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  It looked like a quiet town, but it pretty soon erupted into violence!

  Larry and Stretch, the West’s most overworked trouble-shooters, were seeking peace and quiet, a place to rest their weary Texas heads, when they rode into the tomb-silent main street of Three Springs, South Nevada.

  They hadn’t time to cool their saddles before the violence flared and, once again the Lone Star Hellions found themselves in the thick of a suspense-filled adventure, spiked with intrigue and the threat of sudden death.

  To help a troubled town, and to defy the power of twenty-four blood-thirsty bandidos, the Texans needed all their Texas savvy, their Lone Star Luck, their rock-hard fists and their booming .45s.

  LARRY AND STRETCH 8: THE FAST RIGHT HAND

  By Marshall Grover

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

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

  First Smashwords Edition: July 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 Wild Welcome

  From this lofty vantage point, Three Springs looked to be the most peaceful township in South Nevada. So thought the veteran trouble-shooters, as they spelled their mounts atop the timbered rise and scanned the terrain below.

  “Plumb peaceable,” was how Larry Valentine described it. “Lazy-lookin’. Exactly the kind of town we’ve been lookin’ for.”

  “Sure enough,” agreed Stretch Emerson.

  The tall drifters, oft times referred to as the Lone Star Hellions or the Texas Hell-Raisers, had good reason to seek a quiet town, an untroubled town, a community devoid of tension, turmoil and violence. During the past year—not to mention the fifteen preceding it—they had found themselves involved in one crisis after another. From the Canadian line to the Rio Grande, from the wide Missouri to California, they had wandered the frontiers, forever at war with the lawless breed.

  They were Texans who rarely visited their home State. The wanderlust had claimed them in their youth, and they had been “on the drift” ever since. Basically, they could be described as honest and law-abiding. This was true enough, insofar as their hectic adventures invariably ended in spectacular defeat for the lawless. But many a cow town marshal and county sheriff cursed them almost as bitterly as did the rogues and murderers who had crossed their path, because they were rugged individualists fighting according to their own carefree code, on their own terms, in their own way. Their attitude towards the owlhoot element—rustlers, bank-bandits, stage-robbers, gunfighters—was one of permanent animosity. Unhappily, their attitude towards duly appointed peace officers was almost as uncharitable. Lawmen they regarded as a painful necessity and a dubious advantage. They had known few lawmen who had warranted their respect—and the feeling was mutual.

  “It’s high time,” opined Stretch, “that you and me rested our weary bones. We got cash-money in our jeans—”

  “A mite more than four thousand dollars,” nodded Larry.

  “Enough,” declared Stretch, “to keep us livin’ easy for many a long month.”

  He was the taller of the nomads, a sandy-haired, lantern-jawed beanpole who stood almost six feet six inches, minus boots. His partner stood a mere six feet three, a fact that frequently moved Stretch to call him “runt”. The blue eyes of Stretch Emerson, plus his mild expression and guileless grin, were apt to create a false impression of his capabilities. It was true enough that his brain never functioned as rapidly as did Larry’s, but he was nobody’s fool. In battle his rare talents were demonstrated. He was twice as strong as he appeared to be, and seven times tougher. His shooting eye was keen, his hands lightning-fast. He wore a Colt at either hip, and he was ambidextrous.

  Larry was dark-haired, with handsome, weather-beaten features and quizzical eyes that reflected an alert, questing mentality. He was hefty about the shoulders and chest, long-limbed and trim waisted. Not an ounce of surplus on that hard-muscled, battle-scarred frame. He packed half as much Colt as Stretch, a walnut-butted .45 slung to his right thigh.

  There they sat and pondered, two nineteenth century knights errant in faded and dusty range clothes, straddling a sorrel and a pinto, trying to forget the violence and bloodshed of their hectic past, cheerfully convincing themselves that, here in this tranquil community, they would find temporary respite from their labors.

