Larry and Stretch 18 Page 11

  “You don’t miss your guess, big feller,” Larry muttered.

  “They busted in?” enquired Stretch, as he rose to his full height.

  “Sure enough,” said Larry.

  “So?” grinned Stretch.

  “So?” shrugged Larry, “I don’t know what we can do—except mosey down there and wait for ’em to come out—and give ’em a bad surprise.”

  “All right, runt,” said Stretch. “Lead on.”

  Chapter Ten –

  Decisions of Judge Croft

  In the narrow corridor, Waddell showed Erskine a smug grin and nodded to the door.

  “Close it,” he ordered, “in case some sharp-eyed rube comes by and gets curious.”

  “You’ve busted the lock,” said Erskine.

  “That’ll be the day,” countered Waddell. “I never bust locks, Troy. I just unlock ’em—as easy as if I had my own key.”

  Erskine shrugged and grinned, as he quietly closed the door. Then, unhurriedly, he followed his sidekick along the corridor and into the bank. The safe caught their eyes at once and, like homing pigeons, they moved to it.

  “Grausmeyer Special,” observed Waddell.

  “The ’seventy-eight model,” drawled Erskine. “Easy chore for either one of us.” He fished out a coin, flicked it, caught it and covered it. “You call.”

  “Heads,” said Waddell.

  Erskine uncovered the coin.

  “Heads it is. Help yourself, Clive.”

  Rubbing the tips of his right fingers against his left palm, Waddell knelt beside the safe.

  “In a bettin’ mood, Troy?” he asked, as he began turning the dial. “I got ten dollars says HI have the combination in five minutes—or a mite less.”

  “No bet,” grunted Erskine. “I’ve seen how fast you can open a Grausmeyer.”

  Waddell continued to work the dial while, outside in the alley, two case-hardened enemies of the lawless subjected the bank’s rear door to a thoughtful scrutiny.

  “Should we go in?” Stretch wondered. “And give ’em a bad time?”

  “We’ll wait,” Larry decided. “You said it yourself. Nothin’ neater than catchin’ ’em with the loot in their pants.”

  “No cover close handy,” observed Stretch.

  “Nothin’ except a couple doorways,” said Larry. “Well, time for us to stake out.”

  He retreated into a doorway some twenty feet from the bank and stood with his back to the closed door, his hand on his holster. The doorway occupied by Stretch was almost opposite.

  A short distance away, at the mouth of the side alley, Cox still held his audience enthralled—if a mite confused—at his reading from the Good Book. He managed, in mid-sentence, to consult his watch and to calculate that his cronies had been gone eight minutes.

  “Another four or five minutes,” he assured himself, “and they’ll be back.”

  “Read it louder, Deacon!” urged a man on the fringe of the gathering. “We can’t hear in back!”

  “That I will, brother,” said Cox. “That I will.”

  And, with the Bible open in his left hand and his right employed for many a sweeping gesture, he read on, while Clive Waddell continued working the dial of the combination safe.

  At last, Waddell’s chore was done. He swung the safe door open, and Erskine remarked,

  “You took considerable longer this time—five minutes longer. What’s the matter, Clive? Losin’ your touch?”

  “That’ll be the day,” scowled Waddell. “Come on. Let’s get those bags filled in a hurry.”

  “How’s it look in there?” enquired Erskine, as he set the carpet-bags down and opened them.

  “Prosperous,” grinned Waddell. “A real prime haul.”

  He drew two bulky wads of banknotes from the safe, exhibited them for Erskine’s inspection, then dropped them into one of the bags. Erskine crouched beside him and lent a hand. Every banknote, every coin in the safe was transferred to the bags. They worked quickly, guessing Cox was becoming impatient.

  The fat man, as it happened, was more than impatient. His sixth sense was at work. For the third time, he checked his timepiece. Too long. This time, his minions were taking far too long. Could anything have happened?

  Abruptly, he stopped reading.

  “Brethren …” He beamed benevolently at his listeners. “When the Chapel on Wheels departs from this here fair city, I want to know I’ve left somethin’ behind—a priceless gift for my Ketchtown congregation ...”

  “What’re you gonna leave us, Deacon?” demanded a strident voiced housewife.

