Larry and Stretch 10 Read online

“Surely we have ample food!” protested Harriet.

  Bart frowned at the wicker baskets toted by the ladies.

  “I’d say you’re toting plenty chow,” he drawled. “Trouble is, you wouldn’t have time to eat comfortable here. Anyway, you’ll enjoy your meal more, after waiting a couple hours for it.”

  “We’ll remain on the coach,” decided Lavinia.

  “All right,” nodded Bart. “If you’ll pass me the canteens, I’ll be glad to fill them for you.”

  He took the canteens to the waterhole, moved around to the side opposite the team. As he replenished them, Tom frowned across at him and asked, “Still complainin’?”

  “They just never let up,” shrugged Bart.

  ~*~

  For the second time in many hours, Cleave Elrigg and his cohorts had found the life-saving water, but very little of it. This hollow was located within the shadow of an overhanging rock formation, a lava ledge that jutted out over the trail. From this point, the escapees commanded a view of many miles of terrain to the east and west, sun baked, undulating country wherein nothing stirred.

  They had quenched their thirst. No water showed in the center of the hollow now. Only the mud, steadily drying, which moved Elrigg to reflect, “If this is a regular stop for the stage, they’re in for a sad surprise.”

  “This hole is full most times,” offered Bush. “I can tell.”

  “You savvy this damn desert, Jud?” demanded Morrow.

  “Never been here before,” said Bush. “Heard of it, though.”

  “I’m wondering how far we’ve come,” frowned Trenton.

  They had, in fact, reached the halfway mark so well known to Kinstead crews and the passengers travelling regularly between Bairdsville and Vine City. It was customary for east-bound stages to “noon” at this waterhole, because of the shade offered by the rock formation. Even now, the stage driven by Tom Shackley was raising dust on the western horizon.

  Bush called to Elrigg, who threw a glance westward and nodded knowingly.

  “Yes. A coach for sure.”

  “All right, Elrigg,” growled Vincent. “You’re callin’ this play.”

  “It’s my hunch we won’t have to halt them,” said Elrigg, as he rose to his feet. “They’ll stop anyway—and we’ll have the drop on them.” He snapped his fingers. “Arnie and Wes, you climb atop the rock. They’ll probably stop in the shade here, and you can drop clear to the roof. The rest of us will hide around back of the mound.”

  Bush led the way. Elrigg, Trenton and Fields followed him around to the north side of the mound, while Vincent and Morrow clambered up to where the ledge overhung the trail. From the west, the stage continued its approach, the teamers making speed upon sighting the familiar and welcome landmark.

  Tom fished out his rabbit’s foot and kissed it.

  “Just for luck,” he explained to his friend. “Gotta be ready for anything, you know? Waterhole might go dry on us, for instance.”

  “You think that darn rabbit’s foot would make any difference?” jibed Bart.

  “Trouble with you, boy,” countered Tom, “is you just don’t believe in the unnatural.”

  “You mean supernatural,” grinned Bart.

  “Whatever you call it,” muttered Tom, “I come from a long line of superstitious folks. My old lady had second sight, and my pappy was kind of a prophet.”

  “Does the hole at Jug Rock ever dry out?” asked Bart.

  “It’s happened,” Tom grimly recalled, “once or twice. You just can’t trust any damn waterhole in the Big Amarillo.”

  Five minutes later, they were rolling to a halt in the shadow of the overhang, and Tom was staring worriedly towards the hollow.

  “Something wrong?” prodded Bart.

  “From where I sit,” fretted Tom, “it looks real dry. But maybe I’m wrong. You climb down and take a look.”

  Bart laid down his shotgun and braced a hand against the side-rail, and then it happened. First Morrow, then Vincent, slid off the ledge and dropped. Morrow fell atop Bart, grasping him, pulling him off-balance, so that they toppled from the seat and crashed to the ground. Vincent landed squarely behind Tom and crooked his left arm about his neck. Tom made an instinctive move to his holster and found it empty. His assailant had moved a shade too fast for him and, now, the muzzle of his own Colt was pressed to the back of his head.

  “Struggle,” rasped Vincent, “and you’re a gone coon!”

  Tom flicked a nervous glance to the ground, saw Bart and his attacker struggling to their feet. Bart’s wild swing sent Morrow sprawling. Then, as Morrow rolled and cursed, the guard made to empty his holster—and a carbine barked. Bart loosed a gasp of pain and collapsed, his right arm bloody.

