Larry and Stretch 9 Read online

  “Land-rush?” blinked Roote.

  Patiently, Gifford explained.

  “Carew Canyon, Nat. You remember Carew Canyon, don’t you? Six miles north of town and part of Beck County. It was a Kiowa reservation until the army moved the nations out. That was only a few weeks back.”

  “Sure, I recall. And now what?”

  “Well, hasn’t everybody been asking the same damn question? What’s to become of the canyon? Ownership reverts to the government now, and what will the government do with it? Well, I just now got the word from Gus. Washington wired him this morning, which makes it official. The Land Commission won’t sell the canyon outright. Instead, they’re throwing it open for settlement—and not to the highest bidder. No siree. To whoever gets there first, on the great day! The Commission’ll divide it up. Ten sections, savvy? So, out of all the sports that line up for the race, only ten will be lucky, the ten who reach the canyon first and sink their markers.”

  “Who’s organizin’ this race?”

  “Gus Nyles, of course, in his capacity as local agent for the Land Commission. And you can bet the law will have to lend a hand.”

  The printer came over to perch on the desk and fill his pipe.

  “Lemme get this straight,” he prodded. “You talk like you savvy how a land-rush works. I don’t. What’s the score, Lucius? How do they organize it?”

  “It’s not too complicated, according to Gus,” said Gifford. “Anybody is eligible, so long as he has some kind of transportation and can pay the ten dollar entrance fee. They can use any kind of vehicle or they can ride horseback. Sheriff lines ’em up and starts ’em running. Then they head for the south gate of the canyon just as fast as they can move. It’s as simple as that.” He grinned blandly, tucked his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. “Quite a sight to see, Nat. I know, because I was a reporter on the “Omaha Leader,” back when they opened up the old Telliger Strip. It’s a race—the kind of race you’ve never seen before. Horses, wagons, surreys, all kind of rigs. Even mules and pushcarts. Give a man a chance to claim a few acres of prime land and he’ll stop at nothing.”

  “I guess that canyon land is prime, at that,” mused Roote.

  “Richest soil hereabouts,” nodded Gifford. “More water than any farmer could ask for, what with the creek running all over the canyon-floor, clear from the south gate to the north.”

  “This’ll sure make a fat story for our front page,” opined Roote.

  “Got another item,” Gifford announced, on an afterthought. “Not mighty important, but we’ll maybe use it down bottom of the last column. I got the word from Brigg Connors in Chestnut Creek.”

  “Well, heck,” protested the printer. “Nothin’ important ever happens in Chestnut Creek.”

  “You ever hear tell of Valentine and Emerson?” asked Gifford.

  “Nope.” Roote shook his head.

  “I keep thinking I should remember those names,” frowned Gifford.

  “Owlhooters?” asked Roote.

  “No,” said Gifford. “Just a couple rolling stones. Drifters, you know? Always in and out of trouble.”

  “Drifters,” shrugged Roote, “are ten cents a dozen.”

  “Well,” drawled Gifford, “these two drifters started a brawl in a Chestnut Creek emporium and got thrown into jail. A hundred dollar fine or ninety days. If there’s room, we’ll run a few paragraphs on it.”

  Two days later the fourth and final incident occurred. The scene was the sumptuously furnished, oak-paneled office of Vernon Whinnaker, boss of the St. Louis and Western Railroad Corporation in uptown St. Louis. Present were members of the board of directors, a corporation surveyor named Rogers, a clerk named Croshaw and, of course, Whinnaker himself—pudgy, expensively tailored, exuding confidence and goodwill, and puffing fine-smelling smoke from an imported Havana.

  Standing by a wall-map, he delivered the announcement that started his directors mentally estimating new profits.

  “This is the news you’ve been waiting for, gentlemen. St. Louis and Western is about to expand.” He indicated the vital areas on the map. “As things stand now, we’re working all the territory west across Missouri and Northern Kansas, clear through to West Colorado. Also the southwest route, again starting from St. Louis and extending across Southern Kansas. But, gentlemen ... “He raised a finger dramatically, “What of the territory between those two routes—the rich pasture and cattle-graze of Central Kansas? The time has come for us to capitalize on the obvious. By that I mean a line joining both the north-western and south-western routes!”