  “Advice, sister,” declared Cox. “Yes, brethren, that’s what I’m leavin’ for you. Advice as to how best to share the benefits of the Good Book. I have read, and you’ve all listened, but what happens when I move on? Who’s gonna read you the Good Word from the Good Book?”

  “All right, Deacon,” called the man from the rear. “What’s the answer?”

  “The answer is,” smiled Cox, “you re gonna read it. You and any other God-fearin’ man or woman that ever learned how to read. You’ll carry on my work, friends. Whenever you feel the need, you’ll gather together. One of you’ll read from the Good Book and the rest’ll listen, and learn.”

  “Hallelujah!” cried the housewife.

  “It’s near time for me to be movin’ on.” Cox heaved a sigh of regret which was echoed by his bug-eyed congregation. “But that don’t mean this meetin’ has to break up. While I go fetch my team, one of you could take my place.” He crooked a fat finger and a man eagerly climbed to the dais. “From the top of the page, friend,” he suggested, as he placed the Bible in the man’s hands. “And, when you’ve read to the end of the chapter, I reckon it’d be fittin’ for you to lead ’em in another hymn.”

  “Which one, Deacon?” demanded the local.

  “ ‘Glory To All Believers’,” Cox decided, “would be mighty fittin’.”

  The man began reading aloud and, what he lacked in volume was compensated for by his fervor. Cox stood listening a moment, nodding in benign approval. Then, unobtrusively, he retreated into the wagon. What in blazes was delaying Waddell and Erskine? He asked himself that question, as he hustled through the cluttered rig and clambered to the ground.

  Grim-faced, he waddled along the side alley to the corner. His searching scrutiny of the rear lane showed nothing amiss. At least, not at first. He didn’t spot the danger until he was hurrying toward the bank, until the bank’s rear door opened and his cronies emerged, both toting bulging carpetbags. Only then did Cox spot the tall men quitting the doorways beside and opposite the bank. He reacted instinctively and rashly, yelling a warning and emptying his shoulder-holster,

  “Clive—Troy—look out …!”

  Waddell momentarily froze. Erskine became mobile, and then some. Whirling, he drew and fired at the taller Texan at almost point-blank range, but wildly, so that his bullet missed Stretch’s head by a full five inches. Stretch crouched and returned fire and, as Erskine reeled and crashed to the dust, Larry’s eyes were busy. He was watching the fat man, noting the gleaming Colt with its cut-down barrel. Cox’s weapon was pointed directly at Stretch, when Larry went into action.

  His shout caused Stretch to throw himself sideways. His booming .45 stopped the fat man in his tracks. Cox’s gun discharged, but to the ground, as his right arm sagged. Waddell rallied quickly. In panic, he hurled his bag at Stretch and turned to run. His hand was gun-filled, when Larry caught up with him, tripped him and fell atop him. They grappled in the dust. Waddell’s weapon roared, but Larry had gripped his wrist and twisted. The bullet smacked into the wall of a building on the far side of the alley and the gun-flash scorched Waddell’s vest and ignited the front of Larry’s floppy Mexican shirt.

  He cursed luridly, knocked Waddell senseless and lurched to his feet to struggle out of the burning garment, and it was at that moment that Cox rallied. Blood streaked the fat man’s right arm, but he hadn’t fallen. He had transferred his gun to his l
eft hand and, with his teeth bared and his eyes gleaming murderously, was cocking and aiming the weapon at Larry.

  “Drop it!” roared Stretch.

  He gave Cox less than a second to decide, before cutting loose with both guns. An obscene oath erupted from the fat man. Bare torsoed now, Larry turned with his Colt at the ready. That short-barreled .45 was still gripped in Cox’s left fist, but he was mortally wounded in two places, lacked the strength to raise his arm. He went down face-first and, by the time the locals came barging into the alley, had cheated the hangman the hard way.

  Maybe Waddell was exceptionally hard-headed, or maybe his hat had softened the blow that had laid him low. He was struggling to his feet, gaping wildly at the oncoming locals. Stretch called to him, his tone mild, yet compelling.

  “Might as well freeze right where you are, feller. You re all through—as if you haven’t guessed.”

  He kept one Colt pointed at Waddell, holstered the other and accepted a cigarillo offered him by Larry. They lit up, puffed contentedly and waited for the excited queries of the local citizenry. When the questions came, they came thick and fast. Two over-excited gents were struggling to the fore of the seething throng—Messrs. Horace Mayberry and Conrad Schuster, both finding it difficult to believe the evidence of their bulging eyes.

