Larry and Stretch 17

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  THE TOWN WAS WILD …

  THE MEN WERE WILDER …

  New Strike they called it—a boom town where two overworked lawmen fought hard to maintain the peace, where no decent woman was safe, until Larry and Stretch, the West’s toughest trouble-shooters, rode in to challenge the rowdies, the card-sharps, the plotters and killers of the hell-town.

  This was to be a fight to the finish. A tinhorn had been murdered and, unless the Texans could unmask the killer, the wrong man might hang. The odds were against the Lone Star Hellions, but they would never back down.

  LARRY AND STRETCH 17

  TEXAN IN MY SIGHTS

  By Marshall Grover

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

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

  First Edition: September 2018

  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: Kieran Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

  Chapter One

  New Strike

  “Rise up real slow, mister, and keep your paw away from your holster!”

  Larry Valentine’s ears were assailed by that challenge at 4 o’clock of a steamy summer afternoon. With his faithful shadow, the formidable Stretch Emerson, he had travelled many a long mile of arid, cheerless country, and he was in no mood for trouble. But trouble was here anyway, here at the edge of the sluggish creek, the first water he had seen in more than forty-eight hours. He had left his partner and their horses in the brush some fifteen yards to the rear and was now crouched by the creek bank. He was about to quench his thirst, when the man with the rifle growled his challenge.

  His shrewd eyes slanted sideways and upward, to survey the man behind the levelled rifle—a big one, bearded, shabbily-garbed, rough-looking. He remained in his crouched position and made no attempt to reach the butt of his holstered .45. He didn’t need to. The bearded hombre had a loud, booming voice. Downwind, he might have been audible for a quarter-mile. Certainly he could be heard back there in the brush and, by now, Stretch had a bead on him; of this Larry could be certain.

  “You just made a powerful bad mistake, mister!” scowled the rifleman.

  “Did I now?” prodded Larry. ‘I stop by a creek to get myself a drink of water—and that’s a powerful bad mistake? Tell me why.”

  “Claim jumpers,” leered the rifleman, “ain’t real popular in this here territory.”

  “This is a gold claim?” frowned Larry.

  “My claim,” nodded the bearded man. “Look around you for thirty square yards, and you’re lookin’ at my claim.” He powered along the rifle-barrel. “We got a sayin’ hereabouts, boy. ‘Claim jumpers never die old’. That’s what we say. You savvy what I mean?”

  “What you mean,” guessed Larry, “is you lynch claim jumpers. Also law-abidin’ citizens that stop by to take a drink?”

  “You’re no law-abidin’ citizen!” came the surly retort.

  “But I am,” Larry patiently assured him. “I surely am.”

  “You’re a claim jumper,” insisted the rifleman. And he added insult to injury. “You’re a liar as well. Now rise up and unstrap that six-shooter.”

  “’Scuse me for buttin’ in,” interjected the second Texan, “but did I hear him call you a liar, runt? You want I should shoot his ears off?”

  The rifleman froze for what could best be described as a pregnant moment. His eyes shifted leftward. An uncommonly tall hombre had emerged from the brush and was covering him with several pounds of lethal hardware, two Colts, both cocked, both lined on his belly. He swallowed a lump in his throat. The muzzle of his rifle dipped slightly.

  “Don’t just dip it—Whiskers,” frowned Larry. “Drop it—or my sidekick might get trigger-happy.”

  While the big man hesitated, Stretch Emerson offered discouragement. He didn’t seem to take aim. Maybe he hadn’t bothered to. But, when his left-hand Colt roared, the slug sped true, striking the barrel of the rifle. The bearded man yelped and started convulsively, as the weapon was torn from his grasp. He blinked at the grinning. Texans, rubbed his band against his thighs and, somewhat belatedly, tried to justify his actions.

  “A man’s got a right to protect what’s his.”

  “Is there a town dose by?” demanded Larry.

  “Yeah. A couple miles,” mumbled the prospector. “New Strike, it’s called.”

  “Does New Strike have a lawman?” asked Larry.