  “Good figuring, Vern,” approved the portly Harvey Reeve, who was senior member of the board—and therefore entitled to interject. “Between those areas we could carry tons of freight and passengers—and profitably!”

  “I knew you’d see it my way, gentlemen,” smiled Whinnaker. “And now ...” He gestured for Rogers to rise, “I’ll ask our surveyor, Burt Rogers, to explain this new setup in greater detail.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Whinnaker.” The surveyor positioned himself beside the wall-map, cleared his throat and, with a self-conscious smile, began his address. “It is proposed that the most favorable route will be a straight line beginning at our North Platte siding and stretching due south ...” He drew a finger down to illustrate the new route. “Due south through Beck County in West Central Kansas and on—all the way to Cliff City. Excellent conditions for track laying in Beck County, I might add. The Kiowa nations have been transferred from a canyon. Carew Canyon, indicated here by this spot. The floor of the canyon is almost completely even. There’s a natural entrance at north and south, so ...”

  “Beg pardon, Mr. Rogers,” said the clerk. “Did you say Carew Canyon?”

  All eyes turned to Denzil Croshaw. Though he was but a menial in this illustrious assembly, he had personality. In his early forties, he was well groomed and urbane, dark-haired and keen-eyed. Whinnaker glowered at him and muttered a reproach.

  “Croshaw, I’ll thank you not to interrupt.”

  “My apologies, sir,” frowned Croshaw, “but I have no choice. I guess you haven’t heard the news. We can’t run a spur-line through that canyon.”

  Two – The Big News

  “Can’t” was a word Vernon Whinnaker resented and distrusted. He fixed a ferocious glare on his clerk, as he asserted:

  “You’d better know what you’re talking about, Croshaw.”

  “May I refer you,” begged Croshaw, “to the latest edition of the “St. Louis Times”?” He produced a folded copy of the newspaper from an inside pocket, placed it on the table. “That canyon land simply isn’t available to us.”

  “Let me see that.” Harvey Reeve snatched at the paper and began scanning the front-page story. “Uh huh. Hmmm. Well, well, well ...!”

  “Damnitall, Harv,” growled Whinnaker, “are you going to sit there grunting all day? What does it say?”

  Reeve raised his eyes, stared hard at the surveyor and asked: “Don’t we have first claim on Carew Canyon?”

  “Well—uh ...” Rogers gestured helplessly, “I was under the impression we already owned it.”

  “That,” suggested Whinnaker, “is a two-bit technicality. Croshaw, draft a letter to the Land Commission. We’ll make them an offer, and …”

  “Hold on, Vern, hold on,” muttered Reeve. “Too late for an outright purchase from the Commission. They’ve already decided to throw the canyon open for Settlement. First come, first served. You realize what that means, Vern? A land-rush.”

  “Are you telling me ...” Whinnaker turned beetroot-red, “that a bunch of lame-brained sodbusters are going to own the land we need for a right-of-way?”

  “I don’t see how we can expect the Commission to alter such a decision,” offered Croshaw.

  “You stay out of this!” barked Whinnaker.

  “I only wished to help,” frowned Croshaw.

  “All right,” sighed Whinnaker. “All right!” He stared at the map, and at the surveyor. “Speak up,
man! What’s our alternative route?”

  “In that area,” fretted Rogers, “it won’t be easy to plan a more favorable route than the one I’ve indicated—due south from the Platte, clear to Cliff City.”

  Whinnaker gave vent to his spleen and, for quite some time, his Directors and staff were obliged to sit and listen. Harvey Reeve, who had endured many a Whinnaker harangue, was more interested in the “St. Louis Times’” article dealing with the proposed land-rush in Beck County. By the time Whinnaker had finished his tirade, Reeve had read every line of the report.

  “Vern,” he frowned, “and fellow-members of the board—all is not lost.”

  And now all eyes turned to Harvey Reeve, a veteran railroad man with a talent for diplomacy and high finance. He offered his suggestion unhurriedly, emphasizing every point.

  “The Corporation is willing to buy the canyon—right? Willing to go as high as ten thousand? Naturally. Ten thousand is a drop in the ocean, compared to the overall revenue of the entire operation. So, my friends, all we have to do is wait.”

  “Wait?” challenged Whinnaker. “You mean—until after the land-rush?”

