Drift! (A Larry & Stretch Book 1) Page 2

  Knox examined the two signatures and nodded at Quigley. “Okay, Bob,” he grunted. “They’re yours.”

  Borden detached his key ring and unlocked their cells. They stepped out into the corridor and exchanged winks. Borden led the way back to his office and, opening a cabinet, handed them their gunbelts. They strapped them on, enjoying the familiar weight of their firearms. Larry Valentine’s weapon was a Colt .45 with a worn walnut butt. He put his right foot on Borden’s own chair and tied the holster around his thigh with a rawhide thong. Stretch had two thongs to tie. Since he had been fully grown, he had never ventured abroad without his twin, bone-handled six-guns.

  “Now all I ask,” sweated the sheriff, “is get ’em outa here!”

  “Don’t get that barrel-belly in an uproar,” grinned Valentine. “We’re goin’.”

  Outside the office, Knox shook hands with Quigley and bade him goodbye. As the lawyer walked away, Quigley nodded at the Texans and said, “Follow me.”

  They followed him, past the Gifford hardware store and the telegraph office and along the verandah of Sorrowful Roscoe’s saloon. Loungers on the verandah gaped at Quigley, then at the Texans.

  “Now what d’you suppose they’re starin’ at?” complained the mystified Stretch.

  Valentine shrugged. One of the loungers threw Quigley a knowing look and called, “Finally got somebody, huh, Bob? What’s the matter with ’em? They tired o’ livin’?”

  “What’d he say?” frowned Valentine.

  “He said, ‘How’s my liver’,” muttered Quigley, nervously. “Pay no heed to them.”

  They continued on to the next block and approached the Grand Hotel. Stretch eyed the inquisitive throng gathered outside the building, and nudged his friend. Valentine nodded, but remained silent.

  “Rubbernecks,” explained Quigley. “There was a murder here, a couple hours ago.”

  “It wasn’t us!” came Stretch’s flat assertion. “We was in jail, an’, what’s more ...”

  “Nobody’s accusing you two of anything,” growled the stage-line man.

  They passed through the entrance, crossed the lobby and started up the stairs. They climbed the three flights to the top floor. Quigley preceded them along the corridor and paused at a door that bore the number 6. He knocked, gently. A voice growled at him from inside.

  “It’s me, Quigley,” he announced. “I’ve brought the driver and guard.”

  They heard the rattle of a key in the lock. The door swung open. Quigley motioned for the Texans to enter.

  Larry Valentine looked at Stretch. Stretch shrugged. They stepped into the room, with Quigley following. The door was shut and locked by a square-faced man in store clothes. Shannon slipped the key into his pocket, put his hands on his hips, and subjected the newcomers to a searching scrutiny.

  The Texans ignored him, letting their gaze wander to the room’s other occupants. A second man was sitting by the window. On a divan, along the opposite wall, Lucille Furness laid her sewing aside and looked at them. They looked back … with some interest. Despite her prim expression, the schoolteacher was a pretty woman. Valentine removed his hat and Stretch followed his example. It occurred to Lucille that somebody ought to speak. The tense silence seemed, to her, somewhat unnecessary. She inclined her head, with placid dignity, and said, “Good morning, gentlemen.”

  “Howdy, ma’am,” chorused the Texans.

  Quigley threw Shannon and Wilkes an anxious look and asked, “Think they’ll do? They’re all I could get. Nobody else’ll buy it.”

  “I have to check them first,” frowned Shannon. He opened the door of an adjoining room and beckoned to them. “In here,” he growled.

  Quigley nodded to the newcomers and entered the room. Larry and Stretch followed. This was a small bedroom. Shannon shut the door. Quigley stood in a corner, bit the end off a cigar, and lit it.

  “You two,” grunted the detective.

  “Us?” frowned Valentine.

  ‘Yeah, you. Take off your clothes.”

  The Texans stared at each other incredulously.

  “All of ’em?” gasped Valentine.

  “Everything!”

  “I couldn’t do that,” protested Stretch.

  “Why not?” barked the detective.

  Stretch studied his boots and said, softly, “I’m modest, suh.”

  “Valentine, Emerson,” called Quigley. “This is Mr. Shannon. He’s an important representative of the Pinkerton people.”