  The town certainly appeared quiet enough. Judging from its muddled architecture, its population was part Mexican. Away to the right of the main street, they could see a sandstone and adobe monastery surrounded by a nine feet high wall. The chapel, with its steeple, was clearly visible. The buildings along the main business block were well spaced. The homes of the local Americanos were mostly angling away from the heart of town. The Mexicans, obviously double-storeyed affairs and located on tree-lined avenues, occupied the adobe dwellings clustered about Three Springs’ outskirts.

  “Well?” prodded Stretch. “What’re we waitin’ for? Let’s mosey on down there, find us a cantina where the beer is cold, and a hotel where the beds are soft.”

  As they descended from the rise and dawdled their horses towards the small town’s northern outskirts, Stretch cheerfully observed, “It sure is a peaceable-lookin’ burg. We couldn’t never find trouble in this kinda town.”

  In the peaceable-looking settlement of Three Springs, the civic leaders and the law-abiding citizens waited in a state of tension. Except for the few stray dogs and one or two horses hitched to racks, the main stem was devoid of any sign of life. Three Springs was tomb-quiet. A plague might have smitten it.

  Some twenty minutes before, a Mexican had hustled his pony along Main Street, shouting a warning.

  “Gringos—pistoleros, por cierto, from the north!”

  Now, the men, women and children of Three Springs were under cover and prepared to sell their lives dearly. From behind the barricaded entrance and front windows of the Rialto Saloon, the civic leaders readied their weapons, watched and waited. Self-appointed boss of this group was the mayor, pudgy, florid, belligerent Max Gilhauser. Through narrowed eyes, squinting along the barrels of a shotgun, he watched the tall riders entering Main Street’s north end.

  “Here they come,” he quietly warned his cronies. “Remember—no shooting till they make a wrong move.”

  Scrawny Linus Margolies, proprietor of a livery stable, peered over the mayor’s shoulder and grimly asserted: “They’re sure as hell a coupla mean-lookin’ hombres.”

  “Bad medicine,” opined the tobacco-chewing Dan Yuill. He was old and insular, a local storekeeper with a deep-rooted distrust of all strangers. “You can bet your boots they’re part of the Stark gang—sent here to spy on us.”

  “You’re likely right, Dan,” muttered Russ Perrier.

  “Well, the hell with ’em,” growled Albie Frayne. “They ain’t carryin’ no messages back to Brett Stark—on accounta they’ll be too fulla buckshot to set a saddle.”

  The lean, slick-haired Perrier and the heavyset, balding Frayne were partners, sharing ownership of the Rialto. Perrier acted
as manager and supervised the games of chance; Frayne was in charge of the bar. The Rialto was Three Springs’ most popular saloon, and its owners were accorded all due respect by their customers.

  In the Rialto, there were at least a score of local Americanos, all as heavily armed as Mayor Gilhauser and his friends. And this scene was repeated in most of the larger buildings along the main stem. The lobby of the Agua Bello Hotel was manned by the manager, his clerk, the porter and a half-dozen towners, some American, some Mexican. The street-door of the Three Springs Trust Bank was locked and barred. At the front window, old Martin Husig, the venerable, white-haired manager, crouched behind a cocked shotgun.

  And, within the office of the town marshal, preparedness was the order of the moment. Marshal Buck Craydon’s family was on hand, apprehensive, but resolute. His spouse, the skinny, swarthy Carlita, was hushing the smaller children to silence. Even the youngest Craydon child, little nine-year-old Rafael, was hefting a weapon, his father’s long-barreled Colt. He squatted by a front window, eagerly watching his brother Jose and his sisters Juanita, Rosita and Anita. That window was becoming crowded. The other one, left of the barricaded door, was manned by Carlita and the other boy, Miguel.

  A stranger might have wondered why Carlita—not her husband—had assumed leadership here. Where was the marshal at this moment? Sprawled on the couch under the gun-rack, blinking dismally at the flyspecked ceiling. In his early fifties, Buck Craydon was bulky and blunt-featured, with a scrubby mustache as gray as his crinkly hair. His eyes were gray and filled with sadness, despair, grim resignation.

