Larry and Stretch 18 Page 10

  “Bueno.” Larry nodded approvingly.

  He gathered up the gun belts and moved into the now-smoldering brush, kicking at it, scattering it. Very soon the smoke had cleared. First Porter, then Trask, came trudging out, tagged by their snorting horses. Both outlaws were much the worse for wear, bleeding from their wounds, red-eyed and thoroughly demoralized.

  “I dunno who you jaspers are ...” Porter glowered resentfully at the Texans, “but I’ll say this for you. When you come after a man, you’re like a couple wolves on the hunt.”

  “Sit down quiet,” growled Larry. “Big feller, you keep ’em covered while I doctor ’em.”

  “Haven’t we seen these hombres before?” frowned Trask.

  “You’ve seen us,” nodded Larry, as he began fashioning splints for Porter’s broken arm. “Any time you look in a mirror, you see us.”

  “Hey,” breathed Trask. “They look like us!”

  “You look like us,” Stretch sternly corrected. “And don’t let it go to your heads.”

  “Well, who the hell are you, anyway?” demanded Porter.

  “He’s Valentine,” drawled Stretch. “I’m Emerson.”

  “And,” said Larry, “we’re all gonna pay a little visit to Ketchtown, just as soon as I’ve patched you jaspers.”

  “Ketchtown?” Trask eyed him worriedly.

  “Ketchtown,” said Larry. “Where your no-good pards are fixin’ to bust a bank.”

  Porter’s jaw sagged. Trask’s eyes bulged.

  “We …” the sandy-haired felon swallowed a lump in his throat, “we—dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “Funny,” grinned Stretch. “I guessed he’d say that.”

  “You know what I’m talkin’ about,” growled Larry. “I’m talkin’ about your sidekicks. Deacon—Troy—Clive.”

  “How could he know?” groaned Trask. “Russ, it don’t make sense. How could he know?”

  “He knows.” Porter sighed heavily and hung his head. “And that’s the hell of it’,”

  Chapter Nine –

  Everything Quiet, Everything Easy

  Punctually at 3.30 of that afternoon, the street door of the Ketchtown Trust & Security Bank was closed and locked by cashier Conrad Schuster, a fussy little man in the advanced forties, bespectacled, smooth-shaven, with close-cropped blond hair. While the cashier was thus engaged, the bank-manager was packing a formidable amount of paper money into the safe. His name was Horace Mayberry and he was ten years Schuster’s senior, a flabby, genial and somewhat complacent financier with a round moon-face and thinning grey hair.

  “And now the windows, Conrad.’ he drawled, as he secured the safe door.

  “All checked, Mr. Mayberry.’ Schuster assured him.

  “Fine,” smiled Mayberry. He rose to his feet, patted the top of the combination safe as affectionately as he would the head of a well-loved child. “Everything squared away. Until tomorrow morning, our thief-proof little establishment is closed for business.”

  “It was a busy day,” Schuster reflected.

  “Busy enough,” agreed the manager. He took the two derby hats from their pegs beside his office door, donned one, handed the other to Schuster. “We’ll go out the back way, as usual. You have the keys?”

  “Always, Mr. Mayberry,” said Schuster.

  He lowered the shades on every window, then followed his chief along the narrow corridor to the rear of the building. Mayberry moved out first. In the alley, he lit a cigar and watched his assistant pulling the rear door shut, turning his key in the lock.

  “See you in the morning,”’ said Mayberry.

  “Yes, Mr. Mayberry,”’ nodded the cashier. “Good afternoon.”

  They went their separate ways, Mayberry strutting away toward the uptown area where the homes of the community’s wealthier citizens had been established, while Schuster made for Ketch Avenue, a less imposing residential street angling off the main stem. Another day, another dollar. The management and staff of the Trust & Security were homebound, anticipating supper and a good night’s sleep, and all was right with their world. Had anybody suggested to them that the bank was about to be robbed they would have been horrified and incredulous,

  “A brief pause, brothers and sisters,” Cox called to his congregation of sincere believers, inquisitive children and unoccupied layabouts. “For a few minutes, let us all bow our heads in silent prayer.”

