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  IT BEGAN ON A MERCILESS DESERT ... .. . AND ENDED IN A GHOST TOWN!

  Haunted by a sharp-shooting ghost, deserted Fortuna offered no warm welcome to the Lone Star Hellions and their new allies—three desperate men and four frightened women left to die in the arid heart of the Big Amarillo.

  Also in need of shelter were the infamous Cleave Elrigg and his trigger-happy cohorts—six escapees from the Pima Valley Prison, who were determined never to be recaptured.

  The climax, an explosion of violence and mayhem, echoed to every corner of the ghost town, with the West’s toughest trouble-shooters well to the fore of the fray.

  LARRY AND STRETCH 10: TEXAS GUN GHOST

  By Marshall Grover

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

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

  First Smashwords Edition: September 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

  The Big Amarillo

  “All of a sudden,” drawled Stretch Emerson, “that XX Homestead don’t look so peaceable.”

  “I see what you mean,” frowned Larry Valentine.

  “Three mighty proddy jaspers, it looks like,” said Stretch.

  “It looks like,” agreed Larry.

  The nomads were, as always, travelling strange territory. It was mid-morning of a high temperature day, early summer in North Arizona Territory. In three days of leisurely riding, their first sign of life was the lonely homestead dead ahead, a clapboard shack with a barn and outhouses close by, fronted by a pole corral. Their canteens were almost empty and they needed directions as to how to reach their destination, so they ambled their mounts towards the homestead which, at first, had seemed so quiet, so peaceable.

  That peaceful atmosphere had been shattered. Three saddle-horses were tethered by the corral, one of them riderless. The larger of the three riders appeared to be browbeating the homesteader. He was gesticulating angrily, while the homesteader retreated to a stalled wagon, brandishing a gun.

  “I done answered your questions, stranger,” the Texans heard him yell. “Now you mount up and git offa my land! You’re fazin’ my wife and young ’uns!”

  “You know more than you’re tellin’!” snarled his interrogator. “All you loners are the same! Close-mouthed—and a mite loco!”

  The Texans reined up to check the scene. On the porch, a thin, toil-worn female stood holding the grubby hands of two small children, a boy and a girl. It seemed the homesteader had married late in life. Certainly, he looked considerably older than .his frightened spouse. He was a lean one, gray-haired and stoop-shouldered, with hawk-like features and a drooping walrus moustache.

  The three intruders were hard-faced and truculent, especially the man fronting the homesteader. He was burly and aggressive and his eyes were red-rimmed with rage. “Git offa my land!” repeated the homesteader.

  “Not till you answer all my questions!” rasped the burly man. “And not till you tell me the truth!”

  “You callin’ me a liar?” challenged the homesteader. “By Judas, no hot-tempered stranger can talk thataway to Henry Sheldon!”

  “Lay down that gun, you blamed old fool!” barked the burly man.

  “Easy, boys, easy,” called Larry. “Let’s not go off half-cocked.”

  All eyes turned to the tall strangers, who had dismounted and were looping their reins over a corral-rail. Stretch was doffing his Stetson to the woman and showing her a guileless, reassuring grin. Larry was dawdling forward to position himself between the homesteader and his interrogator.

  “What in tarnation ...?” frowned Sheldon. “More trouble-makers? What the hell do you want?”

  “Butt out of this, stranger!” snapped the burly one.

  “I’ll butt out,” Larry calmly promised. “Just as soon as you quit bull-roarin’ at the old man.” He nodded to the homesteader. “Howdy. What seems to be the trouble?”

  Stretch took a few paces forward and came to a halt beside the burly man’s still-mounted sidekicks. Sheldon looked at him, then at Larry, and angrily explained:

  “These three hombres rode in outa nowhere and started shootin’ questions at me—somethin’ about a half-dozen jailbirds bustin’ out of Pima Valley. I told ’em us Sheldons ain’t seen no strangers in a month of Sundees, but …”

  “He could be lyin’,” grated the burly one. He eyed Larry sourly and introduced himself. “I’m Cliff Wendell, from Pima Valley, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Six hombres busted out,” prodded Larry, “and you’re a search-party. All right. Fair enough. But that don’t give you any right to faze harmless citizens. If Sheldon claims he hasn’t seen ’em ...”

