Larry and Stretch 14 Page 10

  One hour later, a smaller train rolled into Cargell City. Except for its one poky and uncomfortable passenger coach, this was a freighter, delivering farming implements for the county’s sod busting community. The few passengers alighted at the depot to stretch their cramped muscles and, after a muttered farewell to his fellow travelers, one of them began sauntering the main street boardwalk, toting a carpet-bag. Patience had always been one of Fergus Milliken’s strong points, until now.

  In a nondescript downtown saloon, he ordered a short brandy and listened to the chatter of a gabby bartender.

  Chapter Nine: The Raid at Pagosa Well

  In Reedsburg, during his brief interview with Monte Nichols, Milliken had complimented himself on having acquired the services of a dependable assassin. Nichols was efficient, in a cold-blooded way. Nichols would complete his mission and the future of Fergus Milliken would be secure. For such security, $1,000 seemed a fair price.

  The doubts and misgivings did not begin until he had returned to Elmford. Nichols was efficient, but accidents could happen. What if Nichols was caught in the act? Or perhaps he would succeed, only to be apprehended by the law. In that event, how strongly could he rely on Nichols’ discretion? Within hours of his return to Elmford, he was on his way to Reedsburg again. The next westbound train was to terminate its run at Cargell City, but would pause at all the larger towns along the route. Milliken had sought passage. And now, here in Cargell City, he sought news of the Special. At the other towns, he had heard of the harrowing experience suffered by one of the Special’s female passengers. Nichols’ first attempt had failed. But, obviously, he had escaped detection.

  “Yes siree,” the barkeep was saying. “Quite a heap of excitement we had here last night.”

  “In this saloon?” Milliken mildly enquired.

  “Nope,” grinned the barkeep. “Uptown. The Occidental Hotel. That’s where they bed ’em down—all the high-toned passengers off the Special, you know? Well, there was this lady name of Chapman, and it seems some jasper busted into her room—tried to smother her with a pillow! How about that?”

  “A terrible business,” sighed Milliken.

  “Terrible for him,” asserted the barkeep.

  And he went on to relate all he knew of the affair at the Occidental—and the stranger had heard enough. More than enough. He finished his brandy and went off in search of a livery stable. Nichols had failed, in no uncertain terms. Well, time might still be on his side. If his luck held, he might succeed where Nichols had failed.

  The proprietor of that stable was co-operative and informative upon learning that the stranger was in the market for a horse and saddle; a straight out purchase, not a rental.

  “Laramie? Why, sure. You could make Laramie sometime tonight, if you got a mind to. Ain’t sayin’ you’d get there before the Special, but you wouldn’t be far behind. Depends on what route you ride There’s short-cuts, for instance. Places no train nor rig could travel, but a rider now, he could do it easy.”

  “That’s what I had in mind, friend,” smiled Milliken. He produced his wallet, paid generously for the horse and saddle and added a little extra. “Perhaps you’d sketch a rough map for me, indicating the short-cuts ...?”

  “Mister,” breathed the livery man, “for this kinda dinero, I’d make you a map of the whole northwest!”

  “I’ll settle,” said Milliken, “for the short route from here to Laramie. How long ...?”

  “Your horse’ll be saddled and ready,” offered the livery man, “and I’ll draw up a map for you in—uh—better give me a quarter-hour.”

  “That will be satisfactory,” Milliken assured him. “I’ll leave my bag here and be back in fifteen minutes.”

  During that quarter-hour, he made a purchase at an apothecary’s store in the uptown area. The small bottle traveled in his vest pocket, as he rode out of Cargell City, moving in the general direction of the Nebraska-Wyoming border. The map, though improvised, seemed clear enough. He was sure that he would see the bright lights of Laramie this night. Of course, he couldn’t hope to arrive ahead of the Special, but that wasn’t important. What mattered was that the Special’s passengers would be staying overnight. He would quickly locate Adelaide Chapman, and would do what had to be done.

  By mid-morning, Addy had made her decision. Her nerves were on edge, her mind in turmoil. The attempts on her life, she felt sure, were a direct consequence of her foolish masquerade.

  “I was being punished,” she sighed. “There can be no other explanation. It was a punishment.”