  With his pulse pounding, Tom stared, ahead. Elrigg and Trenton were in clear view now, the former hefting a smoking carbine, and wearing a cruel smile. Trenton was tight faced and alert. Behind them appeared Bush and Fields.

  “No wrong moves!” Elrigg warned. “I’ll shoot to kill at the first sign of resistance! Arnie—throw down the shotgun.” He waited for Vincent to obey. Then, “All right, driver. Climb down slow. And you people inside the coach—come on out.”

  Bush had scurried forward to take possession of Bart’s Colt and gunbelt. At Elrigg’s command, he tossed the gunbelt and bent to retrieve the shotgun. Elrigg passed his carbine to Fields, strapped the belt about his loins, drew and cocked the Colt. Wide-eyed with alarm, Theodore descended from the coach. Morrow rose up, spat dirt and, after growling an obscenity at the wounded guard, advanced on the little man and began searching him.

  “I’m—not armed ...” mumbled Theodore.

  “Shuddup!” snarled Morrow.

  He backhanded Theodore, then jerked him upright and went through his pockets while, from inside the vehicle, Lavinia began a speech of indignant protest. Morrow glowered through the window and cut her short.

  “That’s enough gab from, you, lady. Everybody out!”

  The coach quickly emptied. Theodore stood beside his womenfolk, perplexed and apprehensive, as they surrendered their jewelry. Lavinia’s triple-chinned face was crimson with rage. Elmira and Harriet were pallid and trembling.

  “Check the strongbox,” Elrigg ordered Vincent.

  And Vincent needed no second bidding. He shoved the box to the ground, followed it down and, with a well-aimed slug from Tom Shackley’s six-gun, smashed the lock. The mail he threw to the four winds. The bundles of banknotes he passed to Elrigg, who made a quick tally.

  “Mighty handy.” The boss-thief grinned complacently. “Mighty handy indeed. Roughly ten thousand, I’d say.”

  “Be handier still,” muttered Trenton, “if we live to spend it.”

  “Now look,” frowned Tom, “you gotta let me doctor my partner. He’s hurt bad.”

  “You can play doctor,” drawled Elrigg, “after we leave.”

  “This is an outrage!” boomed Lavinia. “You’ll pay dearly for this, I promise you ...!”

  “If that old sow yaps one more word,” breathed Morrow, “I’ll smoke her down—so help me I will!”

  “Let her babble,” shrugged Elrigg. “In a little while, she’ll be too thirsty to talk.”

  “Hey ...!” Tom began an urgent protest, as Bush and Vincent began unharnessing the team.

  “The driver,” grinned Trenton, “is finally getting wise.”

  “If you take them horses,” growled Tom, “we won’t stand a chance. We’ve passed the halfway mark and there’s no turnin’ back for us. Damn it all, we can’t walk outa this desert!”

  “I’m well aware of that,” smiled Elrigg.

  “They’re going to kill us!” wailed Harriet.

  “They, wouldn’t dare!” gasped Lavinia.

  “Say the word, Elrigg,” muttered Morrow, “and I’ll ...!”

  “Why waste good ammunition?” Elrigg coolly challenged. “They’ll die, Wes, there’s nothing surer. But we can save our ammunition—because the desert will finish them off. They’ll
not survive another forty-eight hours.”

  Chapter Three

  Victims of the Wind

  They stood in a tight group with Bart Darrance huddled at their feet, and listened in shock, as Cleave Elrigg calmly sentenced them to death. To the Newbolds, it seemed incredible, and maybe the full impact hadn’t yet assailed them. To the pain-wracked Bart and the apprehensive Tom Shackley, there was nothing incredible about it. It was really happening; they were powerless against those leveled guns.

  The team had been unharnessed. Jud Bush was improvising bridles. Morrow and Vincent had ransacked the baggage and were emptying several carpetbags. Into these bags they stowed every crumb of food from the wicker baskets, while Trenton collected every canteen and toted them back to Bush.

  “But this is monstrous!” protested Lavinia.

  “No food,” sobbed Elmira. “No water ...”

  “Take heart, ladies,” drawled Elrigg. “Your anguish will be short-lived. The desert deals swiftly with the hungry, the thirsty and the helpless.”

