Larry and Stretch 12 Page 3

  “I’m your man!” The scrawny Dooley Piper thrust himself to the fore, oblivious to Klemper’s disapproving glare. “Be glad to fix you up with a hoss and saddle—if the price is right.”

  Nonchalantly, the stranger flicked a couple of bills to the ground. Old Dooley bent to pick them up.

  “Will that be enough?”

  “Plenty,” grinned Dooley Piper.

  “I’d be obliged,” said the stranger, “if you’d fetch that horse rightaway.” As Dooley hurried away, he nodded reassuringly to Clough. “You can put your gun away, Deputy. Harnsey won’t budge an inch.”

  “Don’t be too damn sure,” jeered Harnsey.

  With some hesitation, Clough hammered down and sheathed his Colt. The stranger said,

  “Just freeze there, boy. I could draw with either hand and put three slugs in your no-good carcass before you could move twelve inches. So make like you’re a statue.”

  In a little while Dooley came hustling back, leading a saddled bay. The stranger then used his manacles to secure Harnsey’s wrists and ordered him to mount up. They descended the steps. Harnsey swung astride the bay, while the stranger remounted the black.

  Once clear of the outskirts of Winfield, Harnsey and his companion traded complacent grins. The boss outlaw held out his hands and drawled an order,

  “Unlock these damn-blasted irons—and tell me how you got to be a Texas Ranger—all of a sudden.”

  “It was easy,” chuckled Harp Newcombe, as he reached over to unlock the manacles. “So damn easy that we laughed out loud.” His mirth subsided abruptly, as he gestured to the west. “That’s where we’re headed. The hills. We made camp back there.”

  “Which way?” demanded Harnsey.

  “Straight through the brush,” said Newcombe. “If they ever do get wise—which I doubt—there’s less chance they could trail us through that mesquite.”

  Nothing more was said until they were moving through the thick brush, on their way to the Aguila Hills. Then,

  “I knew a Ranger was comin’ for me,” muttered Harnsey. “That newspaper jasper writ up a storm about it. Seems he ain’t partial to Texans. Okay now, Harp. I already guessed you jumped the Ranger and stole his papers and stuff, but how’d you get onto him?”

  “It happened this way,” Newcombe explained. “Quint sent Mitch Haines into town to spy the set-up, find out if you were dead or alive. Well, the way it turned out, Mitch was only in town a couple of minutes. He didn’t need to ask no questions or listen to no talk. All he had to do was fetch one of those newspapers back to us—tellin’ how a Ranger was on his way to Winfield with warrants and such. So me and Quint got to figurin’ maybe we could bust you out of jail the easy way.”

  “It wasn’t hard?” prodded Harnsey. “I mean findin’ that Ranger?”

  “Nothin’ to it,” grinned Newcombe. “We staked out every trail south of Winfield and, pretty soon, three of us spotted this Ranger. Me, Quint and Omaha Jake. Quint got a bead on him, knocked him clear out of his saddle. He went down hard, believe you me.”

  “He’s dead?” challenged Harnsey. “By Judas, he better be dead.”

  “Drowned by now,” Newcombe cheerfully assured him. “It was by a creek we spotted him. After we stripped him, we just hurled him in. Maybe they’ll find his carcass a few miles downstream. Who cares?” He grinned a smug grin, patted the pearl butts of the matched .45s. “How d’you like my new outfit? Nothin’ but the best. I swear this charcoal is a thoroughbred.”

  “Harp,” grunted Harnsey, “you can keep the horse and the fancy hardware—but not the rig. Them new duds could be a dead give-away. No sense in takin’ chances. You’ll burn or bury ’em.”

  “Quint tallied the loot from that Winfield bank,” offered Newcombe.

  “And you spent some of it,” mused Harnsey, “payin’ for this horse I’m ridin’. That sure is a laugh.”

  “A fine, fat bundle, Craig,” declared Newcombe. “Close to twenty-five thousand.”

  “Yeah,” nodded Harnsey. “I know.”

  Newcombe threw him a puzzled sidelong glance.

  “How could you know? Quint didn’t get around to tallyin’ it till long after we camped in the hills.”

  “I know we took twenty-five thousand from the bank safe,” muttered Harnsey. “And that ain’t all I know. Ask me no questions, Harp. I’ll explain what I aim to do when we join up with the rest of the outfit.”