  “Why not?” smiled Reeve. “We can’t move in now and start bargaining with the Commission—not now that they’ve made their decision. So we wait, Vern. A couple of weeks from now, Carew Canyon will be owned by ten sodbusters. You see, the land is being cut up into ten sections; the idea being to convert the land to farmland and make a separate community of it.”

  “I don’t care a damn about ...” began Whinnaker.

  “Hear me out, Vern,” Reeve continued briskly. “They’ll hardly have time to move in and lay their foundations before our representatives descend upon them—with a cash offer. We’ll make each new owner the same proposition. One thousand dollars for the section he owns. Now, I ask you, Vern. What sodbuster is going to refuse such an offer? They want land, sure. Every farmer wants land. But a thousand dollars? In that kind of territory, there isn’t one sodbuster who’d say ‘no.’ To them a thousand dollars is a fortune.”

  “I like your idea, Harv,” frowned Whinnaker. “But sodbusters are a canny breed. What if they hold out for a higher price?”

  “We could start at eight hundred,” grinned Reeve, “and let them bully us into paying a thousand. Even if the land costs us double the ten thousand, Vern, it would still be worth our time and trouble.”

  “Carew Canyon,” interjected the surveyor, “is the ideal site for right-of-way. The rest of Beck County is settled, but not the sections on which we’d be laying track.” He nodded to Whinnaker. “If we can acquire Carew Canyon, I promise you the southern spur will be ready to operate in record time.”

  “Well, Vern?” prodded Reeve. “Are you ready for us to vote on it?”

  Whinnaker relaxed, helped himself to another cigar. A smug grin creased his countenance.

  “Who needs to vote?” he countered. “We’re unanimous, I’d say. And we’re obliged to you, Harv, for coming up with a mighty smart idea.”

  “Nothing to it,” drawled Reeve. “Let ’em have their fun. After the land-rush we’ll be ready to make our bid—and the rest will be easy.”

  And so the rulers of a mighty organization cast their votes and agreed to bide their time, never suspecting that their decision would set the stage for a drama of violence and intrigue.

  Within an hour of the adjournment of the board meeting Denzil Croshaw interviewed his immediate superior, Waldo Stark, under-secretary to Vernon Whinnaker and major-domo of all the St. Louis clerical staff. Stark, thin, elderly and preoccupied, lent a polite ear to Croshaw’s request.

  “A vacation, Croshaw? Well, our records show you haven’t taken leave of absence in a long time, so I guess we can’t refuse you.”

  “Just three or four days,” Croshaw explained. “A week at most. What you might call a family crisis, Mr. Stark. A sick uncle in Springfield.”

  “Of course,” nodded Stark. “Of course.”

  “With your permission,” said Croshaw, “I’d like to leave right away.”

  “Naturally, yes,” grunted Stark. “Very well, Croshaw.”

  By sundown of that day, the clerk was on his way—not north to Springfield, Illinois; but west to Kansas City. In that bustling metropolis, he would board a Colorado-bound stage, and one of the last Kansas stops on that route would be Becksburg, seat of Beck County.

  Reaction of county folk to news of the proposed land-rush was based on what they read in the “Herald”—reactions that varied in many ways, depending on the temperament of parties concerned. To big, raw-boned Clem Alden, the Bar A boss, it made little difference. He wouldn’t be trying for a piece of that canyon land, because he already held all the acres he could use.

  Two days after publication of the “Herald’s” special edition, Alden was taking the sun on a second story balcony of the Bar A ranch house. With him were his daughter and his nephew. Hattie Calden was a full six years younger than Cousin Del, a fair-haired, good-looking spinster of even disposition and formidable intellect.

  “Quite a race that’ll be,” Weaver predicted.

  “A shambles,” snorted Alden. “Wagons, buggies, pushcarts. Sodbusters forking hired horses and risking their fool necks.”

  “A six-mile run,” mused Weaver, “all the way from Becksburg’s west side to the south gate of the canyon. Good country for a horse race, Uncle Clem. Except for the mesquite and the timber, it’s wide open all the way.”

  “You aren’t thinking of ...?” began Hattie.

  “Why, sure, cousin.” He nodded and grinned, “I’d admire to enter Snow-Boy in that race.”