  Tim Blake paused in the act of lighting a cigar and threw her a sidelong glance. Seated opposite her, the Texans eyed her expectantly. Stretch said,

  “Punishment for what, Addy? What’re you talkin’ about?”

  “Let her tell it in her own way,” muttered Larry. “I’ve been waitin’ for it.”

  Addy showed him a sad smile.

  “You’re a very wise man, Larry. I suppose you guessed the truth right from the start.”

  “Not right from the start,” said Larry. “Not until I fished you out of the river.” He produced his makings and began rolling a smoke. “Even now, you don’t have to say anything—unless you really want to.”

  “I really want to,” she assured him. “You’ve all been so kind to me. I lied about myself, and I’m ashamed.”

  “For gosh sakes, Addy ...” began Tim.

  And then his voice trailed off, because Addy’s confession had begun. It spilled out of her in fast, jerky sentences. She didn’t raise her voice. At times, she spoke in a hushed whisper, yet they caught every word. When she had finished, Tim was incredulous, Stretch even more so.

  “She’s gotta be joshin’ us!” Stretch protested.

  “I been in the business a helluva long time,” declared Tim, “and nobody’s gonna convince me she ain’t no saloon-singer—not even Addy herself!”

  “Which just goes to prove,” grinned Larry, “that Addy is a dam smart actor.”

  “Actress,” she corrected, with a heavy sigh.

  “I just don’t understand it,” complained Tim.

  “What’s to understand?” shrugged Larry. “She’s told it fair and square, and I believe her.”

  “Well ...” Stretch shook his head dazedly, “she sure had me fooled.”

  “She fooled us all,” said Larry.

  “And I’m ashamed,” said Addy.

  “Don’t be,” Larry advised. “Heck, Addy, where’s the harm? Nobody’s sore at you. Tim—you ain’t sore, are you?”

  “I guess not.” The little man grinned ruefully. “Matter of fact, I call it a pleasure—gettin’ fooled by a lady as purty as Addy.”

  “By golly,” sighed Stretch, “I guess I’ll just never savvy women.”

  “Addy,” said Larry, “about that hombre back in Elmford, him that’s courtin’ you ...”

  “Poor Noah,” she frowned. “I hope he never finds out.”

  “He won’t learn about it from us,” Larry promised. “But what kind of a jasper, is he?”

  “You needn’t worry about Noah,” she murmured. “He’s a true gentleman, and I’ll be counting the hours till we’re together again.”

  “That mean you’re gonna head for home?” prodded Larry.

  “Laramie is as far as I’ll go,” said Addy. “I’ve decided to wait there and catch the next eastbound.”

  “Runt?” grunted Stretch, “are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin?”

  “I reckon I am, at that,” drawled Larry. “Laramie will be our last stop west. When Addy heads for home, we’ll tag along with her.”

  “But why?” she wondered.

  “Call it curiosity,” said Larry.

  He lit his cigarette, slumped lower in his seat and tipped his hat over his eyes. The enigma still bedeviled him. Addy Chapman had never heard of Monte Nichols. The name meant nothing to her. Why then had Nichols made the attempt? He would never relax until he had learned the reason.

  Mid-afternoon, t
he conductor entered the end car to announce,

  “We’ll be in Laramie on schedule, folks. Six-thirty p.m. sharp. Couple minutes from now, we make a short stop at Pagosa Well. Sorry you can’t get out and stretch your legs. We only haul up long enough to take on water and fuel.”

  After Wilbur had departed, Addy fanned herself with a lace kerchief, and remarked,

  “It is stuffy in here.”

  Larry stirred and got to his feet.

  “You want to come out on the rear platform for a breath of air? Might catch a breeze out there.”

  “No, thanks.” She smiled and shook her head. “I haven’t forgotten what happened last time I went out there.”

  “You boys go ahead,” offered Tim. “I’ll keep her company.”

  Stretch rose up and tagged his partner along the aisle. En route to the rear door, they traded nods with Jefford. McKeller’s head was bowed, his shoulders hunched. He was dozing. They moved through to the observation platform. Larry closed the door and edged to the left side to thrust his head out. While he scanned the terrain ahead, awaiting his first sight of the water stop, Stretch perched on the rail.