  One hour later, they had advanced far into the hills. The rock-cleft where the other six bandits waited was close enough for their approach to be observed by the alert-eyed guards. They answered the challenge by calling their names. The guards rose into view, waving to Harnsey and calling greetings.

  There was, at the start, a great deal of talk about the ambushing of the Texas Ranger and the ease with which Harp Newcombe had impersonated him. Somebody passed Harnsey a laden platter and a half-full bottle of rye. He squatted beside Spring, began satisfying his appetite and his thirst. And then, bluntly, he dropped his bombshell.

  “We ain’t through with the Winfield Settlers’ National. There’s still a sizeable passel of cash to be had, and we’re gonna have it.”

  “Are you sayin’,” demanded Spring, “we didn’t grab all the loot in that doggone bank?”

  “We got it all,” Harnsey assured him, “but there’s gonna be more.”

  “I don’t follow you,” frowned Spring.

  “All you got to do is listen,” grinned Harnsey, “the way I listened, while I was stuck in that lousy jail.” He chewed on a mouthful, took a swig from the bottle. “Quint, there’s some hombres only got regular hearin’, and there’s some that hear so keen—hell—you’d never believe it.” He patted his chest. “That’s how I am. My ears are extra sharp. Those Winfield tin stars were gabbin’ in the office a little while back, and I heard every damn word they said. Cell-block door was shut, and I was in the second cell—and still I heard, just as clear as if they were in that cell with me.”

  “All right, Craig,” nodded Spring. “And what did you hear?”

  “Somethin’ mighty interestin’,” drawled Harnsey. He discarded the empty bottle, nudged his platter aside. “Now, like you hombres know, I always had quite an interest in banks, and how they operate.” He paused for their laughter to subside, then continued: “What d’you suppose happens when a bank gets cleaned out, the way we cleaned out that Settlers’ National in Winfield? You think we put ’em out of business? No siree, boys. Every dollar we grabbed has to be made up. The bank stays closed until their headquarters ships ’em enough cash to start operatin’ again—you savvy? If it’s just a two-bit bank in some hick town, they’re finished. If it’s only one of a whole string of banks—like the Settlers’ National—they telegraph their headquarters to send more dinero, enough to cover the loss.”

  “Sure,” grunted Spring. “That makes sense, but you still haven’t said what you heard…”

  “I’m gettin’ to it,” said Harnsey. “Mole and his dumb deputy were talkin’ about how the bank’s Denver office is gonna ship the cash south to Winfield. How much cash? As much as we took from that safe. Twenty-five thousand.”

  “Holy smokes!” breathed Newcombe. “You mean we’re gonna jump a coach and—double the take?”

  “It’s the last thing they’d expect us to do,” chuckled Harnsey, “and that’s why it’s gonna be so all-fired easy.”

  Spring emitted a long, low whistle.

  “But it ain’t comin’ south by coach,” Harnsey continued.

  “How then?” demanded Spring.

  “By the railroad,” said Harnsey. “Mole got the word, and he was talkin’ it over with the deputy. That’s how come I know about it. I know exactly when that train’ll quit Denver, and I’m tellin’ you we got plenty time to find ourselves a stake-out somewheres north of here …”

  “Somewheres by the railroad tracks,” grinned Newcombe.

  “The rest’ll be easy,” Harnsey asserted. “They think they’re playin’ it sm
art—shippin’ the dinero by a freight train instead of a passenger train. Well, that’ll suit me fine. No belly-achin’ passengers gettin’ in our way.”

  “Sounds fine to me,” muttered Spring. “When do we go?”

  “Time,” shrugged Harnsey, “is what we got plenty of. I hanker to catch up on my sleep. We’ll move out tomorrow mornin’ before sun-up. That’ll be soon enough.”

  Meanwhile, the nomads from Texas were approaching the source of the smoke they’d spotted a short time before, a farm-house nestling in the center of a cultivated basin. Surely, in this tranquil setting, they could expect a warm welcome. So they thought, until the rifle began barking at them from the farmhouse porch, and the hot bullets whined about their heads.

  Three – Lament of the Lone Star Ranger

  The drifters reacted with the alacrity born of long experience with drygulchers and sundry other species of snipers. They went to ground, and fast. Stretch slid from the pinto and threw himself flat on his face, cursing with great enthusiasm. Larry grasped at the unidentified and sodden occupant of the blanket and hauled him from the sorrel.

