Larry and Stretch 11 Read online

  During this, Larry’s eyes were busy. He kept his head down, letting the brim of his Stetson shield the upper half of his face from their searching eyes. He was checking the brush beyond the lip of the shallow arroyo and, catching a glimpse of an all-too-familiar face, he began to feel grateful. Grateful because, instead of coming on at a rush, Stretch was remaining in the background.

  He was within earshot, so he could hear what was being said and form his own conclusions. More importantly, he could see Larry’s face, and Larry’s warning expression, his quick wink, which spoke volumes. The high-sign had been observed and noted. Stretch would remain hidden.

  “On your feet,” barked Reavitt, “you sidewinder—you dry-gulchin’ skunk!”

  “Not until we’ve doctored his wound,” snapped Washburn. He crooked a finger. “Moss Michaels, you’re a good vet, so maybe you can tend a gunshot wound.”

  The flabby Moss Michaels hustled to oblige, crouching beside Larry and tearing his pants at the right thigh.

  “How about it?” prodded Washburn.

  “Slug’s stuck in the meat,” Michaels reported. “Nowheres near the bone. He’s lucky. I can dig it out with just a jack-knife, clean the hole with whisky and fix him a bandage. He’ll ache some, but he’ll be able to set a saddle.” Larry looked up again, as the veterinarian began his chore. The pain increased, but he wasn’t about to give these galoots the pleasure of hearing his groans, so he groaned inwardly. After that brief exchange of knowing glances, Stretch had ducked down out of sight.

  He’ll need to know the whole score, Larry was thinking. As much as I can give him, anyway.

  He spoke to Washburn, raising his voice loud enough for his words to reach his invisible sidekick.

  “Let me get this straight. You’re accusin’ me of robbery and murder. This Bennett jasper claims I’m one of a half-dozen that ambushed a payroll wagon. What payroll wagon?”

  “Supply wagon,” frowned Washburn, “on its way to the timber camps of the lumber outfit at Rico Ridge.”

  “He’s one of ’em all right,” asserted Bennett.

  “That doesn’t give you the right to open up on him,” chided Washburn, “without waiting for my challenge.”

  “I recognized him rightaway,” shrugged Bennett, “and I was rememberin’ how him and his pards gave it to poor Jed and Dave.” He glared ferociously at Larry. “He’s lucky I’m a bad shot. I was aimin’ to kill him.”

  “You’d have killed an innocent man,” said Larry. He transferred his gaze to Washburn again. “And that’s gospel. I haven’t raided any payroll wagon. I only hit this county an hour ago.”

  “He’s lyin’!” snarled Reavitt. “Make him tell where his five pards headed for!”

  “How about that, Guthrie?” demanded Washburn.

  “I don’t have five pards,” frowned Larry, “and I wasn’t mixed up in any payroll hold-up.”

  “Hey!” A posseman had investigated Larry’s saddlebag and was excitedly exhibiting a bundle of banknotes. “This hombre’s toting damn near two thousand dollars!”

  “Well, Guthrie?” challenged Washburn.

  “That’s my own dinero,” muttered Larry, “and you better handle it careful, because I’ll be wantin’ it back—every last dollar of it.”

  Two – One Worried Texan

  Some twenty minutes after the posse had quit the arroyo, Stretch emerged from the brush, rekindled the fire and trudged away to fetch the pinto. He brewed coffee and began drinking it, the while he pondered his partner’s predicament.

  His every instinct—the rash ones anyway—had urged him to attempt a rescue. Now, he realized the wisdom of Larry’s warning him to stay hidden. Such an attempt would have resulted in spectacular failure.

  In all the years that had passed since their quitting the Lone Star State and beginning their career of drifting, the taller Texan had never felt as lonely, as lost as at this moment. To lose the wily Larry was akin to losing a limb. He felt deserted and helpless at the start. But after finishing the coffee and half-smoking a cigarette, he chided himself for these feelings.

  “It ain’t enough to set here and fret—feelin’ sorry for myself. Got to help ol’ Larry.”

  He killed the fire, restored the pot, mug and coffee to his saddlebag and remounted the pinto. It was dark now, but he anticipated no difficulty in locating the trail leading south to Finnsburg. Riding at a steady pace, he forced himself to think—an exercise at which Larry excelled, but at which he was something of a tyro.

