Larry and Stretch 9 Read online

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  From the moment they crossed the line and entered Beck County, Larry and Stretch were fated to risk their lives in a bloody battle with the lawless. Carew Canyon—a rich prize—was thrown open for a land-rush, and the West's toughest trouble-shooters were caught in a web of intrigue, forced to ride in the roughest, most grueling race known to man.

  Here are the Lone Star Hellions at their rough and ready best, bedeviling the forces of law and order, challenging the thieves and killers of a wild frontier and adding another hectic chapter to the story of their violent career.

  Contents

  One – Jailbait

  Two – The Big News

  Three – The Elimination

  Four – “Us Poor Sorleys”

  Five – Mark of the Killer

  Six –Three for the Calaboose

  Seven – Lynch-Party

  Eight – The Stand-Off

  Nine – The Vital Miles

  Ten – The Promised Land

  About the Author

  The Larry and Stretch Series

  About Piccadilly Publishing

  Copyright

  One – Jailbait

  Southerners Not Welcome, the sign read.

  It was nailed above a framed portrait of General Ulysses S. Grant, on the wall of Ike Waldick’s general store in Chestnut Creek, Kansas. Harsh black lettering on yellow cardboard, placed where it could readily be seen by any strangers entering Waldick’s premises.

  And two strangers had just entered. Southerners at that. Texans, to be precise. Their names were Larry Valentine and Stretch Emerson and, whilst they weren’t exactly anti-Union, they weren’t overly fond of Northerners who pursued an anti-South policy—so long after the cessation of hostilities.

  “We want to buy a shirt for my sidekick here,” Larry informed the proprietor.

  The drifters propped elbows on the counter and gave Waldick’s establishment a casual once-over. It was like any other general store; maybe a mite bigger than some. The inevitable cracker-barrel was positioned squarely in the center of the room and around it were placed several stools on which perched the proprietor’s cronies, four heavy-set, thick-bearded hombres in their early forties, fitting cohorts for a man of Ike Waldick’s caliber.

  Waldick was a giant, uncouth and assertive, with a broad, unattractive countenance, piercing gray eyes, a bulbous nose and a scrubby mustache that almost concealed a thin-lipped mouth. In faded undershirt, dirty apron and patched pants, he stood behind his counter and glowered unsociably at the strangers. With a none too clean thumb, he drew their attention to the printed sign.

  “You Rebs never learn to read?” he challenged. “That sign says Southerners ain’t welcome in my store and, ’less I miss my guess, you’re Texan.”

  “And proud of it,” drawled Larry.

  “Two and a half years I fought agin you lousy Rebs,” scowled Waldick. “I never admired ’em in sixty-three and sixty-four—and I still don’t admire ’em!”

  “’Scuse us for remindin’ you, mister,” said Stretch. “But the war ended a long time back.”

  “Not for him, it didn’t,” sighed Larry.

  He had encountered hotheads of this kind before, and to his regret. The “loyal veteran” type. Old soldiers who never learned the meaning of “cessation of hostilities,” “rehabilitation,” “peace” or “non-aggression.” This proddy storekeeper, he supposed, would continue to despise the Confederacy until his dying day, even though the Confederacy had ceased to exist.

  “I don’t do business with Rebs,” Waldick curtly announced. He pointed sternly to the entrance. “Out! Scat! Vamoose!”

  “That’s tellin’ ’em, Ike,” sniggered one of his cronies.

  At that stage of the discussion, the storekeeper might have profited from a more intent appraisal of his would-be customers, a more accurate assessment of their potential. They were shabbily garbed in well-worn range clothes. They needed shaves and they seemed travel-weary—but they were not to be dismissed lightly. They were, in fact, men of some reputation. A resentful lawman had once referred to them as The Lone Star Hellions. Another had called them The Texas Hell-Raisers. And maybe these terms were apt. Certainly, they were no strangers to danger, to violence, to intrigue or to sudden death.

  Larry Valentine was a husky, dark-haired hombre, handsome in a battered, weather-beaten way. The set of his heavy jaw suggested an aggressive disposition. The expression in his eyes hinted at an alert, questing intellect. He stood more than six-three, a brawny veteran trouble-shooter who, in his many years of drifting the untamed frontiers of the South-west, had become the sworn enemy of the lawless and a thorn in the side of every owner of a law-badge. Jutting from the holster at his right hip was the walnut butt of a Colt .45.