  “Hold your fire!” yelled Larry.

  But the man on the farmhouse porch triggered again. The slug slammed into the dirt a few inches in front of Larry’s head, kicking grit into his face.

  “Git offa my land!” ordered the sodbuster. “I know what you’re after—all you skirt-chasin’ cowpokes! A man’s got a right to pertect his own daughter, and that’s just what I aim to do! Already warned you, didn’t I …?”

  “Just a goldurn minute …” called Stretch.

  “Warned every cowpoke in Winfield County, I have!” yelled the sodbuster. “Stay away from my gal!”

  “What’s your damn-blasted name?” called Larry.

  “You know me,” jeered the sodbuster. “Ain’t a cowpoke in this here territory that ain’t heard the bark of Rudd McTaggart’s gun!”

  Abruptly, Larry scrambled to his feet and unstrapped his gunbelt.

  “Listen, McTaggart, you trigger-happy fool!” he yelled. “If you cut me down with that cotton-pickin’ rifle, it’ll be murder—because I’ve just now dropped my gun! Now you hear me good, mister! We’re strangers hereabouts! Got a sick man with us, and he needs doctorin’! I don’t know why you’re afeared of cowpokes, and I don’t care a damn.”

  Stretch followed his partner’s example, rising up and letting his gunbelt drop.

  “We fished this jasper out of the creek,” he loudly informed the farmer, “and that’s the stone-cold truth. We ain’t here to chase your doggone daughter!”

  A woman appeared on the porch. At this distance, the Texans couldn’t distinguish her face, but her frame would have been visible for miles. She was massive, as fat a female as they had ever seen. For a few moments, she spoke with the man behind the rifle. They heaved sighs of relief as he set the weapon to one side and descended from the porch. He was now revealed as elderly, sharp-featured, skinny and shabby, standing no more than five feet five inches.

  “All right,” he growled. “My Hannah claims it wouldn’t be Christian to turn you galoots away, seein’ as how you got a sick friend with you.”

  “He’s no friend of ours,” Larry pointed out. “We never saw him before we hauled him out of the creek, but I’d admire to find out what happened to him.”

  “Leave your animiles right where they are,” ordered McTaggart. “Your weapons too.”

  “Better do as he says,” Larry muttered to Stretch.

  “What I’d truly relish,” breathed Stretch, “is to give that crazy old varmint a mouthful of my doggone knuckles.”

  “Put a rein on your temper, amigo,” advised Larry, as he lifted the unconscious man and draped him over his shoulders.

  They trudged to the homestead. The big woman had disappeared inside. McTaggart stood in die doorway, crooking a none too clean finger.

  “In here,” he growled.

  Other members of the McTaggart family materialized, chattering, whooping, yipping. Stretch abandoned any thought of tallying the progeny of the productive Rudd and Hannah. They seemed to erupt out of the woodwork of the old house, like termites. Hannah shepherded them out, while the Texans toted their human burden into a dingy parlor and deposited it on an old leather-covered couch.

  The eldest McTaggart child then showed herself, and the Texans decided that, now, they’d seen everything. Ellie Jo was almost as large as her massive momma, a bovine, slack-jawed girl of some nineteen summers whose uncomprehending smile revealed a gap in her front teeth. The straw-colored hair probably hadn’t been brushed since last Thanksgiving. Always chivalrous where the opposite sex was concerned, the Texans nevertheless concluded that to call Ellie Jo ugly would have been an understatement. They gaped. McTaggart gestured melodramatically and gasped a reprimand.

  “Don’t keep lookin’ at her! She’s the most gosh-awful beautiful gal inside a hunnerd miles of the county, and every woman-hungry rooster knows it. Always snoopin’ around this basin—all them young bucks that works for them county cattlemen. They can’t stay away from her!”

  “Well …” Larry managed to pull himself together, “you don’t need to fret on our account.”

  “She’s got the kinda looks,” breathed the sodbuster, “that drives men crazy! Crazy with the desires of the flesh!” He clasped a hand to his brow. “It ain’t fair. Why’d I have to be cursed with a daughter so beautiful? Scarce a week passes that I don’t have to git out there and faze ’em away—all them Whiskey-swiggin’, skirt-chasin’ cowpokes—hungerin’ after Ellie Jo!” He whirled and pointed at her. “Go hide yourself, child. The longer they look at you, the worse they’ll hunger for you.”