  He prided himself on his ability to control a crowd, large or small. Obediently, the locals bowed their heads. He retreated from the edge of the platform and snapped his fingers. Waddell and Erskine cocked their ears.

  “Now’s the time,” he whispered. “Sneak out back and get it done fast.”

  “Ten minutes,” Waddell assured him, “is all we’ll need.”

  “So get on with it!” hissed Cox.

  Waddell and Erskine moved inside the wagon. Its bulk would shield them from view of the congregation and any locals passing along Main Street, while they proceeded down the alley to the back lane. Cox stepped to the edge of the platform and opened his Bible at random.

  “Listen now, friends,” he invited, “while I read from the good book. Heed these great words of truth and wisdom, and let them be your guide—along the long road to salvation ...”

  “He’s on the right trail,” opined Sheriff Salter, “so I don’t care how far he takes us—just so long as we can head them Texans off.”

  “But this,” protested Deputy Gannon, “is the long way out of Ketch County. We’re almost to the San Bias Mountains.”

  “Jim’s word is good enough for me,” snapped Salter.

  “Jim,” fretted Gannon, “could be makin’ a mistake.”

  “He’s part Sioux,” Salter testily reminded him. “When it comes to trackin’, he never makes a mistake!”

  They were engaged in this argument at about the same time that Clive Waddell and Troy Erskine were walking the rear lane in Ketchtown, on their way to the back door of the Trust & Security. The scene was the rocky, arid region east of the mountains that marked Ketch County’s western boundary. The horses were weary and so were their riders. Up ahead, Fire-Water Jim rode slumped, his bleary gaze forever on the ground.

  Bob Salter was still fired with the zeal, still burning with indignation and still determined to achieve what so many other lawmen had striven for—the downfall of the Lone Star Hellions.

  “Escapin’ from custody,” he muttered. “Assault and battery on an officer of the law. Horse-stealin’. Grand larceny ...”

  “What’s that last one?” challenged Gannon, as he stared dubiously at the back of the ’breed’s head.

  “Grand larceny.” Salter repeated the words with relish. “That’s the same as ordinary theft—only more serious. Yeah When they stole near six thousand dollars off old Eli, that was grand larceny. Think of it, Otis! On a charge like that Valentine and Emerson’ll go to prison for maybe ten years—maybe longer!”

  “If it’s true,” frowned Gannon.

  Salter darted him a sidelong glance.

  “What the hell’re you talkin’ about? Of course it’s true! You drunk or somethin’?”

  “No,” growled Gannon, “but I think Fire-Water Jim is.”

  “When you were at Doc Everingham’s,” challenged Salter, “didn’t Valentine clobber you and steal your bay horse?”

  “I didn’t mean about stealin’ my horse,” muttered the deputy. “I mean about what happened to old Eli. Believe me, Bob, I don’t admire them Texans any more than you do, and I crave to even my score with ’em, but ...”

  “But what?” demanded Salter.

  “But the only hombre that identified ’em as the thieves that stole Elis money,” said Gannon, “is Wilbur Neale.”

  “Neale’s identification,” Salter grimly assured him, “is gonna send them to the Territorial Prison.”

  “Ain’t you forgettin’ somethin’?” asked Gannon. “Neale’s a sneakin’, lousy killer. He killed his own uncle. Well, if he’s a killer, c
ouldn’t he be a liar, too?”

  “And ain’t you forgettin’ somethin’?” countered Salter. “Neale gave us a description of Valentine and Emerson right after the robbery. How about that?”

  “Yeah.” Gannon nodded pensively. “I gotta admit that puzzles me some.”

  “Hey, Sheriff!” One of the volunteers called to Salter. “How much further—and how much longer?”

  “Don’t ask fool questions,” chided Salter. “How would I know how much further?”

  “I guess you wouldn’t,” the posseman sourly retorted. “Not even if them Texans had drawn a map for you.”

  “I’ll take none of your lip, Harrison!” scowled Salter.

  “When do we eat?” another volunteer demanded.

  “You’ll eat,” said Salter, “when I give the word—and not before.”

  They were through the foothills and moving upward. As the air became chill, Gannon grimaced uneasily and gave voice to a dark suspicion.

  “I think Jim is drunk again.”

