, and
returning at short intervals to salute his new master with joyful yelps.
                 “Yo’re
a grateful cuss, ain’t yu?” the rider apostrophized, after one of these
ebullitions. “But don’t yu be cheerful too soon; yu ain’t nearly paid for yet,
or I miss my guess.”
                 The
saloon-keeper watched him depart, and returned to his empty bar in a reflective
mood.
                 “Gentlemen,
hush,” he muttered. “I’m tellin’ myself the news : a
man has come to town.”

  Chapter
II
                 PHILIP
MASTERS, owner of the Lazy M, was sitting on the broad veranda of the
ranch-house, chewing the butt of a black cigar and moodily watching the trail,
which like a narrow white ribbon, wound down the slope and across the open range
in the direction of Hope Again, some twenty miles distant. A short, sturdy man
of fifty, with greying hair and a clean-shaven face, on which the mark of
mental stress was plainly set, he was somewhat of a problem to those who knew
him. Though at times he could be jovial and carefree, he had, during the last
few years, become a prey to spells of black depression utterly out of keeping
with his apparent prosperity. For Masters’ was reckoned the best ranch in the
county, and unlike most of the big cattlemen, he actually owned many square
miles of the land his herds ranged over.
                 Presently
the ranchman’s trained eye caught sight of a dot far away on the trail, and his
face cleared a little. Fifteen minutes passed and the dot resolved itself into
a rider, with a smaller dot running ahead.
                 “Must
be him, but what’s he doin ’—chasin’ a coyote?”
muttered the watching man.
                 At
the foot of the rise to the ranch-house the trail twisted and