  “We ain’t hungry,” mumbled Stretch. “Leastaways not for …”

  “Shuddup,” growled Larry.

  Ellie Jo McTaggart trudged out of the parlor and, rightaway, the room seemed larger. The sodbuster turned and squinted at the man on the couch.

  “What happened to this feller?” demanded McTaggart.

  “That,” said Larry, “is what I aim to find out.”

  He dropped to one knee beside the couch, checked for pulse and heartbeat. Quite suddenly, the sodden one stirred and opened his eyes. McTaggart grimaced impatiently and made his exit, declaring,

  “I gotta git back outside. No tellin’ how many of these local roosters is snoopin’ around—hopin’ for one sneaky peek at Ellie Jo.”

  All of Larry’s attention was focused on the man now returning to consciousness; he wasn’t about to mourn McTaggart’s departure. Blinking, the young man drew his elbows back and half-raised himself.

  “What …” he began, “how …?”

  “That’s what I was about to ask you, boy,” drawled Larry. “What happened to you?”

  “You got a name, kid?” demanded Stretch.

  “Speakin’ of names,” said Larry, “his is Stretch Emerson, and mine’s Larry Valentine.”

  “Mine’s Tatum.” The young man sat bolt upright, suddenly agitated, suddenly aware of his condition. “Suffering San Antone! My clothes!”

  “Tatum who?” prodded Larry.

  “Burch Tatum.”

  “You must be tetched in the head, boy. Every Texan has heard of Burch Tatum, and you couldn’t be him. He must be near sixty years old.”

  “I’m his son—Burch Tatum Junior. And—and I’m a Ranger—just like Pa.”

  The drifters traded thoughtful glances.

  “All right,” shrugged Larry. “Tell us what happened.”

  “How do I know what happened?” groaned Junior. “All I can remember …!”

  “That’s it,” approved Larry. “Start rememberin’.”

  “I recall the creek,” frowned Junior. “Yes. That’s right. I was riding the bank of a creek …” He broke off, gesticulating wildly. ‘‘Hell’s bells! My horse …!”

  “We didn’t find no cayuse, kid,” Stretch informed him. “All we found was you—in the crick—rigged in nothin’ but your Long Johns.”


  “This is the end!” gasped Junior. “I’m finished! They must’ve stolen everything—my clothes, my weapons, Big Shadow …!”

  “Big Shadow,” frowned Larry. “That’s your horse?”

  “A black gelding,” sighed Junior. “A thoroughbred. Best horse I ever owned.”

  “You said ‘they’,” Larry reminded him. “Does that mean you got a look at the hombres that jumped you?”

  “Hell, no,” breathed Junior. “I’m only guessing there was more than one of them. All I remember is the shot. Uh huh. I did hear the shot. Slug must’ve gone clear through me. It drove me off Big Shadow and, when I hit the ground, everything went black.”

  “That bullet,” drawled Larry, “didn’t go clear through you. It just nicked you.”

  “I can’t face my father,” groaned Junior. “Never again! He’ll disown me.”

  Stretch rubbed at his jowls, blinked perplexedly and said,

  “Son—are you sure you’re a Ranger?”

  “If it comes to that,” growled Larry, “are you sure you’re Texan?”

  “Born and bred in Fort Worth,” muttered Junior. He squinted about him. “How did I get here?”

  “We spotted you in the crick,” shrugged Stretch, “roped you and hauled you out. You’re in a homestead somewheres in Winfield County.”

  “Wait a minute!” Larry snapped his fingers. “The newspaper! Didn’t I read about this hombre? Burch Tatum Junior—the Ranger comin’ up from Texas to extradite that Harnsey owlhoot.”

  “That’s me,” sighed Junior. “You’d never believe it— but that’s me.”

  “What’s extra—extra …?” began Stretch.

  “It means,” explained Larry, “Junior was totin’ papers—special papers that gave him authority to take this bandido off the Winfield law and herd him to Texas.”

  “That,” Junior dolefully assured him, “was my assignment.”

  “You got that look in your beady ol’ Texas eye again,” Stretch chided Larry. “You’re thinkin’ again.”