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  Their names were on the bullets!

  Larry and Stretch, the West’s toughest trouble-shooters, came to Tyson City to solve a mystery, but their short stay almost became permanent residency—on Boot Hill.

  Somebody wanted them dead. They didn’t know who. They didn’t know why. Riflemen sniped at them from the windswept peaks of the high country. A knife was hurled through an open window to miss Stretch Emerson by mere inches. And Larry Valentine was trapped in a burning shack by anonymous assassins.

  The Texans had never run from a fight, and never would. They stayed to protect the beautiful Margo Farnol, to bedevil the confused Sheriff Jennings and to trigger a showdown with the local lawless—Lone Star style!

  LARRY AND STRETCH 6: TEXANS WALK PROUD

  By Marshall Grover

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

  Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia

  First Smashwords Edition: May 2017

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

  Chapter One

  Bushwhackers Die Fast

  As Larry Valentine heeled his sorrel to a hard run, he eased his Colt in its holster and grimly declared, “It looks like an ambush.”

  Stretch Emerson brought his pinto abreast of the fast-moving sorrel, stared ahead and nodded.

  “Could be,” he agreed. And he added, “Could be it’s none of our business, runt.”

  “Unless we make it our business,” Larry retorted, “they’re apt to beat his brains out.”

  He was referring to the violent scene that had met their eyes, just as they ambled their mounts out of the timber.

  Dead ahead, at a high point of the south trail, they had spotted the three horses. Two burly hombres were attacking a third man, dragging him from his horse, raining blows on him. The distance was short enough for Larry to perceive that the third man was unarmed.

  They put their mounts to the slope. Only fifty yards now separated them from the struggling trio. One of the attackers was straddling the man in the gray town suit, raising a naked Colt to club him. The other man was turning to face the oncoming Texans, readying a Winchester and ordering them to halt.

  “Turn them horses and get the hell outa here!” he yelled.

  And he added weight to that command by cutting loose with the rifle. A slug whined past Larry’s head with only inches to spare. Another actually seared the brim of Stretch’s Stetson. Larry mouthed a Texas oath, emptied his holster and took quick aim. His Colt roared, just as the rifleman drew another bead. The rifle clattered to the ground. Its owner spun drunkenly, sprawled on face and hands.

  The Texans reined up, dismounted quickly. The other hardcase rose to his feet and swung his gun towards Larry and, at such short range, Larry wasn’t about to take chances. He fired from the hip, his Colt booming a half-second faster than the gun of his would-be killer. The wild bullet sped high above their heads, and the gunman stumbled backwards, eyes bulging, chest bloody. He collapsed in an untidy heap.

  Stretch whistled softly, holstered his right-side Colt. “Couple real ornery jaspers,” he remarked. “They sure went trigger-happy …”

  “And kill-crazy, it seems like,” muttered Larry.

  “Gone coons now,” opined Stretch.

  The drygulchers’ victim appeared to be young and handsome, though three quarters of his face was obscured by the blood flowing from his head-wound. His clothes were well fitting and of fairly expensive material. Blood had spattered onto the white cotton shirt. He opened one eye, squinted up at his rescuers. His query was voiced in cultured accents, but so softly that Larry had to bend to catch the few words. It seemed obvious he was seriously injured. “To whom—am I indebted ...?”

  “I’m Valentine,” frowned Larry. “He’s Emerson.”

  “Larry and—Stretch?” The dark brows were raised. The corners of the mouth lifted slightly. “The Texas Hell-Raisers? Well, well, well ...!”

  “Who are you?” demanded Larry. “Where are you from—and why’d these gunhawks jump you?”

  The man groaned, gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. “Briskin ...” he panted. “Gil Briskin. Where I come from—doesn’t matter. I guess—they meant to rob me. Bad choice.” He opened his eyes again, stared beseechingly at Larry. “Need a doctor—and fast.”

  “He sure ain’t foolin’,” observed Stretch. “He looks gosh-awful.”

  “You—know this territory?” prodded Briskin.

  “Nope.” Larry shook his head. “We’re strangers hereabouts.”