  “It’s not a race,” she argued, “not just another chance for you to show off Snow-Boy’s speed. It’s a land-rush, Del. The candidates aren’t interested in a cash prize. Land is what they want. A place to call their own.”

  “I know what you mean, cousin,” drawled Weaver. “I don’t need the land because I got a place of my own right here on Bar A. Well, heck, I wouldn’t be racing for the land.”

  “You know how he feels about that calico gelding,” Alden reminded his daughter. “When those sodbusters line up for the run to the canyon, you can bet Del will be there—straddling Snow-Boy and rarin’ to go.”

  “Reckon I’ll ride into town today,” Weaver decided, “and pay my ten dollars.”

  “There isn’t an animal as fast as Snow-Boy in the whole county,” said Hattie. “You’ve proved that many times, Del. Isn’t that enough?”

  “This is just another chance, far as I’m concerned,” shrugged Weaver, “and I don’t aim to pass it up.”

  “Dad ...” She held up the paper, “did you read it all?”

  “I guess you mean did I read about those two no-accounts in Chestnut Creek,” frowned the rancher. “Sure. I noticed.”

  “I think it’s exciting,” she smiled.

  “That,” growled Alden, “is a matter of opinion.”

  “But Larry and Stretch!” she enthused.

  “Show me a trouble-shooter,” scowled Alden, “and I’ll show you a hire-out gunslinger. One’s as bad as the other.”

  “You have to admit their intentions are good,” she argued, “and it isn’t fair to call them gunslingers. They settled a revolution in Mexico. They forestalled a new Indian war in Utah last year, and they were directly responsible for the breaking up of El Lobo’s bandit empire.”

  “Any good work done by trouble-shooters,” Alden insisted, “is just a lucky accident. Where are your doggone heroes now? Stuck in jail in Chestnut Creek. And why? Because they started some crazy brawl. That’s the real Valentine and Emerson, Hattie. I wouldn’t give you ten cents for their kind.”

  “I once heard it said,” Weaver recalled, “this Valentine hombre is a smart detective. They say the Pinkertons wanted to hire him, but he wasn’t buying. Wonder if there’s any truth to that?”

  “Just another exaggeration,” opined Alden.

  At this same time, Luke Sorley and his eldest sons were v
isiting town for the purpose of seeking credit from the local storekeepers—a futile project, since Luke’s penury was common knowledge and his shiftlessness part of local tradition. After the fourth curt “Nothing doin’,” Luke and his boys were taking their ease outside a livery stable. The sons squatted and whittled. Their sire propped his scrawny shoulders against the barn wall and perused a copy of the “Herald’s” special edition.

  “Gonna be a land-rush purty soon,” he informed his progeny. “They aim to open up Carew Canyon for farmin’. Ten sections. Any feller wants to claim on one of them sections, all he has to do is hightail it to the canyon and sink a markin’ stake.”

  “Kinda like a race, huh, Pa?” prodded Eli.

  “Kinda like a race,” nodded Luke. He stared wistfully to the north. “I’d sure like to borrer the ten dollars and get inta that race. Durned if I wouldn’t. Trouble is, ain’t none of us Sorleys’d stand a chance. Only jaspers that’ll win one of them sections is the first ten to hit the canyon. We’d be lucky if we was in the first fifty.”

  “How come, Pa?” enquired Eli.

  “Question of speed, son,” Luke explained. “You know what it takes to win a race? A fast horse is what. Or a whole team of fast horses hitched to a well-sprung rig of some kind. That’s why us Sorleys’d be whupped before we started. We don’t own a wagon that’d last the distance, nor a animule that wouldn’t drop stone daid after the first half-mile.”

  “That’s a fact,” Eli gloomily agreed.

  Luke transferred his attention to the brief report at the bottom of the front page. His face wrinkles multiplied, as he grinned an admiring grin.

  “What else you found, Pa?” prodded Eli.

  “It says here,” chuckled Luke, “as how Larry and Stretch ain’t fur from Beck County right now. Got ’emselves in a hassle down south o’ here. Servin’ time in the Chestnut Creek pokey they are.”

  “Was you ever acquainted personal with them fellers, Pa?” asked Oley. “I recall you used to tell us stories ’bout ’em, when we was just young shavers.”