  Stretch Emerson towered a full three inches over his saddle-pard. He was sandy-haired, a lean, scrawny beanpole with a lantern jaw and ears that stuck out. The expression in his blue eyes was as deceptive as his physique. He looked to be a mild and gentle jasper, and not too bright. Actually—and especially in battle—the amiable Stretch was a fighting machine, a worthy sidekick for a man of Larry’s caliber. He was twice as strong as he appeared to be, and packed twice as much Colt as Larry—a .45 slung to either hip.

  Larry made one last attempt to achieve a condition of peaceful co-existence.

  “We ain’t lookin’ for trouble,” he told Waldick, “and we ain’t here to argue about who won the war. All we want is to buy a shirt for my sidekick. That’s simple enough, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Far as I’m concerned,” muttered Waldick, “all Southerners are scum—and I never do business with scum.” He reached across the counter, seized Larry by his bandanna and tried to shake him. “I said ‘out’! And I mean ‘out’!”

  “We’ll help,” offered one of Waldick’s cronies, as he rose from his stool.

  The other three followed his example, and Waldick was still gripping Larry’s bandanna—but not for long. Larry’s left hand closed over the storekeeper’s wrist. He squeezed hard. Waldick unleashed a startled yelp and let go. His hands became fists. A bunched right was jabbed at Larry’s face. Larry parried it and retaliated with a driving left that sent Waldick crashing back against his laden shelves. From a top shelf, a bolt of calico, two oil-lamps and a box of lye soap toppled on to Waldick’s head. He thudded to the floor, roaring like a wounded steer, while his cohorts charged to the attack.

  Two grappled with Stretch. As he slugged it out with them at close quarters, the taller Texan gleefully raised a Rebel Yell. The other two descended upon Larry with fists flailing and, within seconds, were wishing they hadn’t. A well-aimed blow from the hard fist of Larry Valentine was not to be taken lightly. He proved it by swinging an uppercut that sent one of them hurtling back to the cracker-barrel, to overturn and empty it. The other man made the mistake of trying to get a grip on Larry’s throat. Larry doubled him with a left to the belly, then threw a right to the jaw. Spitting blood, his assailant lurched against a heap of grain-sacks.

  “How’re you makin’ out, runt?” called Stretch, as he lifted one of his attackers and hurled him over the counter.

  “Don’t ask damn fool questions!” yelled Larry. “If these galoots want to fight the war all over again, it’s okay by me!”

  Waldick clambered over his counter and leapt astride Larry’s shoulders. They crashed and rolled in a wild melee of threshing limbs, upsetting a table, demolishing the cracker-barrel and sending a molasses keg rumbling out on to the boardwalk.

  At about this same time a towner hustled along Chestnut Creek’s main stem to the porch of the marshal’s office, and excitedly reported:

  “There’s a ruckus at Waldick’s Empori
um. Looks like a couple strangers are wreckin’ the whole shebang!”

  The two lawmen of Chestnut Creek promptly roused from their lethargy and jumped up from their cane-back chairs. Mace Bridges, the town marshal, was a florid-complexioned fifty-year-old, corpulent and over-fed, prone to indigestion and short on temper. His deputy, Pete Smith, was a slovenly redhead who could justly be described as not the smartest lawman north of the Cimarron. They frowned uptown toward the general store, then traded uneasy glances. Chestnut Creek was a quiet town, and they liked it that way.

  “Well,” frowned the deputy, “we better get up there and break it up.”

  “Yeah,” Bridges grudgingly agreed. “That’s just what we better.” He scowled at his informant. “Winthrop, about these strangers, you claim they’re rough hombres?”

  “Rough?” blinked the towner. “Lemme put it thisaway, Marshal. They’re fightin’ Ike—and four of Ike’s pards—and they’re winnin’!”

  “Pete,” grunted Bridges, “you better fetch a couple shotguns.”