  By the time he came within sight of the lights of the county seat, his head ached from his deliberations, but he had managed to make a mental list of certain important facts.

  1. To bust Larry out of jail might not be easy, and,

  2. Would not be good enough, because Larry didn’t hanker to become a fugitive from justice, hunted by every tin badge in this far-flung territory.

  3. Larry’s innocence had to be proven.

  4. Stretch couldn’t sashay into the jailhouse and give Larry an alibi. A man had identified Larry as a thief and killer. Any stranger offering to vouch for Larry’s movements throughout this day would himself become suspect—and therefore useless to Larry. Consequently,

  5. Stretch had to stay out of jail, at all costs.

  6. Proving Larry’s innocence involved the unmasking of the real culprits and,

  7. This would be a chore somewhat beyond Stretch’s capabilities—but he would have to try.

  Seven point of policy. Seven hard facts which must motivate his future actions. He turned them over in his already overworked mind, as he entered Finnsburg’s main stem and made a leisurely tour of the town. At the southern outskirts, he wheeled the pinto and rode back again, checking all points of interest—the many saloons and gambling houses, the formidable log and sandstone jailhouse, the front of which housed the sheriff’s personal domain, the city hall, the courthouse, the three banks.

  He dismounted outside a hardware store directly opposite the law office, hitched his pinto to the rack and climbed to the boardwalk to squat in a cane-back. Gloomily, he stared across at the county jail, and wondered how his partner was faring.

  Larry was sprawled on the bunk in his cell, smoking and trading talk with Dr. Joel Pegler, the fat but youngish medico who had been summoned to check on the veterinarian’s handiwork. In the jailhouse corridor, voices were raised in anger. At the moment, Larry was ignoring the five men arguing out there. He was more interested in Pegler’s findings.

  As he applied a clean dressing and bandage, Pegler cheerfully assured him.

  “Moss Michaels treated you right. There’s no infection, and I think the wound will heal fairly quickly.”

  He finished his chore, began restoring his gear to his bag. Larry queried him then.

  “What d’you know of the two hombres that got dry-gulched today? Were they Finn County men?”

  “Yes, they were.” Pegler heaved a sigh, as he got to his feet. “Two law-abiding citizens, Guthrie. Everybody liked them, which explains why so many people are cursing you at this moment.”

  “That,” frowned Larry, “is a mortal shame. I don’t admire for folks to be cussin’ me. Not honest folk, anyway.” He raised his cigarette in a farewell gesture. “Thanks for the fresh bandage, Doc. I’d like to tell you I’m not the hombre that gunned those guards, but I’m not beggin’ you to believe me.”

  “If you’re innocent,” said Pegler, “you’ll have your chance to prove it in court.”

  “Sure.” Larry grimaced in disgust. “In front of a jury that hates my guts—because everybody admired Rushton and Kirk.”

  “What you need,” opined Pegler, “is a good lawyer.”

  “What I need,” growled Larry, “is to get my hands on the six sidewinders that raided that wagon. That’s the best kind of proof I know of, Doc. Find the real killers.”

  “Well,” shrugged the medico. “Luck to you, Guthrie. I’ll be seeing you again. That leg will need regular attention.”

  Deputy Ike
Reavitt unlocked the cell door for Pegler, drew him into the corridor, shoved the door shut again and locked it, all the time glaring balefully at the occupant. Pegler then beat a retreat and Reavitt returned to the debate—a heated argument involving himself, his brow-beating father, his hulking kid brother, his nervous brother-in-law, and a harassed Sheriff Washburn.

  The Reavitts were a thorn in Washburn’s side. Ever since Ike Reavitt’s appointment as deputy, old Otis Reavitt had been haunting the law office, along with his clumsy younger son, Winthrop, and his newly-acquired son-in-law, Andy Tilton.

  They were a damn nuisance, notwithstanding the fact that they were honest and law-abiding. Old Otis, who operated one of Finnsburg’s largest general stores, was fired with the zeal to see his progeny appointed to positions of prominence in the town’s civic set-up. For Ike to be deputy just wasn’t enough. Otis wouldn’t be satisfied until his elder son had taken Washburn’s place. He was prejudiced, and considered his boy to be twenty times smarter than the sheriff. He went to pains to discredit him as ‘a burnt-out old badge-toter that ain’t half as brave nor as smart as my Ike’. In truth, Washburn wasn’t yet fifty, was in excellent physical condition, was as brave as he needed to be and, if Ike Reavitt lived to be a hundred and fifty, he could never hope to be one-quarter as shrewd as his superior.