  “I’m the manager of this bank!” panted Mayberry. “What—how—who ...?”

  “One answer at a time, friend,” drawled Larry. He silenced the crowd with an impatient scowl. Then, “The what of it is bank robbery. The how is plain enough, I’d say. Two of these fake preachers sneaked around here and busted into the bank, emptied your safe, while the fat one kept right on preachin’ at all these folks.”

  “This is incredible!” breathed the cashier.

  “If it’s hard for you to believe,” offered Larry, “you tally the dinero in those bags—then hustle inside and check the safe.”

  “This one’s as dead as the deacon,” reported the man crouched beside the sprawled Troy Erskine. “Looks like these strangers only took one of ’em alive.”

  “We—we owe you a great debt.” While acknowledging this, Mayberry was still shaking his head, still dazed.

  “Forget it,” grunted Larry. “But there were more than three of ’em. We got two more hog-tied outside of town.” He nodded to the shattered Clive Waddell. “If some of you gents’ll put your guns on this jasper and hustle him over to the jailhouse, me and my partner’ll go fetch the other two.”

  “Two more of them, you say?” challenged Schuster.

  “Uh huh,” nodded Larry. “The same two that robbed the Ventaine store.”

  “Were kinda interested in that little deal,” explained Stretch, “on accounta your blubber-bellied sheriff arrested us for it,”

  “Mr. Mayberry,” frowned Schuster, “there’s no doubt about it. These gentlemen must have intercepted the thieves at just the right moment”

  “Mister,” grinned Stretch, “that’s what we always do.”

  “May I enquire your names?” asked Mayberry,

  “Valentine,” said Larry.

  “Emerson,” said Stretch. “Let’s go, runt.”

  With Stretch forking the black filly and Larry riding the pinto, the drifters quit Ketchtown and made for the cottonwood copse. Porter and Trask had obviously made the effort—the futile effort—to free themselves. They were panting heavily and in sour mood, when the Texans lifted them and, for the last time, tied them to the sorrel.

  “Last ride, boys,” drawled Larry, as he remounted the pinto and took the sorrels rein,

  “What—what happened in town?” Porter worriedly enquired. “It wasn’t much of a shoot-out,” shrugged Stretch. “Your fat sidekick and one other jasper are grave-bait. We took one alive. He’ll be company for you—in the Ketchtown calaboose.”

  “Damn and blast,” breathed Trask.

  “Well …” Larry stifled a yawn, “we’d better be on our way.”

  “Hold it, runt,” warned Stretch.

  They sat their mounts, listening intently to the thudding of hooves. By squinting through the trees, they were able to count the nine weary riders passing by along the town trail—Sheriff Salter’s seven possemen, followed by Salter himself and the disgruntled Otis Gannon.

  “There goes law and order,” Larry observed.

  “And lookin’,” commented Stretch, “plumb weary.”

  “Tell you what,” said Larry. “We’ll give ’em time to get home and hear the news, before we mosey in with these heroes.” They waited a quarter-hour before breaking from the timber and starting back to Ketchtown. Not surprisingly, a sizable representation of the local citizenry thronged the boardwalks to watch, as they ambled their mounts along Main Street to the law office hitch rack. They saw the well-groomed and brisk-moving Judge Croft climbing to the porch and entering the office. Also, Larry’s attention was diverted by an uncommonly good looking woman following the judge.

  “That’s the circuit judge,” offered Stretch. “Sociable kinda feller, name of Croft.”

  “And the lady?” frowned Larry.

  “Oh—her?” Stretch grinned self-consciously. “Well, she’s that friend I was tellin’ you about—Miss Lucinda Ventaine.”

  “All right,” sighed Larry. “Let’s get it over with.”

  They dismounted, untied their prisoners and lifted them to the ground, then frog-marched them up the steps and into Salter’s office. Salter was seated at his desk, red-faced, plagued with weariness and confusion. Croft and Lucinda were perched side by side on the couch. Gannon stood over by the gun-rack. As the Texans entered, he fixed a baleful glare on Larry, who calmly ignored him. Old Chris lounged in the open entrance to the ground floor cell-block, lifting a hand in friendly greeting to the taller Texan.