  “We scarce ever see Marshal Wedge,” said the prospector.

  “Even so,” chided Larry, “you can’t threaten to lynch every stranger that stops by to wet his whistle. Next time, you mightn’t be so lucky.” He satisfied his thirst, got to his feet and crooked a finger at his partner, who holstered his Colts and moved back into the brush to fetch the horses. When he reappeared, he was leading his own rangy pinto and Larry’s sorrel.

  “Whiskers,” said Larry, “I’m gonna give you a piece of advice. Don’t ever point a gun at me again—not if you aim to stay healthy.”

  The hirsute prospector eyed the Texans nervously and made himself a promise. He would heed the advice. If he ever ran into these two again, he wouldn’t make the mistake of brandishing a gun. They were a formidable-looking duo. Maybe they were drifting cowpokes. Their clothes suggested this. Maybe they were drifting gunfighters. Their armory suggested this. The stocks of Winchesters protruded from their saddle-scabbards. Add those rifles to the Colt worn by the dark-haired one, the two Colts packed by the sandy-haired jasper, and what did you have? A lot of hardware.

  Larry Valentine stood all of six three. The rugged countenance under the mane of dark-brown hair was handsome, but in a battered way, suggesting that it had been pounded by many a fist. There was a reason for this. The rugged face of Larry Valentine had been pounded by many a fist.

  The same applied to the stringy but powerful Stretch Emerson. He was all of three inches taller than his saddle-pard, as blond as Larry was dark, a mite ungainly, with ears that stuck out, a lantern jaw and mild blue eyes.

  Having watered their horses, they stepped up to leather and threw enquiring glances at the prospector. He hadn’t budged an inch, wasn’t even daring to look at his fallen rifle.

  “Which way to the town?” demanded Larry. The bearded man jerked a thumb. “Bueno—and muchas gracias.”

  “Been a real pleasure meetin’ you,” drawled Stretch, with a derisive grin.

  They forded the creek, found the winding trail that led south to New Strike.

  “Show me a minin’ town,” mused Larry, “and I’ll show you a right lively burg, with plenty liquor, gamblin’, and never a dull moment.”

  “That’s for me, amigo,” Stretch enthused. “We’ve been livin’ too quiet lately. I hanker to rest my weary boot on a brass rail and wrap my little old Texas paw around a full glass. Whiskey, hull, runt? Maybe five or six beers for a starter—then a bottle of redeye?”

  “Okay by me,” grinned Larry.

  “How’re we fixed for dinero?” asked Stretch.

  “Last time I counted the bankroll,” shrugged Larry, “we had a hundred and seventy dollars and a few cents.”

  “
So it’s soft beds, woman-cookin’ and good liquor for us,” decided Stretch.

  “Until,” countered Larry, “our feet start itchin’ again.”

  In this laconic exchange, the Lone Star Hellions were reducing the involved pattern of their existence to simple terms. This was bow it had been for them, these past fifteen years. Their wanderlust had taken them to the most isolated corners of the wild frontiers, as well as to the more thickly populated areas. They could turn their able hands to many a trade when their bankroll was thin. They could, and often did, work as ranch hands, trail-herders, shotgun-guards, freighters or horse-breakers. But usually they just drifted and usually, they drifted into dangerous situations, emergencies, crises that could only be settled with a nimble wit, a hard fist, a ready sixshooter.

  Inevitably, they had locked horns with the forces of lawlessness. Many a wrong-doer had ended his career behind bars or in a six-foot hole on some cowtown Boothill, thanks to the intervention of these trouble-shooters from Texas. Was this intervention appreciated by the wearers of badges, the duly-appointed lawmen who expressed gratitude and admiration for Larry and Stretch. Only a few. The majority cursed the day these nomads had ever crossed their path, because Larry and Stretch fought and defeated the lawless in their own unique way—violently, relentlessly, and with scant—if any—respect for the due processes of law.

