Arizona Wild-Cat (Larry & Stretch Western. Book 2) Page 12

  Between the safe and the front windows an oak counter ran from one wall to the other. Larry noted that and made his plan of attack swiftly. To Stretch he whispered, “The two at the safe are yours. I’ll take the others. You ready?”

  “Never was readier!” hissed Stretch, raising his Colts.

  Larry moved out from the corridor, cocked his six-gun and growled a harsh command.

  “Freeze fellers! You’re covered.”

  What followed filled every inch of Sammy Foy’s shivering body with horror. He had never been this close to a pitched gun-battle, had never really witnessed the intimate, personal ferocity of an exchange of lead at close quarters.

  All four outlaws moved as one, but the guns of the Texans roared split seconds before theirs. The men crouched by the safe were the first to be put out of action. Both of them triggered wild shots in the direction of Larry’s voice, but both of them failed to draw blood. Stretch’s Colts boomed and jumped in his hands, sounding an angry challenge. One of his victims died instantly with a bullet in his heart. The other man spun around and fell flat on his back, knocked unconscious by a bullet that had grazed his temple.

  Simultaneously Morey and his companion hastily jumped aside, moving targets, throwing lead at Larry Valentine. Larry reached back with a boot, tripping Sammy, sending the fat deputy sprawling. Then he threw himself flat as a hail of outlaw lead whined above his head and smacked into the wall behind him. More shots boomed out. A slug careened away down the corridor, screaming. Larry rolled, then came half-upright and caught a fleeting glimpse of an arm and a raised six-gun. He fired twice, quick snap-shots triggered fast. The first missed. The second pierced the gun-arm of Morey’s sidekick, drawing a yell of pain from him. His gun clattered to the floor. Larry forgot him then, and began worming his way towards the safe. Morey was still on the other side of that counter—somewhere. But Morey, too, had dropped flat.

  Larry had just reached Stretch, when the crashing of broken glass smote his ears. Instantly, he showed himself, rising up and drawing a bead on the shattered window. It was Morey. He had kicked out the panes and was in the act of hurling himself through into the street.

  “Don’t try it!” yelled Larry.

  “The hell with you ...!” snarled Morey, whirling.

  His gun and Larry’s roared in unison. Larry felt the wind of Morey’s bullet as it whined past his right ear, and had time to reflect that he had never been this close to death. Morey’s luck, however, had run out on him. Larry saw the bearded man reel and fall among the broken window panes with an ugly red wound in the center of his chest.

  “He shouldn’ta hung around,” opined Stretch Emerson, getting to his feet. “That’s what he gits for bein’ greedy!”

  They heard then the fast-approaching noise of many horsemen. Hoofbeats filled the air of the street with thunderous sound. The biggest posse Larry Valentine had ever seen was pounding down Main Street from the direction of the church.

  “Here they come!” he grinned. “Let’s get ready, Stretch!”

  Stretch, also grinning, strode over to where Sammy Foy lay in a quaking heap, and jerked the fat deputy to his feet.

  “Is it—is it over?” groaned Sammy.

  “Yup,” nodded Stretch. “It’s over. You done outshot the whole blamed shebang—you hero, you!”

  He pressed one of his Colts into Sammy’s hand and propped him against the wall.

  “Just stand there,” called Larry. “If you feel like faintin’, save it till later.”

  The man with the bleeding arm rolled over, groaning. Larry carefully kicked his fallen gun out of reach and growled to him to remain quiet.

  Outside, the wildly-galloping horsemen reined in. A cloud of dust arose from the threshing hooves and wafted in through the shattered bank windows. Larry peered through the haze and saw a red-faced Sheriff Trumble swinging down from his saddle and brandishing a six-shooter. The old lawman stumbled towards the bank, closely followed by a score of his companions. To the Texans, it seemed that everybody in Widow’s Peak was filling the dust-laden air with excited queries.

  “Which way did they go?”

  “It’s a jail-break ...!”

  “No it ain’t! It’s a bank robbery!”

  “No it ain’t! It’s a jail-break! Jay Endean done said so, didn’t he?”

  “Shut up!” howled Sheriff Trumble. “Till I find out what in tarnation’s goin’ on here!”

