Larry and Stretch 8 Read online

  At a hard gallop, and with the towners in hot pursuit, the drifters headed back along Main Street. But there could be no escape for them in that direction. Other locals were pouring into the street, brandishing guns and blocking their path.

  “In here!” called Larry.

  They had no option but to turn their mounts into the first side alley. Seconds later, as they neared its far end, the mayor and his cronies reached the alley mouth and with their guns roaring. Bullets whined dangerously close to their heads, as they quit the alley and swung into a rear laneway. Stretch sought solace in a stream of blistering profanity, while Larry used his eyes, urgently seeking a hideout. The high adobe wall loomed before them, and inspiration came to Larry’s aid.

  “Over the wall, big feller!” he panted.

  “They’d find us for sure!” protested Stretch.

  “It’s this or nothin’,” retorted Larry. “We’ll be sittin’ shots, when they hit this rear lane.”

  They brought their mounts to a slithering halt beside the wall, eased their boots from their stirrups and, with their hands braced against their saddlehorns, rose to their full height. For a brief moment, they balanced atop their saddles, leaning sideways to grasp at the top of the wall. Just as they began pulling themselves over, the towners emerged into the lane and the shooting was resumed. A slug burned the material of Larry’s shirt at his left sleeve. Another came so close to Stretch’s head that he felt its air-wind. They abandoned any thought of vaulting into the beyond. In desperate haste—and headfirst—they pitched over.

  Larry somersaulted before striking the ground. The impact jolted every bone in his body. He rolled over, spitting dirt and cursing luridly. Stretch landed in a clump of tall grass, his legs and backside uppermost. With some difficulty, he extricated himself. They lurched to their feet, shook their heads dazedly, then began scanning the immediate vicinity.

  Throughout their violent career, they had taken cover in all manner of unlikely places, seeking sanctuary wherever it happened to be available. But never had they sheltered in such peaceful surroundings. They were, of course, in the grounds of the mission, in the midst of carefully tended flower gardens.

  To their right, they perceived a shrine in which stood a time-weathered statue of the Madonna and Child. Directly ahead, beyond a bubbling, flower-bordered fountain, they could see the main building, the monasterio. Leftward, the chapel with its soaring steeple. Farther to their left, an aged, totally bald man was seated on a stone bench. He was peering at them in bewilderment.

  Noting his garb, Stretch quietly remarked, “A brown nightshirt.”

  “That’s no nightshirt,” muttered Larry. “We’ve seen that kind of rig before. He’s a Franciscan.”

  “One of them sin-killers?” frowned Stretch.

  “A priest,” said Larry. “A genuine padre.” He doffed his Stetson. “Take off your hat.”

  Stretch did as he was told and fell in behind his partner, who had begun trudging towards the seat. The old priest stood up. In his fluent Spanish, Larry called to him: “Buenos dias, Padre.”

  “Señores ...” The Franciscan eyed them sadly and muttered a reproach. His was the Spanish of the pure Castilian, lilting and expressive, “If you come to rob the Church, you doom yourselves. I am old and feeble, but I …”

  “Padre,” prodded Larry, “you parlay any English?”

  “Si,” nodded the priest. “I speak your language.”

  “All right,” sighed Larry. He stood before the priest with arms akimbo and stated his case bluntly. “Let’s understand each other right from the start. We ain’t here to rob you, nor to cause any trouble.”

  “We’re plumb law-abidin’,” asserted Stretch.

  “Only reason we leapt over your wall,” Larry explained, “is because a couple dozen madmen were chasin’ us. We don’t know why they chased us, why they aimed to lynch us, why a bunch of kids dropped out of a doggone tree and grabbed our guns ...”

  “You have been attacked,” challenged the priest, “by the good people of Tres Agua?”

  “We have been jumped and cussed and shot at,” countered Larry, “by the crazy rubes of Tres Agua—and I’d admire to know why.”

  “Ah.” The priest nodded knowingly. “Perhaps I understand, and can explain.” He gestured towards the township. “Senores, you have come to a town that lives in fear.”

  Chapter Two

  A Reason For Everything

  Just as Mayor Gilhauser and his followers reached the mission entrance, the ornamental gate swung shut with a resounding clang. There was no other means of entry or exit, and Gilhauser was incensed. Through the iron bars, he called a reproach to the lean, thin-faced Padre Diego.