  Otis was sixty, scrawny, bull-voiced and arrogant. His younger son, Winthrop, was twenty, spoke with a monotonous whine and, in intelligence, was the least endowed of the Reavitts. His son-in-law, Andy Tilton, was a lean, hungry-looking cattleman, aged thirty and running a small spread a few miles east of town. In marrying the buxom and none-too-appealing Amy Reavitt, he had delivered himself into the demanding clutches of the Reavitt men. Any time old Otis saw a chance to discredit Washburn and boost Ike’s kudos, he made a project of it, summoning not only the clumsy Winthrop, but also the hapless Andy, who would much rather have stayed home with Amy. They had been married only a short time. He craved a son and heir, and was determined to acquire same by all the old-fashioned methods. Amy was co-operative, but damnitall, he scarce ever got to see her—let alone ...

  Something always cropped up. Time and time again, he was summoned by his bumptious father-in-law.

  This evening, it had been.

  “Ike’s brung in a prisoner, and we all gotta get down to the jailhouse, ‘case Washburn tries to take credit for the arrest. Get a hustle on, Andy.”

  For the sixth time, but louder, Washburn bellowed for quiet.

  “All right, now. As members of this community, you’re entitled to offer your services as special guards and deputies, while we’re holding this prisoner. I’m accepting your offer. Yeah, I’ll swear you in legal. But not because I want you. Only because it’d take me a couple of hours of cussing and arguing to get you out of here.”

  “You ain’t got what it takes,” smiled the old man, “to stand up against us Reavitts.”

  “I haven’t got what it takes,” Washburn solemnly assured him, “to listen to all your bull-roaring arguments—without losing my ever-loving mind. In the long run, it’s easier to give you what you want. So you can stay, Otis. Uh-huh. You and Winthrop and Andy can take turns at guarding this Guthrie hombre. That satisfy you?”

  “You couldn’t manage without us,” jeered Otis.

  “About that, I could give you some argument—but what’s the use?” Washburn sighed.

  Winthrop took a firmer grip on his shotgun; blinked owlishly at the prisoner and announced.

  “I’ll blow his head off, if’n he twitches a whisker.”

  “Keep a tight rein on that boy, Otis,” warned Washburn. “If he shoots a man that’s secure in a locked cell, I swear I’ll see him hang for it.”

  “Winthrop,” said Otis.

  “Uh, Pa?” asked Winthrop.

  “Shuddup,” growled Otis.

  “I want to go home,” interjected Andy Tilton. “Amy’s fixin’ spare ribs tonight.”

  “You’re stayin’ right here!” barked Otis. “You gotta take your turn at settin’ guard.”

  A few minutes later, Otis and his elder son strutted out onto the law office porch for a council of war. Stretch, inquisitive as to how Larry was faring, crossed the street and unobtrusively sneaked into the alley beside the jailhouse. From this gloom-enshrouded vantage point, he eavesdropped on the Reavitts’ conversation.

  They talked for some ten minutes. He was relieved to hear that his partner’s wound had been properly treated. Ike Reavitt expressed the hope that other members of the gang might venture into town and attempt to break their cohort out of jail.

  “All us Reavitts’ll be ready for ’em,” assured his father. “Gotta be on your guard every minute from now on, son. ‘Specially with strangers. If a stranger shows and asks can he visit with that Guthrie, for instance, you’ll just know he’s one of the gang.”

  “Damn right,” agreed Ike. “And we’ll arrest him—quicker’n he can wink.”

  That’d be handy for me, Stretch was sourly reflecting. That’d be real handy—I don’t think. I’d dearly admire to bust in there and raise a little hell, but that wouldn’t help Larry any.

  What to do next? He pondered the problem a while and made his decision. By listening to the deputy and his father, he had learned the location of the raid, a lonely section of the west trail some seven miles from town. He was sure he could find the place, but not in darkness. He would have to sneak out of town now, find a place to night-camp and wait for the dawn. He would then proceed to the scene of the crime and do what Larry would have done, were the boot on the other foot. Sure, that would be so typical of his partner. Go to where it happened. Search for clues. Check for sign of the real killers.