  At first, Pagosa Well looked to be just another watering point along the railroad route. Larry could see the well, the woodheap and the depot office, which was little better than a log shack. No sign of life as yet. Closer rolled the Special, and the engineer was beginning to apply his brakes, when Larry spotted the rear end of a horse. It moved, out back of the shack. Not just the one horse, but several. And one of the riders was briefly visible, the bottom half of his face obscured by a bandanna.

  There were times when the brain of Larry Valentine worked at double speed. This was one of those times. He sensed the danger, could almost smell it.

  “Tag me, big feller,” he grunted. “Do what I do, and ask no questions.”

  Lithely, he vaulted upward, planting his feet atop the rail and reaching up to the roof. Without as much as the lift of an eyebrow, Stretch followed suit. As the brakes screeched, as the Special steamed to a halt, they hauled themselves over onto the roof and dropped flat.

  “Inside the carriage,” Larry quietly explained, “we mightn’t stand a chance. All they have to do is point a gun at some defenseless passenger.”

  “You’re thinkin’,” guessed Stretch, “this’ll be McKeller’s pards—come to bust him loose from the marshal.”

  “That’s what I’m thinkin’,” said Larry.

  By the time Jefford sensed the danger, it was too late for him to counteract it. The six desperadoes had struck quickly. One, mounted, was positioned at the front of the train, covering the engine crew with a shotgun. Two had clambered into the caboose. With a gun at his head, the startled Wilbur Aldworth had no option but to answer their question.

  “McKeller and the marshal!” snarled the man behind the gun. “Which car?”

  “The—the day coach,” gulped Wilbur. “End car.”

  He was badly scared, and not without reason. The man behind the gun was Erie Preston himself, a lean, flashily-garbed gunhawk with bushy brows and eyes that glowed like hot coals from atop the polka-dot bandanna.

  “This,” opined Preston’s companion, “is gonna be easy.”

  “It’ll be easy,” nodded Preston, “so long as nobody acts rash. You ...” He pressed the muzzle of his Colt to Wilbur’s neck, “climb out. You’re comin’ with us.”

  The other outlaws had found the club car empty. Passengers in the third carriage were temporarily imprisoned in their private compartments, because a Preston man had quickly locked every door. In the day coach, Addy, Tim. Jefford and the other passengers sat tense, staring at the two gun-toting men who had entered from the rear end. Jefford’s instinctive movement had been abruptly checked. His hand was on his gun butt, when one of the raiders drawled a warning.

  “Try it, mister, just try it!”

  “I got a bead on a little old gray-haired lady,” grinned the other. “Marshal, she’s gonna die fast—if you try for a draw.”

  The gray-haired woman promptly fainted in her seat, to the accompaniment of jeering laughter from the invaders. And then Preston was bawling commands from outside the carriage.

  “Unstrap your hardware, Jefford! I got the conductor out here—and his life is in your hands!”

  McKeller was wide awake now, and chuckling harshly.

  “Told you, didn’t I?” he taunted Jefford. “Swore you’d never deliver me to Laramie. Boot’s on the other foot now, Jefford. You’re all through!”

  “All right, marshal …” Jefford felt the hard muzzle of a .45 prodding his backbone. “What’re you waitin’ for? Use your key. Unlock Whitey’s irons.”

  Jefford hesitated, but only for a moment. In those few tense seconds, his brain seemed crammed, because he thought of many things. The absence of the Texans. The fact that his prisoner had been dozing when Larry and Stretch had drifted out to the rear platform. No shooting as yet—which could mean that the case-hardened Hellions had managed to conceal themselves somewhere. And he thought of his fellow travelers, the obvious threat to them. If he attempted resistance, he would die fast, and so might many a defenseless passenger.

  Grim-faced, he unbuckled his Colt and let it drop. From his vest pocket, he fished his key. McKeller swore at him, as he unlocked the manacles. Then, leaping to his feet, McKeller swore again and struck at him with his bunched fists—hard, cruel, punishing blows.

  “Has he turned Whitey loose?” called Preston.