  He stepped in through the shattered window. Larry and Stretch immediately sheathed their guns and raised their hands.

  “Sheriff,” said Stretch gravely, “we’re real glad to see you.”

  “What the hell!” Trumble nearly collapsed with shock. “How did you two get out of jail? What’s been goin’ on here.”

  From the floor, Peters, the banker, uttered a groan. He was sitting up now, and clasping his hands to his aching head.

  “These four, Buck,” he muttered, pointing to the sprawled figures of Morey and his men. “They busted in here from the back—just when I had the safe open. One of them, the ranny with the beard, beat me over the head with a gun, and that’s the last thing I remember.”

  “We can tell you the rest, Sheriff,” offered Larry, his eager gaze running past Trumble to the men milling about the doorway. He was looking for Endean and Larchmont. “Me and my pard came down here to ...”

  “How in hell did you get out of jail?” roared Trumble.

  “Oh—that?” Larry raised his eyebrows, as though faintly disturbed by Trumble’s show of temper. “Well—after that Morey mob escaped, we saw Deputy Foy go after ’em and—uh—we were afraid he might get hurt. There was—uh—a key, lyin’ right there in the corridor. So we picked it up, let ourselves out, grabbed our guns and came on down here.”

  “Only we were too late,” explained Stretch, poker-faced.

  “What do you mean—too late?” demanded Trumble.

  “Mr. Foy,” announced Stretch, respectfully, “had already ’tended to these here owlhoots. He had ’em beat—’fore we had time to help. You—uh—you can see what he did to ’em.”

  The deathly hush that followed was broken by an astounded townsman who growled an oath and announced that he didn’t believe it. Larry took advantage of Trumble’s astonishment to fire a question at him.

  “Where’s Endean and Larchmont?”

  “Right here with us,” growled the lawman, gaping in disbelief at his shivering deputy. “It was Larchmont that sounded the alarm. And it was Endean that started things movin’. He was goin’ to lead the posse himself, damn him. Hey, Endean!”

  He turned to call to the heroic bridegroom. A man pressed inside, confronted Trumble, and said, “Now there’s a funny thing! Mr. Endean ain’t out there.”

  “You bet your sweet life they ain’t!” snapped Larry. “Not Endean, or Larchmont. They’re likely on their way outa town, by now!”

  “With all that dinero!” growled Stretch. “All that there investment money.”

  “Lemme in there!” piped another voice.

  Men moved out of the way, as a diminutive figure in a crumpled black suit struggled inside and seized Trumble’s arm. Uncle Dewey looked somewhat the worse for wear. In the turmoil of the last few minutes, his borrowed stovepipe hat had been knocked from his head and trampled underfoot. It was now a wreck of a hat, with a drunken, sideways lurch to it, but Uncle Dewey still wore it.

  “Somebody’s gotta git after Tess,” he gasped.

  “What’s that about Tess?” demanded Larry.

  “She grabbed a horse and lit out after that buckboard!” reported the oldster.

  “What, buckboard?” growled Trumble. “What’re you talkin’ about, Dewey?”

  “The buckboard that Endean galoot is drivin’, him and Larchmont. You fellers was in such a all-fired hurry that you didn’t see what I saw ...”

  With the fire of battle gleaming in his eyes, Larry seized the old man’s shoulder.

  “What did you see, old-timer?” he begged. “Tell u
s fast!”

  “I done saw them two drop outa the posse and duck down the alley by the hotel,” reported Uncle Dewey. “And Tess saw ’em, too! Then we saw ’em hightailin’ it outa town, out by the chapel, in a buckboard. And Tess got mad and said as how no blamed bridegroom is gonna run out on her, and then she up and grabbed Will Casson’s pinto and lit out after ’em ...”

  “Which way were they headed?” panted Larry.

  “West.”

  Larry looked at Stretch. Stretch looked at Larry. Trumble looked at both of them.

  “Wait a minute!” he growled. “You two ain’t goin’ no place!”

  “Guess again,” grinned Larry.

  He and Stretch were already pushing their way through the crowd at the door, and encountering no opposition. Possibly by accident, their guns had reappeared in their hands. With the irate lawman following and yelling enraged protests, they swung into the saddles of the nearest horses and galloped off downtown.