  “You mean,” blinked Larry Valentine, “he’s one o’ them city lawmen?”

  Quigley nodded.

  “Strip,” ordered Shannon.

  Reluctantly, they obeyed. As they stood, in unprepossessing nudity, with their clothes strewn on the floor, Valentine voiced a sober thought.

  “I wish I’d never signed that blamed paper,” he complained.

  Stretch looked down dolefully at his own naked torso, shivered, and said, “I wish I was back in Texas.”

  “Stand away from the wall,” growled Shannon.

  Then it began. The Pinkerton man examined them carefully, checking anatomical details against a closely written list in his hand. He checked their scars of battle, then questioned them. For thirty minutes, he bombarded them with questions ... their full names, names of their parents, their movements over the past ten years, the names of the ranchers they had worked for, the number of times they had been in jail. When, at last, his questions ceased, Valentine exchanged an indignant frown with Emerson, then asked, “You finished, mister?”

  Shannon nodded, folded the list and put it in a pocket.

  “You done forgot to count our teeth,” Stretch told him.

  “Don’t get funny with me, cowboy!” growled the detective. “And don’t get the fool notion that only Texans are tough!”

  “We could give you some arguments,” warned Valentine, “about that.”

  “Get your clothes on,” ordered Shannon. He turned to Quigley and added, “They’re not Sharkey riders. That’s for sure.”

  “I could’ve told you that,” Quigley pointed out.

  “In my business, Mr. Quigley,” muttered the Pinkerton man, “we check everything.”

  Two – A Wake in Advance

  They were back in the other room, their boots again on their feet and all buttons buttoned. Momentarily oblivious of the stares of the other four people, they performed the familiar rite of buckling on their cartridge belts and lashing down the holsters. Wilkes looked at Stretch and observed, softly, “Two-gun man, huh?”

  “Gotta be,” nodded Stretch. “If I only toted one, I’d walk with a lean.”

  “You fellers know how to use those things?” frowned Shannon.

  “Were from Texas,” grunted Valentine, without bothering to look at him.

  “Shannon,” grinned Wilkes. “That was a silly question.”

  “I guess so,” agreed Shannon.

  He ordered the tall men to be seated, then performed introductions.

  “Mr. Quigley’s already told you,” began the detective, “that we want you to take us to the county seat.”

  “A run from here to Nash City is no trouble,” growled Larry.

  “This one could be,” frowned Shannon.

  “How come?” Stretch wanted to know.

  Shannon stood up and started pacing. They had to listen intently to catch what he was saying. He was reeling it off, as though delivering a verbal report at Pinkerton Headquarters.

  “You’ve heard of the Sharkey gang,” he told them. “They’ve been getting away with everything, for the past ten years. Bank-robberies, stage hold-ups, rustling … and more murders than the law can keep track of. Bear that in mind. Every Sharkey man … and we estimate there’s a dozen in all ... is a killer.”

  “Sharkey got caught,” interrupted Valentine. “He’s at Nash City right now, waitin’ to be tried.”

  “Damn right he is ... uh ... sorry, Miss Furness.”

  “Quite all right, Mr. Shannon,” blushed the
woman.

  “He’s locked up in Nash City all right,” continued Shannon. “First time he’s been behind bars. He’s playing it smart, claims he isn’t Curt Sharkey at all. A shyster lawyer named Galloway got to him and offered to get him off. This, in brief, is the present position. Galloway has two bribed witnesses who’re willing to testify that Sharkey isn’t Sharkey, that the man in Nash City jail is somebody they were playing poker with, when the Coyote Creek bank was held up.”

  “The hold-up at Coyote Creek,” supplied Wilkes, “was the last job the Sharkey gang pulled.”

  “Nobody’s ever come forward to identify a Sharkey rider,” explained Shannon. “People have been too scared. That’s to be expected, when you remember the gang’s reputation. Now, after ten years, we have a chance to hang Curt Sharkey, to give the law an opportunity to deal with him in court ... instead of sending out posses to risk their lives trying to bring him in.”

  He nodded toward Lucille, and Valentine noted the respect in the detective’s glance.