  “Nearest town is—Childress.” Briskin weakly lifted a hand, pointed. “That direction. Only hope—you get me there—in time ...”

  His eyes closed again and he lay still. Larry got to his feet and asked, “What about these other hombres?”

  “Grave-bait,” shrugged Stretch.

  “All right,” frowned Larry. “Only one thing we can do. You rope ’em to their horses, and we’ll ...”

  “Our canteens are empty,” Stretch reminded him, “and these jaspers weren’t totin’ any water neither. How’re you gonna clean his wound?”

  “Don’t reckon I’d touch his head anyway,” said Larry. “Could be his skull is fractured. I could do more harm than good. Better we do like he said. I’ll hold him on his horse and we’ll make it slow to this Childress burg.”

  While securing the dead men to their horses, Stretch checked their pockets, but failed to find anything that might identify them. They had carried only thirty-seven dollars between them. The other articles were standard equipment—kerchiefs, jack knives, Durham-sacks, papers and vestas. Initials were cut into the walnut butts of their six-shooters. J.G. and B.G.

  “They might just be kin to each other,” he opined. “Brothers, maybe. Well? What d’you make of it, runt?”

  “Your guess,” shrugged Larry, “is as good as mine.”

  To prevent Briskin’s sliding from his saddle, he lashed the injured man’s wrists to the pommel and secured his feet by a line running under the saddle-cinch. At a pace somewhat slower than their customary mode of travel, they quit the scene of carnage and began their journey to Childress.

  For the Lone Star Hellions, it had happened again. A chance meeting along a lonely trail. The unexpected. The sudden necessity to defend themselves. For several weeks, they had been drifting free in Utah Territory, living off the land and trying to convince themselves that this was the life they craved. No troubles. No tensions. No conflicts.

  Such tranquility could not continue indefinitely. For other men, sure, but not for the nomads from Texas, the trouble-shooting drifters who, over the past two decades, had fought more than a score of battles with the lawless.

  Larry Valentine was a brawny, dark-haired hombre, shrewd-eyed, handsome in a rugged, weather-beaten way. Without his boots, he stood near six feet three inches tall. He wore the same kind of rig as clothed his sidekick—battered Stetson, rough flannel shirt and denim jacket, levis and chaps. His Colt .45 was slung to his right hip from a well-stocked cartridge belt, housed in a tied-down holster.

 
; Stretch Emerson had earned his nickname by his considerable height. He was a lean, stringy beanpole, near six feet six, sandy-haired and lantern-jawed, as homely as apple-pie and, in time of crisis, as formidable as a charging bull. The mild blue eyes were deceptive. Sure, the taller Texan wasn’t as mentally spry as his saddle pard, but he was a seasoned brawler and a sure shot. He toted twice as much Colt as Larry, one at either hip, and, with handguns, he was ambidextrous.

  “I got a feelin’,” he announced, long before they caught sight of somnolent Childress.

  “About what?” demanded Larry.

  “This ruckus,” grunted Stretch. “Less I miss my guess, it’s gonna be the start of somethin’. A man-sized fight—with you and me in the thick of it, up to our Texas ears.”

  They had intruded on the drygulchers at eight o’clock of that morning, a short time after breaking night-camp. It was eleven-forty a.m. when they idled the horses into the broad, tumbleweed-littered main street of Childress—as nondescript a town as they had ever visited, small, no-account, ten cents worth of nothing, a collection of unpainted frame and clapboard buildings baked by the harsh sun of central Utah.

  A straw-chewing ancient directed them to the home of Childress’ only excuse for a physician. They noted the shingle nailed to the front gate, but weren’t impressed. It read: “N. G. WOODROW—M.D.—VET.—CARPENTER.” Their knock was answered by an elderly, surly-looking individual in shirtsleeves.

  “What the hell d’you want?” he gruffly enquired.

  “That,” countered Larry, “is kind of a foolish question. You got eyes to see with—Doc. We got a hurt man here—and two dead ones.”

  “I’m no undertaker,” mumbled Doc Woodrow. “Best you take them dead hombres to Jubal Lukes. I’ll tend the sick one as best I can—but I ain’t promisin’ anything.”

  “Just do your best for him,” suggested Larry.