  “Damn your ornery hides!” wailed Trumble, raising his gun. “Stop or—by glory!—I’ll shoot!”

  “Don’t shoot at ’em, Sheriff!” called Sammy Foy. “Leave ’em go—if—if—they’re tryin’ to help Tess.”

  In the history of this remote frontier settlement the chase that followed was destined to be recorded for posterity. In times to come, old-timers would be assured of a free drink from strangers passing through, by recounting the details of that epic chase, on that never-to-be-forgotten day when the two confidence tricksters were pursued over two and a half miles of flat wasteland by a slip of a girl, on a pinto pony, attired in a white silken wedding-gown.

  They were moving fast, making, as Endean supposed, good time. The town was miles to their rear. The team acquired by Larchmont seemed fresh and capable of keeping up their speed for many more miles. Larchmont was handling the reins, sending the horses pounding across the flatlands, ever westward, shouting an occasional remark at his jubilant cousin. Endean was in high good humor.

  “Smoothly,” he kept congratulating himself. “Like a well-oiled machine. Not a hitch. Those incredibly stupid rubes! Pouring out of the chapel like oranges out of a barrel, running for horses. Good grief! They were all gone inside a minute. No wonder we had it easy.”

  “I reckon we shook ’em,” whooped Larchmont, cracking his whip. “But take a look around back, and make sure no riders’re following us.”

  “Hah!” laughed Endean. “Not a chance, Ed! They’re all headed in the opposite direction!”

  But, to satisfy his cousin’s curiosity, he looked over his shoulder—and almost fell from the seat, so great was his shock.

  “That woman!” he gasped. “She must be out of her mind!”

  “Woman?” Larchmont’s eyebrows shot up.

  “That freckled little vixen I almost married! She’s—she’s chasing us!”

  The Arizona Wild-Cat was doing a great deal more than chasing the men in the buckboard. She was overtaking them, slowly but surely. The veil had long since blown from her wind-whipped tresses, but the voluminous silken gown was still intact. It flapped about her and helped to startle the high-spirited pinto into a fresh burst of speed. The pinto was giving of its best, for never before had it been ridden by a rider with the vocabulary of Tess Hapgood. Tess’ shrieks were goading the animal to a pace that its owner had never thought it capable of.

  “Run out on me, would you?” she breathed. “Right when Mr. Kiley was goin’ to finish the job. All right, mister. You don’t have to marry me, if you don’t want to—but you’re comin’ back to Widow’s Peak with me, and you’re gonna apologize, right out in public! Right there in Main Street!”

  “She’s gaining on us!” gasped Endean. “Can’t you make these blasted animals run faster?”

  “What’s it matter?” snarled Larchmont. “What can she do to stop us. Has she got a gun?”

  “I—I can’t see a gun ...”

  “Then quit worrying! I’ve got one and—if that little vixen tries stopping us ...!”

  Tess’ mount galloped on, increasing speed, closing the gap between rider and buckboard whilst, a hundred feet behind her, two more riders pounded in close pursuit.

  “Hell!” Stretch roared to Larry. “That little she-cat can ride! You gotta admit that!”

  “We’ll say purty things about her ridin’,” promised Larry, “when we catch up with her ...”

  They, too, were closing the gap, but Tess was almost level with the vehicle now. The terrain was flat, flatter than at any other time during the chase. Endean should have guessed what Tess meant to do, but he was too stunned, too dismayed by the sudden appearance of this fast-riding wildcat. One moment Tess was riding level with the rear of the rig. The next moment she was upon them, easing her feet from the stirrups, throwing herself sideways from the pinto’s back and landing just behind the driver’s seat in a flurry of wildly flapping silk. Endean gave vent to a yelp of surprise, as one of her arms crooked around his neck and began dragging him backwards. Larchmont muttered a curse, transferred his reins to his right hand, and tried to swing a blow at the girl with his left. All he achieved, from that base intent, was a series of livid scratch-marks on his face.

  “Holy Hannah!” whooped Stretch. “Did you see that? She’s in that blamed rig with ’em!”

  “And pretty soon,” yelled Larry, “that’s where we’re gonna be. There’s room in that thing for two more. We can’t shoot at them. The girl’s in the way. So we’ll do what she did!”