  “Howdy there, Tex.”

  “Howdy, old timer,” grinned Stretch. “How’re you feelin’? Sure hope I didn’t cramp you none.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” Chris mildly assured him.

  “Miss Lucinda,” said Stretch, “I’d admire to have you meet my partner, Larry Valentine. Howdy, Judge.”

  “Well, well, well,” drawled Croft. “We meet again.”

  Larry nodded respectfully to Lucinda, then told the turnkey, “These two galoots’ll likely need a doctor. But, meantime you better stash ’em in a cell.”

  As though by magic, old Chris’s shotgun came to light. He directed it at the crestfallen Porter and Trask, and beckoned. “This way, boys.”

  Salter shuddered, licked his lips and at last found his voice. “The Lone Star Hellions,” he breathed. “The almighty Texas Hell-Raisers. Figure yourselves for a couple smart hombres, don’t you? Well, by Godfrey, this is one time you went too far! You’ve busted damn near every law in the book, and I’m gonna make sure you get what’s coin’ to you!”

  “You and me,” Gannon coldly reminded Larry, “got a score to settle!”

  “Try settlin’ it,” offered Larry, in a voice even colder. “You got nothin’ to lose except your front teeth.”

  “Gentlemen,” frowned Croft, “may I suggest we keep our tempers?”

  “That’s okay by me, Judge,” said Larry, “just so long as this boss-lawman simmers down and hears me out. Before he shoots off his mouth—I got things to say.”

  “You can do your talkin’ in court, Valentine!” barked Salter. “And it won’t help you any. You went too far this time!”

  “I went as far as you forced me to go—you barrel-bellied jackass!” snapped Larry.

  Salter’s mouth was wide open for another heated retort and Larry was actually clenching his fists, making ready to beat sense into the belligerent badge-toters, when old Chris reappeared in the cell block entrance and remarked,

  “That was real interestin’ just now.”

  “Shuddup, Chris,” scowled Salter.

  “Better hear what I’m tellin’ you, Bob,” drawled Chris. He jerked a thumb. “When I took them hombres in there, Neale started cussin’ ’em out. Specially,
he cussed the tall one with the yaller hair. Plain enough, I’d say. He’s identifyin’ ‘em as the thieves that robbed old Eli.”

  “They’re the ones,” nodded Larry. “I know, because I spied on ’em and heard ’em talkin’ it over.”

  “Now, see here ...!” blustered Salter.

  “Sheriff,” frowned Croft, “these men have the right to be heard. It would seem we are both familiar with their reputation, and ...”

  “I wouldn’t give you a plugged cent for their consarned reputation!” bellowed Salter.

  Very quietly, Croft chided him.

  “Don’t raise your voice to me, Sheriff.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Judge,” mumbled Salter, “but...”

  “Let’s hear Valentine’s story,” suggested Croft, “then I’ll decide how it tallies with all the known facts.” He nodded affably to Larry. “Proceed, if you wish.”

  Larry told his story in sharp, terse sentences, and comprehensively. When he had finished, Stretch volunteered his share.

  “And now ...” Salter glared impatiently at the judge, “do I get to say my piece?”

  “By all means,” shrugged Croft.

  “No matter how you slice it up,” asserted Salter, “there’s some facts you got to face. These saddlebums did escape from custody. Valentine did assault my deputy and steal his horse and gun!”

  “Admittedly,” nodded Croft. And then he smiled wryly. “But that brings us to an interesting technicality.”

  “Meanin’ what?” demanded Salter.

  “Meaning,” said the judge, “Valentine and Emerson should not have been arrested in the first place. They were completely innocent of any crime, despite their resemblance to the men who robbed the store. Neale’s mistake, in identifying them as the thieves, may have been honest enough. There is, undoubtedly, a marked resemblance. But it was a mistake. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Sure, but ...” began Salter.

  “When the guilty escape from custody,” Croft continued, “a second crime is added to their original offence—but can the same be said for the innocent? I don’t believe so. Moreover, it seems both Valentine and Emerson used commendable restraint. Valentine knocked your deputy unconscious. He might have beaten him to death. Emerson got possession of your jailer’s gun and forced him to set him free. He left your jailer bound and gagged—but did not inflict an injury on him.”