  “Hey, Padre, open up and let us through! Didn’t you see what happened? Couple bandidos jumped the wall, and ...!”

  “I have seen,” nodded the priest. “Si, Alcalde, but I must seal the entrada. It is the rule of the Church.”

  “What the heck is he gabbin’ about?” demanded Margolies.

  “Por favor, señores,” chided one of the local Mexicans. “It is just how the good padre tells you. The gate must be locked. When one takes shelter within the monasterio, he cannot be pursued.”

  “It is,” the priest quietly explained to Gilhauser, “the law of sanctuary.”

  “Sanctuary?” blinked Gilhauser. “Well, doggone it, you can’t shelter those killers. They’re apt to steal your food, all the gold and stuff from the chapel, and ...!”

  “They are with our superior now,” Padre Diego reported. He turned to survey the garden. “He talks with them.”

  Worriedly, the mayor eyed his people. He was responsible for the civic administration of this small community, the welfare of the local Mexicans, as well as the American element. A half-dozen or so Mexicans had advanced to the locked gate and were standing with their backs to it, impassively watching their gringo neighbors. It was one of the rules of their church, he reflected, one of their beliefs. They would resist any attempt to force entry into the mission. For this, he had to respect them.

  “Well?” demanded Perrier. “What’re we gonna do now?”

  “All we can do is wait,” frowned Gilhauser. “Padre Diego ...”

  “Si, Alcalde?” prodded the priest.

  “We’d be obliged,” said Giihauser, “if you’d keep an eye on your boss—and those roughneck strangers.”

  “I am watching,” Padre Diego assured him. “Still they talk, and not in anger.”

  “They’re playin’ it cagey,” guessed Margolies.

  “No,” frowned the priest. “I do not believe these strangers are dangerous. At least, not to Padre Pasquale.”

  ~*~

  Larry was sharing the seat with the old priest. Stretch squatted cross-legged in front of them, his brown fingers busy with the building of a cigarette. They had offered Padre Pasquale their names, after he had offered his. Now, they were assuring him of their bona fides.

  “We don’t claim we’re the most respectable hombres ever came to Three Springs,” said Larry. “I guess, when you look us over, you’d get the notion we’re a couple hard-cases.”

  “But we ain’t owlhoots,” declared Stretch.

  “We’re a sight more law-abidin’,” grinned Larry, “than you’d ever think.”

  “But you did not tell this to the alcalde and his friends?” frowned Padre Pasquale.

  “Padre,” growled Larry, “they didn’t give us a chance to tell ’em anything” He stared pensively towards the high wall. “You called Three Springs a town that lives in fear. What’d you mean by that?”

  “The people are afraid—much afraid,” shrugged the old priest. “And, when men live in fear, do they not become desperate? These ones are suspicious of all strangers. This, I think, is why they attacked you.”

  “We passed a jailhouse with a sign,” Larry recalled, “It said ‘Town Marshal’. How come your lawman stayed hid?”

  “It is a sad story, my friend,” sighed Padre Pasquale, “
and it must be told, so that you may understand. The Señor Craydon—the rurale—he lies ill. Muy enfermo. He waits only for death, which he believes will come soon.”

  “What kind of a sickness?” demanded Larry.

  “Quien sabe?” The priest shrugged expressively. “It has no name.”

  “So,” prodded Larry, “the marshal’s dyin’.”

  “Bandidos came to Tres Agua,” the priest told them. “Four bandidos—to rob the Americano bank. The marshal was not sick at this time. When they came from the bank, after attacking the Señor Husig, he challenged them. They took refuge in the tienda of Señor Yuill. Three escaped, but the young one remained to fight with the marshal ...”

  “He covered for his pards, I guess,” offered Stretch, “while they snuck out the back way.”

  “The marshal was obliged to defend himself, when this bandido threatened him with the pistola,” said Padre Pasquale.

  “So that’s why the marshal is laid up?” asked Larry. “He stopped a bullet?”

  “No,” said Padre Pasquale. “He was not injured—but the bandido …” He gestured helplessly. “Muerto.”