  By the time the shotgun-toting lawmen reached the emporium, a fair representation of Chestnut Creek’s bovine citizenry had converged on the scene. The local newspaper editor, slack-jawed and bug-eyed, was very much to the fore. He made notes while the resident judge angrily condemned “this unseemly exhibition of rowdyism.” Bridges and Street trudged hesitantly into the store and were grateful to discover that hostilities had ceased. This boosted their courage. Grim-faced, they aimed their scatterguns at the only men still standing, Larry and Stretch, who calmly unstrapped and surrendered their weapons. They weren’t impressed by the lawmen, but for cocked shotguns they maintained a hearty respect.

  “They started it—we finished it,” offered Larry.

  “That’s how it always is,” Stretch virtuously assured them.

  “Only we ain’t beggin’ you to believe us,” growled Larry. And he added, scathingly, “because this town ain’t friendly to strangers. Any fool can see that.”

  Ike Waldick’s cronies, in varying stages of oblivion, were scattered about the wrecked store. One lay amid the debris of the cracker-barrel. Another hung half-in, half-out of a smashed window. Another slept on the counter. The fourth—somehow—had become wedged between two shelves against the left-side wall. Waldick, barely conscious, but still belligerent, was extricating himself from a tangle of unwound broadcloth. His speech was muffled, because his mouth was mangled and he was minus a front tooth.

  “Arrest ’em,” he gasped.

  “By golly,” scowled Bridges, “you don’t get away with this—not in my town.”

  “I want damages,” mumbled Waldick. “All this breakage has gotta be paid for.”

  “No need to untidy our courthouse with these roughnecks,” snapped the judge. “I’m imposing a one hundred dollar fine, here and now. The money to be paid to Ike Waldick. If they can’t pay, they spend ninety days in the calaboose.”

  “We got exactly seventeen dollars and seventy-five cents between us,” muttered Larry.

  “Then it’s ninety days!” boomed the judge. “Marshal—take their names.”

  “Larry Valentine,” said Larry.

  “Stretch Emerson,” said Stretch.

  “And we’re Texans,” Larry announced.

  “And proud of it,” declared Stretch.

  The newspaperman showed increased interest.

  “Larry and Stretch?” he prodded.

  “Never heard of ’em,” growled Bridges.

  “Me neither,” said the deputy.

  “Marshal,” frowned the judge, “take them away.”

  As they moved toward the doorway with the shotguns nudging their backs, Larry threw the newspaperman a sidelong glance and warmly assured him:

  “Anything you’ve heard about us was likely exaggerated.”

  “We’re peaceable,” Stretch asserted, “and plumb law-abidin’.”

  “Don’t worry,” grinned the newspaperman. “I wouldn’t have the nerve to misquote you. I’ll only report the simple facts.”

  A few minutes later, at the local Western Union office, the journalist composed a short message to be transmitted to a friend and colleague—Lucius Gilford, editor of the Becksburg Herald. Becksburg, a thriving cattle and farming community, was located north of Chestnut Creek and could be reached in twenty-four hours of steady riding.

  The message was brief. Two well-known troubleshooters, Messrs. Valentine and Emerson, were currently residing in the Chestnut Creek pokey, being unable to pay a hundred-dollar fine. The journalist added a few facts regarding the ruckus at Waldick’s Emporium and concluded with the remark that Gifford was welcome to publish or ignore this report as he saw fit.

  On their way to the jailhouse, the Texans were observed and noted by other interested parties—female and inquisitive, the blousy, over-painted percentage-girls of the local saloons. Within an hour of their being installed in a cell, the alley beside the calaboose was crowded with these ladies of easy virtue, trading banter with the good-humored drifters, boosting each other for the privilege of shoving gifts of food, liquor and cigars through the bars of their cell window. Rarely did visitors receive such warm attention.

  Marshal Bridges tore his hair, yelled threats and ordered the girls to vacate the alley, but in vain. Like many a lawman before him, he was to learn that his tall prisoners were past masters at the art of making their presence felt.