  “What a way to go,” he sighed. “Too sick—too far gone to protect my own young ’uns.”

  In her native tongue, Carlita whispered a command to her progeny. “If they stop here—we shoot.”

  “Si, madre,” chorused the children.

  The eldest was of age now, twenty-one and lushly beautiful. Anita had inherited the raven hair of her Mexican mother and the gray eyes of her American father. Also, as Mayor Gilhauser had often been heard to remark, she had the quickest wit, the readiest intellect of all the Craydon family. Thoughtfully, she studied the strangers moving slowly along Main Street, and offered an opinion.

  “These men are dangerous, madre, but maybe not to us.”

  “Pistoleros!” snorted Carlita. “Bandidos! Homicidas!” She scowled ferociously, threw a backward glance to the couch. For a moment, her expression softened. Her Americano husband was still the love of her life. His indisposition had only served to increase her devotion and to intensify her protective instinct. “They have come for your padre, Anita. This is for sure. But we well kill them—muy pronto.”

  Reaching the heart of town and suddenly conscious of the silence, the drifters traded puzzled frowns.

  “What in tarnation,” wondered Larry, “has happened to this burg?”

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

  They continued their progress along the main stem and, fortunately for their nerves, remained unaware of the danger surrounding them. Every building boasted an awning. Their eyes were accustomed to the harsh sunlight, not to the shade. They couldn’t see beyond the awnings to the heavily-manned windows where the gun-muzzles protruded.

  It was mid-morning of a clear summer day. Surely, at this hour, the main stem of any community—even the smallest—should show some sign of life?

  “I see a schoolhouse.” Larry rose in his stirrups and pointed. “This time of day, there’d be kids in school.”

  “And a schoolma’am.” Stretch grimaced nervously. “Runt—I ain’t partial to schoolma’ams.”

  “It’s likely a school for the local Americano young ’uns,” Larry decided. “You can bet the Mex kids go to school inside the mission, get taught by the padres. But, in this schoolhouse, we’ll find Americano young ’uns—who can maybe tell us where their folks are hidin’.”

  They advanced to the red-painted schoolhouse with the white picket fence. Under the massive shade tree by the front gate they reined up—after which all hell seemed to break loose, and they were given cause to doubt their sanity. The tree came alive. Small missiles, human and aggressive, descended upon them. They would have reached for their guns, had it not been immediately obvious that their assailants were juvenile. Three boys and a small girl dropped to Larry’s broad shoulders. Instinctively, he drew his boots from his stirrups. The sorrel reared. He grabbed for the tow-haired, freckled little girl to prevent her falling. And then, with the three boys still clinging to his torso, he was off-balance. The ground seemed to rush up to meet him. Simultaneously, Stretch struggled from his mount with five yelling boys clinging to him like limpets.

  “We got ’em—-we got ’em!” shrilled an excited girl who looked to be no older than six.

  “Hey, runt ...!” gasped Stretch. “What in blue blazes ...?”

  “Watch your damn-blasted language!” panted Larry. “Some of ’em are female!”

  “Move away from them, children!”

  This last command was called by the schoolma’am, who had emerged from the red-painted building. She was gaunt, elderly and formidable, her most formidable attribute being the weapon held in her arms and pointed at the strangers—a sawn-off shotgun.

  “Hold on now, ma’am ...” began Larry.

  “Be quiet!” she barked. “John Henry—have you disarmed them?”

  “We sure have, Miss Burnside,” grinned the red-haired youth.

  Gleefully, he exhibited the three Colts. He had run a stick through the trigger-guards. Larry rolled over and sat up, squinted at the dangling Colts and was grimly conscious of the lessening of weight in his holster. Stretch felt at his own empty holsters, stared aghast at his partner and gasped: “We’ve been jumped—-by a bunch of knee-high kids! Hell, runt ...!”