  “All right,” frowned Larry. “He shot it out with the marshal and got what was comin’ to him. I still don’t savvy why ...”

  “Before he died,” explained the priest, “he gave his name, and his name is known to the marshal and to many of my people. Stark—the name of a much-feared bandido. This was the younger of two brothers. The other will come for vengeance—of this the people are very certain. The patron of these bandidos—he that is called Brett Stark—will bring all his caballeros to Tres Agua to loot, to burn, to kill ...” He sighed heavily.

  “So that's how it stacks up,” mused Stretch. “These proddy rubes took us for a couple of spies—from an owl-hoot outfit.”

  “Uh-huh.” A mirthless grin creased Larry’s suntanned countenance. “And, the way the padre tells it, there’s gonna be a man-sized hassle in this here territory—real soon.”

  Stretch heaved a sigh of resignation. “When I see that look on your face, runt, I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’ we oughta stay.”

  “What else?” challenged Larry. “If we drift on, we’re apt to miss out on the fightin’.”

  “’Scuse me for remindin’ you,” grinned Stretch, “but ain’t we the hombres that was lookin’ for a quiet town—some place we could rest awhile?”

  “We’ll catch up on our rest,” Larry assured him.

  “Sure,” nodded Stretch, “while we’re waitin’ for these bandidos to come a’raidin’.”

  “But, first,” said Larry, “we have to straighten out these towners, make ’em understand who we are. I don’t mind gettin’ shot at by any bandido, but I don’t crave to get hunted by a passel of righteous citizens.”

  “You and me both,” Stretch agreed.

  “Padre,” said Larry, “we don’t belong to your church, but I’d be willin’ to walk into that chapel of yours and take my oath I’m no thief. I’m who I said I am—Larry Valentine.” He jerked a thumb towards his squatting saddle-pard. “And he really is Stretch Emerson. We got a reputation, but honest folks got nothin’ to fear from us.”

  “To swear a lie in the house of God,” muttered the priest, “would be a great evil.”

  “Whatever I swear to in your chapel,” asserted Larry, “would be the gospel truth.” He showed the priest a reassuring grin. “Padre, I wouldn’t have the nerve to lie in any kind of church—Catholic or Protestant. A man’d be beggin’ for trouble, wouldn’t, you say? Kind of like ridin’ into a desert without a drop of water in your canteen. Well—I’m ready if you are.” He rose to his feet. “Let’s mosey over to that chapel, and I’ll swear ...”

  “No.” Padre Pasquale smiled faintly, as he shook his head. “For this, I will accept your word.”

  “High time somebody started trustin’ us,” opined Stretch.

  “I will talk to the people,” decided the priest, as Larry helped him to his feet. “Perhaps I can convince them of their mistake.”

  They accompanied him to the gate. In response to his gentle nod, the younger priest unlocked it and swung it open. Grim-faced, the locals surged forward. The Mexicans braced themselves for the rush, and then the old priest’s gentle but compelling voice was heard.

  “There will be no violence.”

  “Padre,” frowned the mayor, “about these two gun-slicks ...”

  “These men have sworn that they came in peace,” Padre Pasquale informed him, “and that they have no knowledge of the one called Stark.”

  “You and your law-abidin’ friends went off half-cocked,” Larry chided Gilhauser, “and didn’t even give us a chance to name ourselves.”

  “He’s Larry Valentine,” announced Stretch.

  “And he’s Stretch Emerson,” said Larry.

  He eyed the locals expectantly. Just this once, he was hoping for a reaction—preferably favorable. There had been times when the Hellions had resented their well-earned fame; notoriety had become naught but a damn nuisance. But this wasn’t one of those times. If some of these towners knew their reputation and could identify them, much argument could be saved.

  It was the sharp-eyed Russ Perrier who said, “I’ve heard those names before.”

  “So have I,” offered Margolies. “Valentine and Emerson—a couple of trouble-shooters.”

  “I guess everybody’s heard of Larry and Stretch,” muttered Gilhauser. “But, by golly, we’d need to be mighty sure these jaspers aren’t lying.”

  “Keep your eyes on ’em, boys,” frowned Perrier. “I’ll be back in just a couple minutes.”