  They enjoyed their first sight of New Strike, the fastest-growing gold-town in North Nevada. Everything seemed familiar—appealingly so. The broad and dusty main stem, the false fronted buildings, the preponderance of saloons and gambling dens, the atmosphere of hustle and bustle. Yes. New Strike looked to be a right lively town and met with their approval, until they had travelled the first two blocks and were drawing abreast of a side alley.

  They reined up hastily. In the alley, a thin, elderly woman was struggling in the clutches of two brawny miners, hefty jaspers with bloodshot eyes and busy hands. They were dragging their loudly-protesting captive along the alley towards the rear end, where two saddled horses awaited. From the building to the right—its shingle proclaimed it to be the Frazer Boarding House—a man emerged, to limp into the alley and begin a futile attempt to rescue the woman.

  “Let go of her!” the Texans heard him yell.

  And one of the woman’s assailants let go, just long enough to swing a ham-like fist. Larry’s blood boiled, because the would-be rescuer was elderly and lame. The walking-cane spun to the dust and the lame man followed it, his face bloody.

  “All right!” breathed Larry. “I’ve seen enough!”

  “I’ve seen more than enough!” scowled Stretch.

  They wheeled their horses and started them pounding into the alley at speed. The lame man rolled clear. The miners whirled to face the fast-approaching riders, and the woman chose that moment to kick a shinbone, elbow a belly and break free. She threw herself to the right, as Larry and Stretch pounded past. Then, without easing the pace of their horses, they drew their boots from their stirrups and leapt.

  Larry’s target was turning, but not fast enough. The impact was sudden and violent, and they hurtled to the dust with Larry straddling the miner’s back. Simultaneously, Stretch landed atop the other man and down they went, in a kicking, threshing melee of flailing arms and legs.

  The woman hurried to where the lame man had fallen and began helping him to his feet. A few seconds later, the two lawmen erf New Strike appeared in the entrance to the alley.

  “What the hell …?” began the scrawny Marshal Wedge.

  “Them two woman-hungry prospectors,” raged the lame man, “tried to take my wife away! That’s what the hell!”

  “Damn and blast,” groaned the rotund Deputy Leemoy. “‘It’s gettin’ to where no female is safe!”

  “Who’re them other fellers?” demanded the marshal.

  “All I know about ’em,” frowned the lame man, “is I’m gonna shake their hands—after they finish beatin’ the daylights out of Burgoyne and McPhee.”

  “It’s a mercy they came along when they did,” sighed the woman.

  Hobie Wedge eyed her solicitously.

  “You all right, ma’am?”

  “Right enough,” she shrugged. “I only hope I can say the same for my husband. Poor Jed. Your face is all bloody.”

  “Don’t fret on my account, Harriet darlin’,” mumbled Jed Frazer.

  “The hell with Burgoyne and McPhee,” scowled Wedge. “I’m gonna arrest ’em—just as soon as these obligin’ strangers get through with ’em.”

  “It won’t be long now,” predicted Leemoy.

  And he was right about that. The hefty Burgoyne was reeling drunkenly, barely capable of raising his arms to protect himself, and the grim-faced Larry was showing him no mercy. A driving left to the belly knocked all the wind out of Burgoyne. A hard, swinging uppercut arched his back and plunged him into oblivion. He collapsed like a half-filled potato-sack, and Larry whirled to check on his partner’s progress.

  As usual, Stretch wasn’t in need of assistance. During his brief tussle with McPhee, he had stopped only one punch. McPhee was stopping all the other punches—Stretch’s—and the strain was beginning to tell. He tried a last wild swing. Stretch ducked under it, stepped in close, then jerked his head up. His skull made jarring contact with McPhee’s chin. McPhee said, “Uh!”, closed his eyes, dropped his arms and sagged to the dust.

  The Texans retrieved their Stetsons, slapped the dust from their clothes and came trudging back to the alley-mouth, leading their horses by their reins. They stared at the marshal.

  “What kind of a town,” Larry sourly challenged, “do you call this? If a lady can get grabbed out of her own home by a couple of hardcases, and …”

  “What was it?” wondered Stretch. “Were they fixin’ to kidnap her?”