  And now the Main Street area, so silent a few moments before, was a scene of great activity. Armed men were hustling out of the saloons, the barbershops, the livery stables and other buildings. To the schoolhouse they advanced, weapons at the ready.

  Larry and Stretch struggled to their feet and stood by their horses, surrounded by the jeering, triumphant children and grimly conscious of the schoolma’am’s leveled shotgun. What kind of a town was this?

  “Maybe we’re dreamin’ this,” mumbled Stretch.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” asserted Larry. “Couple dozen kids droppin’ out of a tree …”

  “John Henry,” frowned Miss Burnside, “I gave you a direct order. You were supposed to hide under your desk—you and the other children.”

  The mayor arrived, sided by Yuill, Margolies, Perrier and Frayne. After his first hostile appraisal of the strangers, he told the schoolma’am:

  “It looks like your whole class jumped these jaspers.”

  “When they heard Mr. Gonzalez sounding the alarm,” she retorted, “they dashed out of school and climbed into the tree. I ordered them back, but they wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “Well,” grinned Perrier, “don’t punish ’em, Miss Burnside. All that matters is they got the drop on these hombres.”

  “These hardcases are all the same,” scowled Dan Yuill. “Without their six-shooters, they’re stiff-scared and yeller-bellied!”

  Larry fixed an angry glare on the storekeeper.

  “We ain’t scared,” he growled.

  “Nor yeller-bellied,” muttered Stretch.

  “Just plain puzzled is what we are,” said Larry. “We don’t know what in tarnation is happenin’ here. Why’d these young ’uns jump us? How come you’re all pointin’ guns at us?”

  “Don’t act innocent,” chided Margolies. “I guess we know a couple gunhawks when we see ’em.” He turned to the mayor and raised his eyebrows. “All right, Max, what do we do with ’em now?”

  “I say string ’em up,” growled Albie Frayne.

  “Mr. Frayne—please!” gasped the schoolma’am. “Not in front of the children!”

  “Aw, go on,” urged the bloodthirsty John He
nry. “I never did get to see a hangin’.”

  The Texans traded quick glances. They had recovered from their initial shock and, no matter how perilous their situation, they weren’t the kind to panic. Instead, they were weighing their chances of outliving this crisis. From the corner of his mouth, Larry whispered a warning:

  “Stay close by your horse. We might have to make a run for it.” He raised his voice to direct a challenge at the mayor, “You act like you boss these hotheads, so I’m askin’ you straight. Just what is the big idea?”

  “Stranger,” said Gilhauser, “you’re in no position to demand explanations.” He patted his chest. “I’m the one that’s gonna ask questions—and you better have the right answers.”

  “Put ’em on their horses,” suggested Perrier. “Bring ’em back to the Rialto.”

  “Good idea, Russ,” approved Frayne. “We’ll make ’em tell where their lousy boss is camped. They’ll talk plenty—bet your life on that. I never saw an owlhoot that wouldn’t turn yeller when the chips were down.”

  “The next fool that calls us yeller,” growled Larry, “is gonna lose his front teeth.”

  The Texans were covered from all sides. Again, they exchanged glances.

  “Loco,” breathed Stretch. “Every last one of ’em.”

  “Just this once,” frowned Larry, “I’m afeared you’re right. We’ve stumbled into a town of crazy men.”

  “Cut out that mumblin’ and get mounted!” barked Yuill.

  “We hear you,” shrugged Larry.

  When it came to menacing strangers, these Three Springs towners were showing more belligerence than sense. Ordering the Texans to mount proved to be a serious error because, once astride, they dug in their heels and got the animals moving. Yuill got off one shot from his Colt, but every other trigger-finger was frozen by the mayor’s urgent warning.

  “No shootin’! We’re apt to hit some of our own!” They were temporarily at a disadvantage, not to mention plunged into disorder by the prancing sorrel and the fast-stepping pinto. Men and children began a wild scatter, as the strangers urged their horses to speed.