  They untied the ropes, carefully lowered Briskin from the bay and, with Woodrow leading, toted him into the house. Woodrow’s surgery looked discouraging, to say the least. Naught but a cot, a table, a washbasin and a cabinet containing his surgical instruments, in a small room with whitewashed walls. They deposited Briskin on the cot. Woodrow gestured impatiently and told them, “Leave him to me.”

  “Who,” asked Larry, “is Jubal Lukes? And where do we find him?”

  “Keep movin’ along Main and you can’t miss his place,” muttered Woodrow, as he began examining his patient.

  The Texans quit the house and proceeded along the quiet street, leading the five horses. In the next block, they easily found the premises presided over by the versatile Jubal Lukes, a single-story building with barred windows. This shingle was somewhat larger than Woodrow’s. The faded lettering proclaimed him to be Town Marshal, Undertaker, Justice Of The Peace, Notary Public and proprietor of Childress’ only livery stable.

  He was around fifty years old, scrawny, sharp-featured and talkative. Maybe his smile was meant to be guileless, but it reminded Larry of the leer of a coyote.

  “Welcome, strangers!” he beamed, as he descended from his porch. “Hey, now. Looks like you brought me a couple customers.”

  “You happen to know who these jaspers are?” Larry asked.

  “Never seen ’em before,” said Jubal, “but that don’t make no difference. They’ll get buried decent, and all its gonna cost is ...”

  “You can keep whatever dinero you find in their pockets,” frowned Larry.

  “Well,” grinned Jubal, “the horses and saddles ...”

  “The horses and saddles and hardware,” said Larry, “stay with us.”

  “You got no right ...” began Jubal.

  “We don’t aim to keep ’em,” said Larry. “But I reckon we better find out where they came from and hand ’em back.”

  “Could be their own horses,” protested Jubal.

  “Take a look at the brand,” ordered Larry.

  Jubal examined the brand, shrugged resignedly.

  “Uh-huh. Circle D. Three of Wes Deckart’s horses.”

  “Who’s Wes Deckart?” demanded Larry.

  “Owner of the Circle D livery,” explained Jubal, “down south in Tyson City. Yeah. These here are rented horses.”

  “That bein’ so,” decided Larry, “we’d best deliver ’em to Deckart. Saddles could be his, too.”

  “What about the hardware?” challenged Jubal.

  “I’ll hand the guns to the Tyson City sheriff,” declared Larry. “That’s better than him findin’ out about it from somebody else and maybe gettin’ a wild notion.”

  “Like, for instance,” explained Stretch, “tryin’ to hit ol’ Larry with a murder charge. We wouldn’t take kindly to that.”

  “I ain’t arguin’ with you,” Jubal hastened to assure them. “You do whatever you want.”

  They helped Jubal tote the dead men into his workshop. In a few terse sentences, Larry described the ambush and its aftermath. It hadn’t occurred to Jubal to demand explanations and, for Larry’s money, Jubal wasn’t a lawman’s dandruff, but he offered the explanation anyway. It seemed obligatory. Jubal listened cheerfully and gave him no arguments.

  “How about the jasper they ambushed?” he eagerly demanded.

  “He’s at Doc Woodrow’s house,” said Larry.

  “Hurt bad?” asked Jubal, hopefully.

  “Start laughin’,” Larry sarcastically invited. “They gun-whipped him—so he’ll likely die.”

  Jubal Lukes didn’t know how to show shame. He merely shrugged and said, “Well—what the heck? Business is business.”

  “Let’s get outa here,” scowled Stretch.

  They left the horses tethered outside Jubal’s establishment, sauntered along to an almost-deserted saloon and satisfied their thirsts, after which they drifted back to the Woodrow house to check on the hapless Gil Briskin. Woodrow was awaiting them at his front gate, gnawing on a cigar, squinting against the sun-glare. As they approached, he dolefully shook his head.

  “No chance?” challenged Larry.

  “He was near dead when you brought him in,” Woodrow told them. “Wasn’t anything I could do for him. Well, he took a beatin’ from a Colt barrel, didn’t he? Skull was fractured bad. He didn’t last more’n a couple of minutes. Cashed in peaceful, if that’s any satisfaction to you.”