  Four seemingly unconnected incidents, occurring within a period of forty-eight hours, were destined to become integral parts of the one dangerous intrigue. The first of these incidents was the arrest of Larry and Stretch in Chestnut Creek and, at the time, neither Texan suspected that they were about to embark on yet another hectic adventure. Their present situation was too familiar to cause them alarm. They had occupied other jail-cells—usually for the same reason. To insult Texas or Texans was to court disaster, if these nomads happened to be within earshot. Waldick and his friends had learned this to their sorrow. Now, the Texans contemplated a prolonged stay in the Chestnut Creek pokey with serenity and equanimity. It suited their purpose. Their funds were low. They hadn’t been headed any place special. When it came to resting up, a jail-cell was as good a place as any.

  The second incident was occurring even now, midmorning of a sunny day in early spring. At the east boundary of the Bar A spread in Beck County, a sextet of Bar A cowpokes were surrounding four sodbusters and accusing them of trespassing. The sodbuster was aged, whimsical, indigent Luke Sorley. His three companions were his eldest sons, Eli, Oley and Elmer. Stolidly, they sat their horses and traded accusations and denials with the angry ranch-hands.

  “Trespassin’,” sneered a cowpoke. “Sneakin’ onta Bar A land to maybe run off a couple steers.”

  “Well now, young feller,” chided Luke, “you ain’t treatin’ us square. It ain’t friendly to accuse us Sorleys of theft. I’ll allow you’ve found us on Alden land, but we ain’t rustlers.”

  “All we wanted,” offered Eli, the eldest Sorley boy, “was to get a shot at a couple jackrabbits—or maybe even a buck-deer. Plenty game up in them hills back of Bar A.”

  “You’ve had the word from the boss—personal,” the cowpoke reminded them. “No sodbusters is allowed on Bar A land. Anyways ...” He turned to frown toward an oncoming rider, “here comes Del. We’ll let him decide what we’re gonna do to you.”

  He was referring to Del Weaver. As well as being ramrod of Bar A, this handsome thirty-year-old was kin to the Aldens, a nephew of the owner. He was lean, blond and even-tempered, much admired by county folk. When he reined up, he was smiling, and that smile restored the optimism of the shabby sodbusters. Old Luke greeted him with elaborate courtesy, actually doffing his battered hat to him.

  “’Mornin’, Mr. Weaver, sir.”

  “Never mind the honey-talk, old man,” grinned the ramrod, “All right, Syd, what’s this all about?”

  “Same damn thing,” muttered the cowpokes’ spokesman. “These shiftless Sorleys trespassin�
� again.”

  “You ought to know better,” Weaver chided Luke. “You know Uncle Clem’s rules. He never was partial to trespassers.”

  “Only figured to shoot us a couple cottontail, maybe,” Luke humbly assured him. “Us Sorleys has fell on hard times, Mr. Weaver, sir. Scarce a crumb for our supper-table, and that’s a fact.”

  “As long as I can recall,” sighed Weaver, “you Sorleys have been complaining of hard times.”

  “Can we help it,” shrugged Luke, “if nothin’ll grow on my land? I just been plain unlucky is all.”

  “Well,” said Weaver, “you still have to follow my uncle’s rules. No trespassing, Luke. Last warning.”

  “What’re you gonna do with ’em, Del?” demanded Syd.

  “Let ’em go,” said Weaver.

  “Whatever you say,” shrugged Sydney.

  “But,” frowned Weaver, pointing sternly at the sodbusters, “you won’t get away with it again. Next time, I guarantee my uncle will swear out a complaint at Sheriff Loomis’s office—and you know what that means.”

  “Us Sorleys,” grunted Luke, “don’t crave trouble with the law. We ain’t got much, but at least we’re honest.”

  “About that.” countered Weaver, “I could give you an argument—but I won’t.” He jerked a thumb. “Now skedaddle off Bar A land, and stay off.”

  The third incident took place at noon of this same day. Grinning triumphantly, Lucius Gifford came bustling into the Herald office to inform his printer:

  “We’re about to set up a special edition, Nat. I got quite a story from Gus Nyles down at the Land Office.”

  “Important enough for a special edition?” challenged the somnolent Nat Roote.

  “And then some, friend,” chuckled Gifford. “And then some!” He seated himself at his desk and reached for pencil and paper. “Biggest news to hit this territory since the President refused to include us in his grand tour. A land-rush, Nat. Beck County is going to see a land-rush.”