  “He couldn’t be,” snorted Salter. “We checked his saddlebag and he ain’t carryin’ no bottle. He’s had nothin’ to drink except water from his canteen. Damnitall, Otis, I’m tellin’ you he’s steered us right. Didn’t he find tracks of two horses?”

  “We got no guarantee,” Gannon soberly pointed out, “that it’s Valentine and Emerson we’re followin’.”

  “Hogwash,” said the sheriff. “It just has to be Valentine and Emerson.”

  They were high up the side of the first mountain now, following a trail that gradually narrowed. Salter spurred his mount forward to get abreast of the ’breed. “Tracks fresh, Jim?”

  “Real fresh,” grunted Jim. “Less’n a—hic—hour old.”

  “What was that?” gasped Salter.

  “I said,” the tracker patiently repeated, “less n a—hic—hour—hic-old.”

  He grinned foolishly at the sheriff, unhitched his canteen, pulled out the cork and gulped greedily. Salters short hairs began tingling and a chill smote the pit of his belly, as the dark suspicion seized him.

  “Damn and blast!” he breathed, as he snatched the canteen from the ’breed and sniffed at the contents.

  “Whiskey!” whooped Salter. “He had this consarned canteen full of whiskey!”

  “Gotta hand it to Fire-Water Jim,” drawled Harrison. “If he’s gonna get soused, he’s gonna get soused, and ain’t no power on earth could stop him.”

  “Crazy stumblebum Indian!” groaned Salter.

  “You hire me to cut sign and follow tracks,” shrugged Jim, “and that’s just what I’m doin’. What else you want for a dollar a day? I should turn temperance? Huh!”

  “Damn and blast!” raged Salter.

  “So all we know,” sighed Gannon, “is we’re followin’ a couple riders. They could be Valentine and Emerson, I guess, but ...”

  “How strong you want me to make medicine?” wondered Jim. “I find tracks for you. What else you want? Names of men on horses?” He shrugged and dug in his heels. “We keep ridin’. Find ’em soon.” Ana he added, with surprising dignity, “That my best offer.”

  All the way up the mountainside, Salter raved and ranted. When, at last, they come upon the two riders who had left the tracks, his fury knew no bounds. They were old timers with whom he was well acquainted—Moss Riddick and Nick Bridges—a couple of aged prospectors. Squatting by their cook-fire with their horses picketed, the old men greeted Salter and his volunteers with placid cordiality.

  “Howdy, gents,” grunted Riddick. “Welcome to set and eat with us.”

  “If’n you brung your own grub,” added Bridges. ‘We only got enough fer our own selves.” He eyed Salter keenly. “How you been feelin’, Bob? Poorly? Could be you’re sickenin’ for somethin’. Durned if I ever seen a feller so red in his face.”

  “Me neither,” frowned Riddick.

  Salter made a choking sound and, for one terrible moment, Gannon feared he would empty his holster and shoot Fire-Water Jim—and possibly several others. He clapped a comforting paw to his chief’s trembling shoulder and explained to the prospectors,

  “We’re huntin’ a couple wanted men. Tall hombres. Texans. Any chance you boys spotted ’em?”

  “Since we rid outa Ketchtown,” drawled Bridges, “we ain’t seen hide nor hair of a single livin’ soul—not till you fellers found us.”

  “All this time—wasted!” gasped Salter.

  “Well, doggone it,” growled Harrison, “you been wastin’ our time as much as your own.”

  “Yeah!” Another posseman nodded vehemently. “What about us?”

  “You can go to hell!” snarled Salter.

  “Easy now, Bob,” chided Gannon.

  “We’d as lief go home,” muttered Harrison, “and that’s just what we’re gonna do.”

  He exchanged nods with his friends. They wheeled their mounts and started back down the narrow track. Salter sweated cursed, wrung his hands and mumbled incoherently.

  “Come on, Bob,” urged Gannon. “You got no volunteers to side you anymore. Just got to face up to it. Valentine and Emerson must be far out of the county by now. Might’s well head back to town.”

  “For a pint bottle,” offered Jim, “I guide you.”

  “You crazy, useless, son of a...!” began Salter.

  “Come on,” sighed Gannon. “Let’s go home.”