  “This lady,” Shannon went on, “was right there in the Coyote Creek bank, when the gang robbed it and murdered a teller. She saw Curt Sharkey kill the man. The identification is complete. Sharkey got careless. He pulled down his bandana to light a cigarette. She got a clear look at his face.”

  “Plumb careless, that Sharkey,” observed Stretch.

  “Lucky for us,” nodded the detective. “Now comes the hard part. We have to get Miss Furness to Nash City by Wednesday, to give evidence at the trial. Without having her identify Curt, we could lose out. He could be acquitted.”

  “The way I heard it,” mused Valentine, “Gil Sharkey an’ the rest o’ the gang are still free.”

  “That,” frowned Wilkes, “is why we have a problem.”

  “It was only freak luck that got Curt arrested,” Shannon went on. “He’s always covered his face while committing his crimes. He rode into Nash City, alone, thinking he was safe. He did another fool thing by getting drunk and passing out. The local lawmen locked him in a cell, the way they would any drunk. Then a deputy spoke up and said he was sure the man was Curt Sharkey, said he was raised in the same place as the Sharkey boys.”

  “Why can’t he tell that in court then?” queried Valentine.

  “He’s dead,” grunted Shannon. “The Sharkey gang got to him, as soon as the news got around. Probably, Galloway was responsible for that.”

  “So now,” explained Wilkes, “it’s up to Miss Furness.”

  “Let me get this straight,” frowned Valentine. “You plan to send this little lady to Nash City, by stage?”

  “There’s no other way of getting her there by Wednesday,” Quigley pointed out. “I’m supplying a coach, free of charge. I figure I ought to do that much ... but I haven’t been able to hire anybody to go along. The whole town’s dead scared of those killers.”

  “Wilkes and I will ride inside, with Miss Furness,” explained Shannon. “With one of you driving, and the other riding shotgun. I think we should be able to get through. Anyway, whether we like it or not, we have to try. This is the first time we’ve had a chance to nail Sharkey. We have to make the most of it.”

  “But ... four of us!” frowned Valentine. “Between here and Nash, the whole gang’ll likely try stoppin’ us! The lady oughta have a twenty-man armed guard!”

  “I agree,” growled Shannon. “We’ve tried every way to get more men. We’ve offered them money ...”

  “Never thought I’d live to see the day,” complained Quigley. “There was a time when every able-bodied man in Nash County would’ve got himself a gun and joined in with a posse ... for free. But now ...”

  “In a way,” mused Wilkes, “you can’t blame them. Times change ... and so do men. They’re not hell-raising cowhands any more. They’re married, and got families.”

  “You couldn’t git anybody, huh?” queried Stretch.

  The detectives and the stage-line man all shook their heads.

  “How about callin’ for help from the Nash City crowd?” suggested Valentine.

  “Not a chance,” Shannon shook his head. “Every man that can hold a gun is helping to guard the jailhouse there. Like I said before, it’s going to be up to us.”

  Silence. The Texans looked at each other. They had done a lot of fighting together but, this time, it seemed they had come up against the insurmountable. The entire Sharkey band ... staked out between Millsburg and the county seat, with one grim resolve in their cold hearts ... the woman must not reach Nash City.

  “They’ll know we’re comin’,” frowned Stretch.

  Shannon nodded. Bob Quigley coughed behind his hand and, without looking at Larry and Stretch, said, “In case you’re thinking of trying to pull out of it, boys, just remember this.” He held up the contract they had signed at the jail. Larry Valentine gave him a bleak stare.

  “When the fightin’ starts,” he growled, “Stretch an’ me’ll be around … an’ where’ll you be Quigley?”

  Quigley averted his eyes and remained silent. Shannon chose to ignore the cross-play. He had no time for side issues.

  “You fellers better know this,” he grunted. “They’re aware of almost every move we’ve made, so far. Already, they’ve made a try at killing Miss Furness.”

  “Yeah?” Valentine became very tense. He was fast developing a profound respect for the slim young schoolteacher.

  “Dora Berry was murdered a short while ago,” muttered Quigley.

  “That cook?” queried Stretch. “That little woman with the red hair?”

  “They killed her?” scowled Valentine.