  “Cliff,” called one of the mounted men, “you don’t have to take no sass from these saddlebums.”

  Stretch frowned reproachfully, and asked, “How come ever’body calls us saddlebums?”

  “Stand aside, stranger.” Wendell flexed his muscles and advanced. “I’m gonna get the truth out of this old fool—if I have to pound it out of him with my fists ...!”

  “Like hell you will,” countered Larry. “He’s old enough to be your father.”

  “Take him, Cliff!” urged the horseman nearest Stretch. And the burly man made the sad mistake of leaping at Larry and throwing a punch, while his cronies dropped from their saddles to descend upon Stretch. About to discharge his gun skyward as a discourager, Sheldon abruptly changed his mind. Why waste ammunition? These strangers weren’t about to be deterred by a mere gunshot. Their blood was up, and there was naught he could do except stay clear of the scene of conflict.

  It was, while it lasted, quite a hassle. Larry had parried Wendell’s first punch and had spun him around. He was grasping Wendell by his shirt-collar, and Wendell had emptied his holster. The naked Colt swung up, cocked. Larry released one hand, got a grip on Wendell’s wrist and twisted. Wendell yelled, dropped the weapon and rammed an elbow into Larry’s belly. Larry retaliated by back-stepping and swinging a wild kick that bruised Wendell’s rump and sent him staggering forward.

  Meanwhile, Stretch was busy. His assailants had borne him to the ground under their combined weight, but were wishing they hadn’t. He had rolled clear of them and was administering punishment in his own unique way. As one of them began rising, Stretch caught him with an uppercut, driving him clear across to the porch. The other leapt at Stretch from behind and clung to his back like a limpet. Stretch toted him to the corral, bent double and shed him. He pitched over Stretch’s head and struck a corral-rail face-on.

  Swearing luridly, Wendell hurled himself at Larry and swung a left, a right, another left—three savage blows, none of which connected, because Larry was a bobbing, weaving phantom in the rising dust. Off-balance, Wendell was wide open for a short jab. It exploded against his jaw with the impact of a battering-ram, lifted him and flung him flat on his back. He rolled and groaned, began struggling to his feet, and the new voice growled a reprimand.

  “That’s enough, Cliff. More than enough!”
>
  Preoccupied with hostilities, the Texans had failed to note the arrival of three more riders, three rifle-toting, alert eyed men now dismounting beside the corral. Their leader, a blond, sharp-featured man of middle-age, was studying them with more than casual interest, and frowning a warning at their three battered victims.

  “The hell with ’em ...!” panted Wendell, as he resumed the perpendicular.

  “Simmer down, Cliff,” ordered the middle-aged man. He transferred his gaze to the homesteader. “Finkler’s my name—Karl Finkler. I’m in charge of this group. You mind telling me who you are—and what happened here?”

  “Oughta be plain enough for you to figure out,” growled the homesteader. “I’m Henry Sheldon. Here I was, fixin’ my wagon and mindin’ my own business, when your three proddy pards came ridin’ in, shootin’ questions at me—all about them six hombres that flew the coop at Pima Valley

  “Six very dangerous men, Mr. Sheldon,” Finkler pointed out. “Dangerous and desperate.”

  “Makes no never-mind to me,” scowled Sheldon. “No jailbird with a brain in his head would come this close to the desert. And that’s what I told your bully-boy ...” He nodded to Wendell. “Only—consarn him—he wouldn’t believe me! Kept hollerin’ at me he did. And then these other hombres come driftin’ in ...”

  “Buttin’ in!” snapped Wendell.

  “It’s no concern of ours,” Larry coolly assured Finkler, “but we won’t stand by and watch any trigger-tempered hardcases gang up on an old man.”

  “Just who are you?” demanded Finkler.