  Ketchtown’s northern outskirts were dimly visible in the distance, when Larry called a halt. He was straddling the pinto once ridden by Porter. Both prisoners sat Trask’s sorrel, and Stretch was still riding the fine black filly loaned him by Lucinda.

  “I’m gonna give you galoots a piece of advice,” muttered Larry. “When we deliver you to the law, you tell that lard-bellied sheriff the whole truth—exactly what happened in Ventaine’s store that night. That way, you might save your necks.”

  “Save our necks?” Porter eyed him worriedly. “Hell, Valentine, they can’t hang us for robbin’ him—and only nickin’ him with a bullet!”

  “Ventaine is dead,” Larry bluntly informed them.

  “I’ll swear my slug only creased him!” gasped Porter.

  “The old man was well and truly alive, when we lit outa there,” asserted Trask.

  “Bueno,” nodded Larry. “Tell that to the sheriff, and you still got a chance.”

  “What d’you aim to do now?” Stretch asked him. “Head straight in and dump these jaspers at the law office?”

  “Better we should stash ’em someplace and come back for ’em,” decided Larry. “I keep thinkin’ of these other three hombres—Deacon and Clive and Troy.”

  “All set to bust a bank,” grinned Stretch. “And them makin’ like they’re preachers.”

  “It ain’t funny, big feller,” growled Larry. “I got a special feelin’ about thieves that pretend to be parsons.”

  “Sure.” Stretch abruptly stopped grinning. “I know what you mean.”

  Larry jerked a thumb.

  “That hunk of timber’ll do fine. Let’s go.”

  They led the double-loaded sorrel into the cottonwood copse some ninety yards from the town trail. There was a small clearing dead center of it. The sorrel was hobbled and, to the accompaniment of much profanity, Porter and Trask were trussed to the trunks of trees. Their profanity didn’t cease until Stretch silenced them, by gagging them with their own bandannas.

  He remounted the black and eyed Larry expectantly. Larry swung astride the pinto, matched his stare.

  “Well …” Stretch raised a hand in nonchalant salute, “here we go again, runt. Showdown-time,”

  “Sure enough,” nodded Larry.

  They nudged their mounts to movement, quit the timber and returned to the town trail. As they moved closer to the outskirts of Ketchtown, Larry rose in his stirrups, stared ahead and voiced a thought.

  “I wonder if Deacon and his pards have made their play already. We might meet ’em comin’ out of town.”

  “I’d as lief jump ‘em w
hen they’re comin’ outa the bank,” drawled Stretch. “It’s neater that way. No arguments. You don’t have to waste time convincin’ some lame-brained badge-toter—not when you catch them sneak-thieves with the loot in their pants.”

  “I’d like that too,” Larry assured him. “But let’s not forget we’re supposed to be a couple hunted hombres. Keep your eyes peeled for tin stars.”

  They rode another hundred yards at a steady clip, and Stretch was searching his memory.

  “That glory-wagon,” he recalled, “is a mite better’n half-way along the main street, stalled in a side alley. Nearest bank is—uh—I don’t recollect the name-of it, but …”

  “Is there a back alley?” demanded Larry.

  “Sure is,” nodded Stretch.

  “Well,” frowned Larry, “maybe they’ll hit it in daylight or maybe they’ll wait for dark. If they make their play before sundown, you can bet your boots they won’t go in through the street door. More likely they’ll go in back.”

  “So,” guessed Stretch, “me and you’ll head straight into that little old back alley.”

  “Damn right,” grunted Larry.

  At the northern outlet of the alley, they reined up and dismounted and, immediately, Stretch grabbed at Larry’s arm and hauled him behind a rain barrel.

  “You spotted ’em already?” challenged Larry.

  “Rise up slow and peek,” Stretch invited. “It’s quite a distance, but I recognized ’em. Deacon’s two sidekicks. And ’less I miss my guess, that’s the back door of a bank they’re headed for.”

  Larry raised the top of his head above the barrel and stared along the alley. Three blocks downtown, he noted the two soberly-garbed men. They had reached a doorway. One had dropped to his knees and was working on the lock, while the other stood by, darting cautious glances to right and left. After a moment, the kneeling man straightened up and nodded to his companion and, abruptly, they disappeared from view.