  “What kind of a man are you?” challenged Tom. “Consarn your lousy hide—you can’t ride away and leave us to starve ...”

  “Don’t beg, Tom,” chided Bart, through clenched teeth. “Don’t give ’em that much satisfaction.” He glared balefully at the triumphant Elrigg. “They won’t get away with it. One way or another, they’ll pay for what they’re doing.”

  “Whistling in the dark?” taunted Elrigg.

  “I could finish him off,” Fields quietly offered, as he lowered the muzzle of the shotgun. “I’d like to see it, Elrigg. I’d like to see the effect of a shotgun blast at this range.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” grinned Elrigg, “but I’d prefer to save our ammunition.”

  And now Theodore Newbold said his piece, not blustering as his spouse blustered, not protesting as Tom protested, but only voicing his wonderment.

  “You speak as an educated man,” he muttered, staring hard at Elrigg, “a man of some refinement. I find this hard to believe ...”

  “Be quiet, Theodore!” hissed Lavinia.

  “To strand us in this desert,” Theodore soberly assured Elrigg, “would be worse than murder.”

  “Are you appealing to my conscience?” jeered Elrigg. “Save your breath, old man. I have none.”

  “You’ve made that quite clear!” snapped Sarah Ann.

  Elrigg shrugged unconcernedly and, with Fields siding him, retreated to where the horses awaited. The other four desperadoes were mounted, their pockets bulging with their loot. Trenton and Morrow had taken charge of the provisions. Vincent and Bush carried the canteens. This one act of treachery had greatly increased their chances of quitting the desert alive. They had food, water, weapons and ammunition, and a means of transportation. Their gloom had been dispelled, and they were in good humor.

  Elrigg and Fields swung astride. Bush jerked a thumb, and mumbled a suggestion.

  “We go northeast.”

  “Northeast,” Elrigg calmly agreed, “would be best. Lead on, Jud.”

  He waved mockingly, a callous farewell gesture to the stranded seven, as he wheeled his mount. Too elated to resent the discomfort of riding bareback, the escapees hustled the plodding teamers away from the scene of their shabby victory, following the half-breed to the northeast. Theodore Newbold stared after them, still numb with shock. Tom Shackley was temporarily speechless, and the aggressive Bart Darrance, bedeviled with pain and trembling with rage, suddenly realized he would have to assume leadership of this sorry group.

  “For a starter,” he panted, “we’d better move back into the shade. Tom—help me.”

  “I’ll help ...” Sarah Ann eagerly offered.

  “All right, little lady,” frowned Tom. “You can leave him to me. Rest of you move back into the shadow of the rocks. C’mon, amigo. Up ...”

  He helped Bart to his feet. Bart leaned against him, wrapped his left arm about his shoulders and allowed himself to be helped back into the shade where the Newbolds were now seating themselves. He sank down beside Theodore, squatting cross-legged.

  “Got to—stop this bleeding,” he told Tom. “I was watching them careful and—I don’t think they spotted the medical kit. Go fetch it, Tom.” As the driver hurried across to the stalled vehicle, Bart frowned at the women. “Got a chore for you, too, ladies ...”

  “The very idea!” gasped Lavinia.

  “It’s an emergency, Mama,” frowned Sarah Ann, “as if I need to remind you.”

  “No time for snobbery,” sighed Theodore.

  “What did you say?” challenged Lavinia.

  “No matter.” The little man shrugged helplessly. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I was about to say,” muttered Bart, “somebody ought to search every piece of baggage, every inch of that rig, and make sure those sidewinders didn’t overlook a little food—or maybe just one canteen of water. It’s a slim chance, but ...”

  “I’ll go,” said Sarah Ann.

  And, ignoring the reprimands of her indignant mother, she went across to the coach and began a desperate search. Tom clambered to the ground again, exhibiting a small, black box which he toted back to Bart. They opened it and examined the contents.

  “Roll of bandage,” Bart observed. “A can of ...”

  “That’s ointment,” offered Tom.

  “What’s in the bottle?” demanded Bart.

  “I wish it was drinkin’ liquor,” sighed Tom, “but it ain’t.” He squinted at the label. “Some kinda anty-anty ...”

  “Antiseptic,” frowned Bart. “Exactly what I need. Help me out of this doggone shirt.”