  By the time they drew level with the fast-moving vehicle, Larchmont was half-out of the driver’s seat, one leg wildly waving at the sky. Tess had hauled him backwards, by the scruff of his neck, despite Endean’s efforts to push her out of the rig. It was time for the Texans to join in the boarding party. Larry flanked the buckboard at its left side, whilst his partner edged in from the right. When they leapt, they leapt together.

  Neither Endean nor Larchmont was at all sure of what followed. For that matter, neither were Larry and Stretch. In such conditions hostilities were carried on under unusual difficulties, the main difficulty being Tess Hapgood’s all-enveloping wedding-gown. In the melee of pounding fists and threshing limbs, the folds of silk seemed to shroud every contestant, at some time or other. Larchmont was off the seat now, and somewhere among the writhing bodies in the rear of the vehicle. The team was running wild.

  Tess was on top, a shoe grasped in her tiny hand, her sharp eyes alert for the first glimpse of a head. She saw one, or the impression of one, tightly wrapped in part of her gown. The shoe swung down with a brisk crack—and Stretch Emerson gave voice to a howl of pain. Larry was having better luck. He was lying flat on his belly, but both of his arms were crooked around necks, and he was fervently hoping that neither neck belonged to his yelling partner.

  It took another five minutes for the pursuing posse to catch up with the rocking vehicle and bring the team to a quivering halt. A side-board of the rig chose that moment to give way, causing all five passengers to roll out of it and crash to the ground, with Tess, fortunately, topmost.

  For Endean and Larchmont, it was all over. A triumphant Larry Valentine clambered back into the vehicle, rummaged under the seat and produced the damning evidence—the two carpetbags, packed full with the hard-earned savings of the people of Widow’s Peak.

  ~*~

  “All you have to do now,” he told Sheriff Trumble, “is send a man to the nearest town that’s got a telegraph office, and start askin’ questions from the railroad people. I’m betting you’ll find there’s no such outfit as the Taylor-Ames …”

  “You’re right, friend. There isn’t. There’ll be no need to send any wires!”

  Jay Endean, cursing in the grasp of a couple of husky townsmen, glared up at the man who had spoken.

  “All right, Burden!” he snarled. “You’ve just cooked your goose!”

  “Oh, no he hasn’t!” growled the stern-faced old judge. With Burden, he had arrived at the tail-end of the posse. “Honest Al and I have some
bad news for you, Endean. Mr. Ankers didn’t die!”

  Larchmont muttered a startled oath, and gaped at his cousin.

  “What the hell ...!” he began.

  “Shut your face, Ed Larchmont!” snapped the redoubtable Tess Hapgood. “Don’t you dare use bad language while there’s a lady around!”

  The return to Widow’s Peak was considerably less hectic than that wild pursuit. Larry and Stretch, oddly discontented now that the fighting was over, rode close to Tess Hapgood and put the finishing touches on their campaign for the future happiness of Sad Sammy.

  “If you coulda seen him in that bank, Miss Tess,” lied Stretch, “swappin’ lead with all four of them Morey owl-hoots! I’m tellin’ you—I ain’t never seen such shootin’!”

  “That’s the truth,” agreed Larry. “That Sammy Foy! No doubt about him. He’s the most all-fired fast-shootin’ …”

  “It ain’t polite,” frowned Tess, thoughtfully, “to keep lyin’ to a lady. I already guessed the truth about you two—even if the rest of the town hasn’t.” She glanced at their stunned expressions, gave them a faint smile, and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll marry him. I’ll marry Sammy. A girl could do a lot worse, I guess. And anyway, there’s this blamed weddin’ dress. I just can’t waste that? Can I?”

  They agreed, gravely, that there was no point in wasting a wedding-gown—even one that had been torn and soiled in a fight—in the rear of a fast-moving buckboard.

  They attended the wedding of Tess Hapgood and Deputy Sammy Foy, and were present at the first half of the reception, held at the City Hall. They spent the latter half of that function in one of Sheriff Trumble’s cells, because of an unfortunate disturbance in which they were involved.

  It was a pity, perhaps, that a wild fist-fight should take place at a wedding reception. But it was inevitable. Several guests, rendered careless by too much liquor, had made derogatory remarks about the State of Texas ...