Severn digested this information in silence. Did the frequenters of Muger's know that an attempt would be made to lift the cattle, or were they gambling on the chance of the White Masks seizing the opportunity? One thing was very clear--someone was keeping a sharp eye on what was happening at the Lazy M.
"Them bandits in the Pinnacles don't 'pear to be interfered with," he remarked casually.
"Well, they ain't bothered Hope none as yet, an' Tyler, the sheriff, won't never lose his eyesight lookin' for work," the saloon-keeper replied.
"I'm leavin' the findin' of them goodt men to yu," the Lazy M foreman said as they left the saloon.
"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 supplieswere 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 animiles 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 immedi- ately. 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 agesture 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 cornpelled 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.