  “I’m free, Erie!” yelled McKeller. “And I’m makin’ him know it!”

  “Come on out!” ordered the boss-outlaw.

  “Jefford’s comin’ with me!” shouted McKeller. “That’s okay,” shrugged one of the other raiders. “A Federal badge’ll do fine for a hostage.”

  “Not for a hostage,” breathed McKeller. “I’m gonna make this coyote pay for what he did to me. You hear me, Jefford? I’m gonna stake you out on an ant-heap—naked!” They hauled Jefford to his feet, his face pallid with rage, and his pallor all the more apparent for the bruises and gashes wrought by McKeller’s pounding fists. They propelled him along the aisle to the rear platform. A lashing kick from McKeller sent him plunging to the ground.

  The other outlaws climbed from the train. One ran around behind the shack. When he reappeared, he was mounted and leading six horses.

  “Everybody stay right where they are!” barked Preston. “If we spot a face at any of them windows, we’ll shoot!” He spun Wilbur around. His Colt rose and fell, and the conductor went down like a pole-axed steer. “All right …” He nodded to McKeller, “… we’re movin’ out. You and the marshal can ride double. I guess you’d like that, huh, Whitey?”

  “Sure obliged to you, Erie,” grinned McKeller. “Knew I could count on you.”

  They retreated from the tracks, moving toward the waiting horses. A few glanced back to check the carriage windows. Had they raised their eyes, they might have glimpsed the gleaming gun barrels of the men sprawled on the carriage roof, the tops of two Stetsons. Larry and Stretch were almost ready for action. Almost, but not quite. They still needed an edge—for Lane Jefford. The Preston gang—seven-strong now—was bunched, except for the one man already mounted. Jefford was momentarily obscured. They couldn’t afford to shoot for fear of hitting him.

  Ironically, it was McKeller who gave them the opening. Still drunk with success, gloating over the turning of the tables, the erstwhile prisoner couldn’t resist the impulse to strike Jefford again. The vicious blow was aimed at the small of Jefford’s back. Jefford gasped, stumbled a few more steps with McKeller following fast. For just a moment, he was clearly visible to the watching Texans.

  “Drop, Jefford!” roared Larry.

  And, almost simultaneously, his Colt boomed. Sudden gun-thunder assailed the ears of the desperadoes, because Stretch was adding his formidable contribution, cutting loose with his matched .45’s. The mounted desperado loosed a yell of anguish, keeled over sideways and pitched to the dust. Jefford
sank to his knees, then spun quickly and wrapped his arms about McKeller’s legs, pulling him off-balance. McKeller went down and, locked together, they rolled dangerously close to the threshing hooves of the startled horses.

  Preston and his men were scattering and shooting fast, but at small targets. There wasn’t much to see of the Lone Star Hellions, just portion of their faces and their death-dealing six-shooters. Preston was hustling toward the prone and still unconscious conductor, with the intention of using him as a shield, when a well-aimed slug from Stretch’s left-hand gun penetrated a calf and knocked him down. He rolled over cursing luridly. As he struggled to his feet, his Colt was lined on Stretch’s face, and Stretch was concentrating on other targets—but Larry’s eyes were as alert as ever. His Colt boomed. Preston shuddered, back-stepped a few paces and collapsed in an untidy heap.

  Despairing of reaching the horses, one of the outlaws fled toward the front of the train, firing over his shoulder. As he drew level with the cabin of the locomotive, the fireman performed quite a feat of acrobatics, leaping from the footplate, landing astride the shoulders of the fleeing man and bearing him to the ground. As the outlaw, still clutching his gun, began struggling upright, the engineer yelled, “Catch, Ben!” and tossed out the fireman’s shovel. The fireman caught it and, with vigor and precision, proceeded to batter the outlaw senseless.

  Two of the remaining gunhawks were fated to be taken alive, but not unscathed. One lay sprawled on his back, an ugly bullet gash showing at his temple. The other had lost his gun and was huddled by a corner of the shack, groaning from the agony of a creased shoulder. The last man to die was a hefty rogue who swung astride a horse, wheeled it and rose in his stirrups, triggering fast at the Texans. Stretch hastily ducked, as a bullet whined past his ear.