  “I’m Valentine,” said Larry. He jerked a thumb in the general direction of the taller Texan. “He’s Emerson.”

  Finkler subjected them to an intent scrutiny, and found it easy to believe they could challenge and defeat three of his most formidable colleagues. They looked capable of it, and that was an understatement. Larry was a dark-haired, ruggedly-handsome hombre with the look of the wanderer and the physique of the veteran brawler, six feet two and a half inches of hard-muscled Texan, garbed in travel-stained range clothes, with a walnut-butted Colt slung to his right hip.

  Stretch was even taller, close to six feet six, a stringy beanpole of prodigious strength, sandy-haired and lantern-jawed, with deceptively mild blue eyes, as seasoned a trouble-shooter as his saddle-pard, but amiable, slower to anger. Where Larry roamed, Stretch followed as his obedient shadow, and had done so for longer than either could recall. They had never sought trouble, yet they found it—or it found them—time and time again. An uncountable number of thieves, rogues and killers, rustlers, bank-bandits, hold-up artists, boss-outlaws, scheming felons of every description, had crossed the trail of the Texas Hell-Raisers. Some had lived to regret it, from behind bars. Some had abruptly ceased to live, because to challenge these gun-fast nomads in mortal combat was to court disaster.

  Inevitably, the nomads had won a reputation. Denizens of the outlaw trails regarded them as their natural enemies. Lawmen accorded them grudging respect, while regarding their unsolicited assistance as a dubious asset. And this was understandable because, if Larry and Stretch stood for law and order, it had to be on their own terms. They made their own rules, fought the lawless in their own way, wholeheartedly and always violently, always with cheerful disregard for the restrictive code of duly-appointed peace officers.

  As it happened, Karl Finkler had never heard of them. He could only judge by appearances, and their appearance suggested they were no strangers to danger. What had happened here had happened before, Finkler supposed. And not infrequently.

  “You’ll think kindlier of Cliff,” he frowned, “when I tell you he was kin to Allison.”

  “And who,” asked Larry, “is Allison?”

  “A guard at the Pima Valley prison camp,” Finkler explained. “When these six prisoners made their break, they butchered two guards. Allison was one of them, and he was Cliff’s cousin.” He eyed Wendell sadly. “We’re all sorry about Jake—you know that.”

  “Bein’ sorry don’t make him alive,” muttered Wendell.

  “You have a right to be sore, Cliff,” said Finkler, “but no right to abuse every stranger you run into during this search. Plain truth is you lost your temper and went haywire. Admit it.”

  “All right, I’m admittin’ it,” growled Wendell. “But it sticks in my craw to think of Elrigg and his five pards ridin’ free, makin’ a clean break, and Jake not cold in his grave.”

  “We can’t be sure they’re riding,” countered Finkler. “We’ve combed a lot of territory and found no evidence they’ve stolen horses. Chances are they’re still afoot. And we’ll find them, Cliff. Bet your life on that.”

  “They haven’t showed their noses hereabouts,” declared Sheldon. “I told your sidekicks. Now I’m tellin’ you.”

  “That’s okay, Mr. Sheldon,” said Finkler. “Your word is good enough for me.”

  “So now what?” challenged Wendell. “Do we start combin’ the desert?”

  “No.” Finkler shook his head emphatically. “The Big Amarillo is the last place Elrigg would go. He knows he’d never survive in a desert without provisions, water, transportation.” He rose in his stirrups and pointed to the north-west. “That’s where we’ll make our next check. All the territory northwest. It’s my hunch that’s where Elrigg is headed.”

  “Well,” shrugged Wendell, “you’re the boss.”

  “I reckon you owe these folks an apology,” said Finkler.

  “So I’m sorry,” scowled Wendell, as he trudged back to his horse.

  Larry and Stretch were hunkered on their heels, calmly building smokes. Finkler aimed a query at them.

  “Were you gents headed any place special?”

  “Vine City,” Larry told him. “Town marshal is kin to my partner. We figure to visit with him.”