  The right sleeve was wet with blood from the ugly wound in his upper arm. Fortunately, the bullet hadn’t lodged, but the gash was sizeable and too deep for comfort.

  “It oughta be cleaned,” fretted Tom. “And, plague take them drygulchers, we got no water for ...”

  He broke off, as the flushed and disheveled Sarah Ann came scurrying back to them.

  “Nothing!” she panted. “They didn’t leave as much as a crumb—not one drop of water—”

  “Driver,” frowned Theodore, “how long before another coach ...?”

  “Next Kinstead stage to cross the desert,” muttered Tom, “would be the west-bound—three days from now.”

  “Is there no chance ...?” began Theodore.

  “Must you persist with these stupid questions?” chided Lavinia.

  For once in his life, Theodore ignored his overbearing spouse. Doggedly, he finished his question.

  “Is there no chance we’ll be found by—uh—some other travelers?”

  “I don’t give us one chance in a hundred, Mr. Newbold,” said Tom. He threw a glance to the northeast. The fleeing desperadoes were out of sight now. Even their dust had faded. “If we get outa this fix, it’ll be because we traipsed clear across the Big Amarillo—and I dunno of any hombre that ever did it—without a horse.”

  Sarah Ann was on her knees beside Bart, pulling the stopper of the bottle. She eyed the raw wound uncertainly, and asked, “Now what?”

  “Just pour it on,” he grunted. “And, if I holler, pretend you don’t hear.”

  She doused the wound and, to the horror of the other women, he gave vent to a blistering oath. Tom made to nudge Sarah Ann aside, but, with his voice shaking, Bart assured him:

  “She’s doing fine. Leave her be.”

  “What next?” Sarah Ann demanded.

  “Smear on some of that balm,” he ordered. “Then fix me a bandage.”

  It took Sarah Ann a full ten minutes to complete her first attempt at makeshift doctoring, after which Tom helped Bart to re-don his bloodied shirt. Some of his color had returned. The aching of his wound had eased slightly and, while he remained seated, he felt no nausea. Just the smoldering fury, the all-consuming rage. For as long as he lived, he would never forget the six desperadoes—especially their callous, smiling leader.

  “Who d’you suppose they were?” prodded Tom. “Th
ey weren’t rigged like regular owlhoots. What I mean, all they had was a couple carbines. No horses. No provisions nor water ...”

  “They have plenty now,” scowled Bart. “Everything they’re apt to need—and at our expense.”

  “Somebody must come,” asserted Lavinia. “It’s inconceivable that we should be stranded in the middle of nowhere, with no hope of being found by other travelers. I refuse to believe ...”

  “For pity’s sakes, Mama,” frowned Sarah Ann, “we have to face up to the truth!”

  “How dare you speak to me in that tone of voice!” boomed Lavinia.

  “Lavinia …” began Theodore.

  “Be quiet!” hissed Lavinia.

  “Everybody hush up!” growled Bart. He shifted position, to enable himself to stare up into the shocked faces of the Newbolds. “’Specially you.” He nodded curtly to Lavinia. “You aren’t in Los Angeles now, nor in some fancy hotel, plaguing some two-bit housemaid. This is the Big Amarillo, and we’re stuck in it, like it or not. All of us in the same consarned mess. I don’t know how we’re gonna get ourselves out of this fix, but one thing I do know. Whining only makes it worse. Whining—and panic. In this kind of territory, panic could kill you a sight faster than thirst or hunger. If we lose our nerve, we’re all through.”

  “Bart makes sense,” Tom told the women. “You oughta mind what he says.”

  “I’m trying to be brave,” murmured Sarah Ann, “but it isn’t easy.”

  “Keep trying, anyway,” Bart advised. “At least that’s better than whining.”

  “If we start walking,” she frowned, “there’s better than an even chance we’ll become exhausted and die of thirst or starvation. That’s the sorry truth, isn’t it, Bart?”

  “You dare to address him by his first name?” Lavinia gaped at her. “Sarah Ann—you haven’t even been introduced to this—this gunman!”

  “Is this,” wondered Theodore, “a time for standing on ceremony?”

  “Sarah Ann …” Bart eyed the youngest sister intently. “That’s your name?” She nodded and offered him a hesitant smile. “All right, Sarah Ann, you’ve pegged it right. If we try walking out of this desert, we’d likely never make it.”