  After Reavitt and his lawman son had retreated into the office, Stretch crossed Main Street again, untethered the pinto and swung astride. One hour later, he was fixing a late supper from provisions purchased on his way out of town, huddling over a cook-fire in a small clearing, in the midst of a pine forest.

  ~*~

  At seven-thirty that evening, in their suite at the Baggot Hotel, the brothers Ingham toasted each other in expensive bourbon and traded complacent smiles.

  “Here’s to us,” suggested Dexter Ingham. And he winked, as he added, “and let’s stay clear of the poker tables from here on.”

  “Poker,” shrugged his brother, “can be damned unprofitable.”

  “Worse than that,” Dexter reminded him. “We were cleaned out. Hardly a dollar at the bank to meet the next heavy withdrawals. That’s what happens when you gamble with bank funds—but I reckon we’ve learned our lesson.”

  “We’ve recouped those losses,” drawled Webb. “With the proceeds of today’s operation, we’ll have enough to stay in business until Waldermann gets here.”

  “Sure,” grinned Dexter. “And, in the meantime, all the Finn County cattlemen are selling stock. Inside two weeks, they’ll be banking the sale money ...”

  “A handsome portion of which,” smiled Webb, “will be deposited with the Security and Trust.” He carried his glass to the window overlooking Main Street. “Our friend Bennett,” he mused, “is a shade more cunning than I first realized. I could almost feel sorry for that fool in the jailhouse—the drifter accused by Bennett.”

  “You sure that was a smart move on Bennett’s part?” frowned Dexter.

  “As I hear it,” said Webb, “the man was alone. His word against Bennett’s—and the whole county up in arms. Yes, Dex, it was a smart move. The prisoner has no alibi. Washburn is satisfied for the time being, probably taking it for granted that the other …” He flashed his brother a sardonic grin, “the other five desperadoes have fled across the Idaho border.”

  “Funny,” chuckled Dexter. “Damn funny.”

  “Our busy sheriff,” Webb guessed, “will send urgent telegraph messages to his Idaho colleagues and the investigation will continue, but all to no avail. As for us, brother, we’re completely in the clear. Above suspicion.”

  He stopped smi
ling abruptly. A scowl of annoyance creased his handsome features, as he turned and strode to the other window. This was a corner suite. As well as the window overlooking Main, there was a side window with a small balcony from which fire-stairs led down into an alley. The sound of hammering happened to be one of his pet aversions, and such a sound was now invading the expensively-furnished quarters of the Inghams.

  Webb Ingham opened the window, moved out onto the balcony and stared downward. Immediately below, the alley was looking somewhat overcrowded. A stranger, flashily garbed in checked suit and brown derby, was affixing a large placard to the board wall of the adjoining building. Several of the locals were reading aloud.

  “Colonel Rufus Starbuck’s Famous Frontier Show. The star attraction—Rowdy Rufe Starbuck—in person. The hero of a hundred famous battles with the redman. The great Indian scout, buffalo-hunter and trail-blazer.”

  “And, my friends,” beamed the stranger, “may I draw your attention to the other world-renowned artists in our company?” He had finished pounding. Now, with the handle of his hammer, he indicated the names of the supporting artists. “The original, the one and only Wild Buck Kelsey, trick-shot and sharpshooter extraordinary, with his beautiful assistant, the lovely, the intrepid Madam Zorra. Also Hercules the Crusher, the strongest man alive. Also seventy—you can count ’em, friends—seventy full-blooded, war-painted Indians—who will recreate for your entertainment the famous massacre of Squaw Rock Canyon—and—”

  “Stop that infernal noise,” called Webb Ingham. “We can’t hear ourselves speak up here! Clear the alley this instant—or I’ll lodge a complaint with the sheriff.”

  The stranger shrugged, showed his audience a what-the-hell grin and, with his bundle of posters wedged under an arm, quit the alley and advanced into the main stem. The locals tagged him downtown to the Kilroy Livery Stable, where old Horrie Kilroy readily consented to his adorning the front wall of his barn with another garishly-colored poster. As he hammered, he continued to chant his spiel.