  “Where’re you goin’, Russ?” demanded Frayne.

  “I’ve just remembered those old newspapers in our office,” said Perrier, “and a report about some hassle those Texans bought into. There’s a picture of ’em.”

  “Fetch it,” ordered the mayor.

  Less than ten minutes later, when Perrier rejoined his cronies at the mission entrance and exhibited the out-dated newspaper, the drifters knew the crisis was over. One by one the locals studied the yellowed front page. Fortunately, that photographer had been an expert at his trade; it was a good likeness.

  The mayor lowered his gun.

  “I feel,” he confessed, “like ten different kinds of fool.”

  “And that goes double for the rest of us,” said Frayne. “Well, at least we can make amends. We can take ’em back to the Rialto and give ’em a drink on the house.”

  Larry cordially thanked the priests, who farewelled him with a friendly gesture and retreated into the grounds of the mission. The red-haired youth proffered the stick from which the three Colts dangled. With their holsters filled, the Texans felt considerably easier and could even find it in their hearts to forgive the indignities heaped upon them by the nervous citizens of Three Springs.

  “We sure owe you boys an explanation,” declared the mayor, “as well as an apology.”

  “C’mon,” urged Dan Yuill. “They must be twice as thirsty as us. C’mon back to the Rialto.”

  This was better. This was the kind of welcome most favored by the Texas nomads because, next to fighting, eating and drifting, hard liquor was their main preoccupation. Escorted by the civic leaders, they retired to the barroom of the Rialto, an establishment that resembled every other saloon they had patronized in better than a decade of wandering the vast south-west. The resemblance was monotonous, but they would never complain of this kind of monotony—the same brass rail, the same long mirror hung above the bar, the same spittoons, the same, well-loved odors of whisky, beer and tobacco-smoke.

  They hooked boot heels on the brass rail, propped elbows on the bar top and, in short order, disposed of two double-shots of rye and two tall flagons of beer. Then, nursing their third flagons, they invited their hosts to describe the current situation. Mayor Gilhauser elected himself spokesman.

  “These four thieving skunks hit Three Springs and robbed the Trust Bank,” he told th
em. “Of course, Buck Craydon didn’t know who they were. Not at first, anyway. He just spotted ’em sashaying out of the bank with a gunny sack full of cash, and ...”

  “Better’n ten thousand dollars they took offa old Marty Husig,” interjected Margolies. “Held a gun to his head they did—and beat him with their fists—and him old enough to have sired any one of ’em.”

  “When they spotted the marshal,” Gilhauser continued, “they went to shooting. Well, Buck got between them and their horses, so they ran for cover …” he nodded to Yuill, “… straight into Dan’s emporium.”

  “I was down to the barbershop,” offered Yuill. “Only feller in the store was Georgie, my hired help. They batted him with a gun-barrel and, after that, Georgie didn’t know what was happenin’.”

  “We got most of this from Padre Pasquale,” frowned Larry. “But keep talkin’, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Not much more to tell,” sighed Gilhauser. “Three of ’em sneaked out the back way, stole horses and got away—with the bank money. One of ’em took a shot at Buck from the street doorway.” He grinned wryly. “I guess you’ll be proud to know Buck Craydon’s Texan, like yourselves. Sure. He shot it out with that young hellion. Worst mistake Clay Stark ever made was to trade shots with our marshal.”

  “That’s the hell of it,” muttered Perrier. “The jasper Buck killed was Clay Stark. He told Buck who he was, just before he died. Buck recognized him anyway.”

  “What else did Stark say?” prodded Larry.

  “Can’t you guess?” frowned Margolies. “He swore as how his brother would bring the entire outfit back to Three Springs ...”

  “And wipe us off the map,” scowled Frayne. “Every man-jack of us.”

  “That’s how he died,” said the mayor. “Cursing Buck—cursing this whole town.”

  “And then?” asked Larry.

  “Buck checked his official bulletins,” said Perrier. “He had plenty information on the Stark gang. Every lawman has. Well, it seems Stark is bossing a big outfit now.”

  “A double dozen,” grunted Frayne. “Twenty-four hard-cases with itchy trigger-fingers. And, to square accounts for young Clay Stark, they’d follow his brother through hell and high water.”