  “Whoever did it, figured wrong,” explained Wilkes. “They mistook her for Miss Furness.”

  Stretch looked at his friend and said, “You recall that little woman?”

  “Uh huh,” grunted Valentine. “I recall her. We got cleaned out in a poker game, right here in the hotel ... didn’t have a plugged cent left, when it was over. Then that little Berry woman met up with us, pulled us into her kitchen and fixed us some grub.”

  “Best chow I ever ate,” mused Stretch. “She sure was a soft-hearted little female.”

  “You got any idea who did it?” Valentine asked Shannon.

  “Not yet,” frowned the detective.

  Stretch thought about that, for a moment or two, then stood up.

  “I don’t hold with females gittin’ shot at,” he decided, “’specially the friendly ones.”

  Valentine also rose to his feet.

  “That goes double for me,” he growled. “When do we start on this run to Nash?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Shannon told him. “Nine o’clock stage from the depot.”

  “We’ll be there,” nodded Valentine.

  “Meanwhile ... stay out of trouble. That clear?” Shannon’s face was very grim now.

  Before the Texans could voice a protest, Wilkes enlarged on his colleague’s warning.

  “You fellers are our last hope,” he explained. “If something happened to you tonight ...”

  “We’ll be real careful,” grinned Valentine.

  “Uh, just one thing,” said Stretch. “Me an’ my pardner are a mite short o’ spendin’ money, right now.”

  “We’re apt to git hungry,” explained Valentine.

  “Or thirsty, huh?” grinned Wilkes.

  “Who?” blinked Stretch. “Us?”

  Wilkes took out his wallet, extracted a bill, and passed it to Valentine.

  “That ought to last until we reach Nash City,” he opined. Valentine folded the ten-spot, tucked it into a pocket and said he guessed maybe it would. He nodded to the three men. Stretch nodded too. Then each gave Lucille Furness a sheepish grin. The woman inclined her head, and smiled briefly. They turned and ambled to the door. Shannon came over and unlocked it. As they passed through, the detective lowered his voice and said, “You two know this town, I take it?”

  “Uh huh,” nodded Valentine. “We’ve been around these parts for quite a spell.”

&
nbsp; “All right then. Keep your eyes open for strangers. The men who killed the Berry woman could be from out of town ... imported killers. If they’re still in Millsburg, they’ll know they got the wrong target this morning. They might try again. Wilkes and I will be sticking close to Miss Furness. You two can help, by looking out for strangers.”

  “We’ll do that,” Valentine promised.

  The Texans strode off along the corridor. They heard the door close behind them, and the rattle of the key in the lock.

  “He don’t take no chances, that Shannon,” opined Stretch.

  “He’s got a right to be careful,” muttered Valentine. “That’s mighty valuable property he’s guardin’!”

  ~*~

  Shannon’s surmise had been correct. The killers, the professional murderers who had mistaken the hapless cook for Lucille Furness, were from out of town. They were Chet Haworth and Rube Grills, and their guns were for hire. They were in Millsburg at the instigation of Galloway, the attorney who had rallied to Curt Sharkey’s side, coldly determined to help the outlaw chief cheat the gallows. The lawyer was unencumbered by scruples or conscience. For the fee he stood to collect for his services he was prepared to go to any lengths to prevent the Coyote Creek schoolmarm from testifying.

  At this very moment, the killers were staked out in a cheap rooming house, directly behind the alley at the rear of the Grand Hotel. The room they had chosen commanded a view of the main window of Lucille’s suite. They were waiting, patiently, and their very patience was a thing of evil.

  From his position near the window, Haworth looked at his sidekick, and made an unemotional observation.

  “I got the wrong woman this mornin’, Rube. Shoulda took more time makin’ sure she was the one.”

  “Uh huh,” grunted Rube Grills. He was sprawled on the bed, puffing at a thin cigar. “It’ll be different next time, Chet,” he consoled. “We know where this other redhead is stashed now.”

  Haworth looked at his accomplice and gave a nod of agreement. He came away from the window, seated himself at a table, and began cleaning and oiling a long-barreled Colt. Grills blew a smoke-ring, watched it until it disintegrated, and said, “When do we finish it, Chet?”