  “It wasn’t kidnappin’,” sighed Jed Frazer.

  “It’s the same old trouble,” fretted Wedge. “And it ain’t gonna improve—while ever the females of New Strike are outnumbered.” To the Texans, he mournfully explained, “The town grows too blame fast, since they struck pay-veins on Good Luck Mountain. We got three big mining companies here, with a couple hundred diggers on their payroll, and there’s about three-four hundred independent prospectors as well. But they’re all men.”

  “That surprises you?” prodded Stretch. “Heck, I scarce ever seen a female miner. They’re always men.”

  “What I mean,” frowned the marshal, “is New Strike ain’t got many females. For every woman, there’s maybe thirty-forty men. It’s kind of hard on the women, you know? After toilin’ all day on their claim, them miners get to thinkin’ of liquor and gamblin’ and—uh—somethin’ else—beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.”

  “Skirt-chasin’ scum,” scowled Jed.

  “Me and my deputy,” Wedge assured Larry, “we do our best. Seems we’re hustlin’ here and hustlin’ there twenty-four hours of the day—tryin’ to protect the women. Only two of us—to keep all them woman-hungry miners in line! What we need is help, all the help we can get. So …” He showed the newcomers an eager grin, “I’m invitin’ you gents to sign on as extra deputies. Eighty a month and ammunition ...”

  “Nothin’ doin’,” growled the Texans, in perfect unison.

  Wedge heaved a sigh, shrugged resignedly and said, “I guess it was too much to hope for—hirin’ a couple salty hombres like you. We sure need deputies that know how to handle a hassle.”

  Just before Wedge and his deputy led their befuddled prisoners away, Larry assured them:

  “If we’re close by, next time you need help, you can count on us.”

  “We’d be powerful obliged,” declared Deputy Leemoy.

  “But any help you get from us is unofficial,” Larry stressed.

  “We ain’t partial,” said Stretch, “to law badges.”

  They transferred their attention to Jed and Harriet Frazer. After warmly shaking their hands and performing introductions, Jed asked:

  “Were you gents fixin’ to s
tay in New Strike?”

  “For a while,” nodded Larry. “We never know how long.”

  “Jed,” said Harriet, “we got a vacancy.” She swabbed dust and perspiration from her well-lined face with a kerchief, smiled gratefully at the Texans. “It’s a double. You’ll be comfortable enough.”

  “And we’d be proud to have you,” declared Jed.

  “All right,” said Larry, “‘but we’ll pay your regular rates. You don’t owe us no favors. You thanked us, and that’s enough.”

  “Whatever you say,” agreed Jed. He accepted the stick retrieved for him by Stretch, eyed them with keen interest. “You know our names. What’s yours?”

  The Texans identified themselves, and were grateful that the Frazers didn’t appear to have heard of them. In their philosophy, there was no room for conceit, and their notoriety had proved to be naught but a damn nuisance on many occasions.

  “About their horses, Jed,” prodded Harriet.

  “Oh, sure,” grunted Jed. “Look, fellers, you check your animals into any livery stable hereabouts and you get charged triple what you’d pay anywheres else. New Strike is a mighty greedy town.”

  “We know how it is,” Larry assured him. “New Strike ain’t the first boom town we ever saw.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what to do with your horses,” said Jed. “We got a corral in our rear yard. You stash ’em there, and welcome.”

  Ten minutes later, having quartered their mounts behind the boarding house, the drifters toted their packrolls, saddlebags and rifles in through the front entrance. By then, Harriet had changed her gown and was ready to conduct them to the vacant room. While her husband grinned indulgently, she studied her reflection in a mirror.

  Hers was a toil worn countenance, downright plain, without even a vague hint of prettiness. Her hair was grey and straggly. To the Texans, she murmured an ironic invitation.

  “Look at me, boys. Feast your eyes on the face that drives men crazy.”

  “It’s good you can joke about it, ma’am,” opined Larry. “Any other woman would still be screamin’.”