  Larry shoved his Stetson back off his brow, produced his makings and began building a cigarette.

  “You didn’t know him?” Larry asked.

  “Been thinkin’ about that,” frowned Woodrow. “Face did look kind of familiar. Maybe I ran into him some place.”

  “Think on it some more,” suggested Larry. “Jubal Lukes tells us the horses are from the Circle D livery in Tyson City.”

  “That’d be it.” Woodrow nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. I’ve been down south to Tyson City a couple times, and that’s where I saw this jasper before, I guess.”

  “The name is Gil Briskin,” Larry told him.

  “The name,” shrugged Woodrow, “means nothin’ to me. You stayin’ for the funeral?”

  Larry lit his cigarette, gave that question some thought. “If we move out right away,” he asked, “will there be nobody to see him put away decent?”

  “Be plenty folks,” drawled Woodrow. “It’ll be a right friendly buryin’. I’ll be there. Jubal, too. Deacon Grimes’ll read over him. Likely the Ladies’ Committee’ll show up to sing the hymns. Nothin’ those old harpies relish better’n a chance for singin’.”

  “Well ...” mused Larry.

  “You want to see him again?” asked Woodrow. “I got him cleaned up neat.”

  “Thanks for nothin’,” scowled Larry. “We ain’t the kind that hangs around to peek at a dead man.” He dribbled smoke through his nostrils. “Nope. Reckon we’ll head south for Tyson City right away, deliver the horses to the place they were rented from—and parlay with the law.”

  “And maybe find Briskin’s kin,” added Stretch, “and tell ’em the sad news.”

  “That
’s a right big town, Tyson City,” offered Woodrow. “Grew fast, since it got to be a stopover for the Nevada-Missouri Railroad. They got loadin’ pens for shippin’ beef east or west, and they got four times as many citizens as they had five years back. Big town—bustin’ out all over.”

  Larry fished out a couple of bills and tucked them into Woodrow’s vest pocket. “That’s for your trouble,” he muttered.

  “Much obliged,” grunted Woodrow. “But it wasn’t any trouble.”

  “No,” Larry sadly agreed. “Like you say, he was near dead when we brought him in.”

  They returned to Jubal Lukes’ workshop. Already, the jack-of-all-trades was hard at work on the construction of deadwood caskets for his latest customers. He came out to greet the Texans, hefting his saw and grinning expectantly. “How about that other feller?” he demanded.

  “Big day for you,” growled Larry. “He cashed in, too.”

  The Texans stepped up to leather and, leading the Circle D horses, began their departure from nondescript Childress—a town that held no special appeal for them, a place they would probably never revisit. As they quit the main stem at its south end, they glanced away to their right to the ugly, windswept hill that served as Childress’ cemetery. Gil Briskin would be interred there before sundown. Gil Briskin—and the anonymous drygulchers who had beaten him so mercilessly. What did they know of Briskin? Next to nothing. And, naturally, Larry was curious.

  “I always did say,” mused Larry, “when a man dies, there ought to be a reason for it—and a mighty important reason at that.”

  “So here we go again.” Stretch shrugged philosophically. “Off to another new town, to ask about a hombre that got drygulched—and get ourselves in a heap of trouble that’s none of our business.”

  In the late afternoon of that day, three new wooden markers were affixed to three new mounds on the Childress boot hill. On one of those markers was inscribed the name GILBERT BRISKIN. It was Sunday. The day of rest. Not a day for violence and death and the digging of graves.

  ~*~

  Early on Monday morning, the sheriff of Tyson County led a nine-strong, saddle-sore posse back into the big town, after twenty-four hours abortive combing of the surrounding territory. The boss-lawman, Boyd Jennings, was long past fifty and. running to flesh, a veteran peace officer, but no longer capable of sustained energy. He rode slumped with fatigue, his mood bitter. To right and left of his plodding pony rode his deputies, scrawny, taciturn Stew Hutton and stocky, irascible Rocky Lodge. Behind straggled the half-dozen dog-tired towners who had volunteered their services so eagerly twenty-four hours before—and who would probably never do so again.