  “All right,” frowned Finkler. “Let me hand you a friendly warning. The six escaped prisoners are bad medicine. You heard what I told Mr. Sheldon. They’re dangerous and desperate. Three of them—including Elrigg himself—were serving life terms. And Elrigg is something special.”

  “How special?” prodded Larry.

  Finkler touched a finger to his temple.

  “Cunning as a wolf and seven times as dangerous. He doesn’t know the meaning of mercy, and he’d kill for the price of a short beer. Life is cheap to Cleave Elrigg, mark my words, so keep your eyes peeled.”

  “They’re armed?” asked Larry.

  “Two carbines taken from the dead guards,” said Finkler. “Plus ammunition, of course.” He sighed heavily as he predicted, “It’ll be a long search. They’re afoot, but they have Jud Bush with them, and Bush is part Indian. He’ll surely figure a way to kill their back-trail.”

  “Bush stinks like any other Injun,” growled Wendell. “I could find him—just followin’ my nose. C’mon, Karl.” The six riders rode away from the homestead and the ploughed fields, moving northwest. Sheldon stared after them awhile, then fixed his attention on the tall drifters.

  “Sure obliged to you gents,” he frowned. “Take it real kindly—the way you braced them hotheads. How come you happened along?”

  “Just by chance,” shrugged Larry. “Like I told the boss-guard, we’re bound for Vine City. When we spotted your smoke, we figured to ask you about a safe route through the desert and fill our canteens.”

  “You’re welcome to water,” offered Sheldon. “Chow, too. Gettin’ near eatin’ time anyways. Abby?”

  “Sure,” nodded his spouse. “I’ll set a couple extra plates.”

  She retreated into the house, taking the children with her. Sheldon set his gun down, perched himself on the edge of the porch and traded talk with his guests.

  “Big Amarillo, we call it,” he told them, gesturing to the east. “The big yeller. Real mean hunk o’ territory, I’m tellin’ you, and there’s many a man’d never dare try to ride through.”

  “You advisin’ us to ride around it?” asked Larry. “The way I hear it, we’d be rid
in’ a whole week longer than if we went straight across.”

  “You could cross the desert and reach Vine City in good health,” shrugged Sheldon, “’long as you know the best route, and how to find the waterholes. Well, you’ll know.” He grinned and patted his chest. “I’m the hombre can tell you.”

  “That’s fine,” said Larry.

  “Kinstead Stage crosses the Big Amarillo in one day,” said Sheldon, “but you better settle for a two-three day ride. A six-hoss team and a stagecoach can travel steady, but it ain’t so easy on horseback. Tell you what, gents. I’ll draw up a map for you, while we’re eatin’.”

  The drifters accepted this offer with gratitude. Their luck was holding, it seemed. They could enter the desert with confidence, toting ample provisions and water and with the added advantage of a map.

  After that austere but satisfying meal with the Sheldon family, they filled their canteens at the well and prepared to make their departure. The rough map supplied by the homesteader was folded and jammed into Larry’s hip pocket. They doffed their Stetsons to Abby Sheldon, thanked old Henry for his assistance.

  “Got one last leetle hunk o’ advice for you,” he offered, with a sly wink.

  “Like what, for instance?” challenged Stretch. “Somewheres in that mean ol’ desert,” grinned Sheldon, “there’s a ghost town. Fortuna, it’s called. I’ve never seen it. Heard about it, though. Used to be a real rip-roarin’ boom-town many a year ago. Pay-veins quit, and so did the miners. Whole population of Fortuna moved on, you know? So now there ain’t nothin’ but dust and tumbleweed and rotted timbers—and the ghost.”

  “And the—what?” Stretch eyed him anxiously.

  “For gosh sakes,” scowled Larry. “You know there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  “Mebbe so,” chuckled Sheldon. “But I can tell you there’s some kinda critter holed up in that ol’ town. I’ve seen hombres come sneakin’ outa that desert with their eyes poppin’ and their hair standin’ straight up—scared stiff they was—and all of ’em swore they’d never set a foot inside of Fortuna again. Seems that spook—or whatever it is—gave ’em a real bad time.”