Larry and Stretch 8 Read online

  “Buck said we’d just have to organize ourselves and make a fight of it,” Perrier told Larry.

  “He didn’t act scared,” Yuill recalled. “We figured he’d be leadin’ us, gettin’ our defenses organized and all. But then—all of a sudden—he just up and quit.”

  “There was this patent medicine peddler,” explained Gilhauser. “Feller name of Harold Bean. He drifted into Three Springs day after the bank robbery. Well, Buck was always complaining of a bellyache, so he parlayed with this big-mouthed pill-salesman.”

  “Bean,” frowned Perrier, “told Buck he was suffering from some—uh—incurable disease. Then he sold Buck a bottle of pills and drove on out of town and, next thing we knew, Buck was flat on his back on the law office couch—moaning about how he was gonna die.”

  “Hold on now,” protested Larry. “If Bean fed Buck a mess of lies, you can easily prove it. All you need to do is have a genuine doctor check the marshal over.”

  “You’re right, Valentine,” nodded the mayor. “But there’s a hitch.”

  “A big hitch,” sighed Margolies.

  “We had a regular doctor, up till a few months back,” said Gilhauser. “Old Doc Cuttle—as square a man as you ever knew. But he died, and we haven’t been able to get a replacement.”

  “Three Springs needs a sawbones,” declared Yuill. “Trouble is, we’re kinda isolated here. Max sent letters to every Doc inside five hundred miles of us, but they don’t hanker to settle here.”

  The mayor grimaced in disgust.

  “We’re worse than isolated,” he complained. “We’re cut off—and I mean completely. No telegraph, and now the stage line has quit using Three Springs for a water-stop. Yeah. They heard about what happened here, and they know Stark is staked out somewhere close by. Should they risk a hold-up every time they send a coach through this territory? You can’t blame them for stopping the service.” He shrugged forlornly.

  “You could send a rider to the nearest town,” suggested Stretch.

  “What is the nearest town?” demanded Larry.

  “Pelham City,” said Frayne. “Way north-east of here.”

  “I’ll send no riders any place,” said Gilhauser, bluntly. “Nobody quits Three Springs and no strangers are allowed in. That’s the rule, from now on.”

  “Max figures,” offered Margolies, “that Stark’s scouts are keepin’ an eye on Three Springs. If any of us ride out, we’d be ambushed for sure.”

  “Well,” frowned Larry, “me and Stretch didn’t spot hide nor hair of any other riders between Salt Mountain and here.”

  “You were just plain lucky,” opined Frayne.

  “It’ll happen,” Gilhauser grimly predicted, “any time from now on. The Stark gang will hit this town like a tornado.”

  “But we ain’t yeller,” growled Yuill. “We aim to make a fight of it.”

  “Only thing that grieves me,” declared Margolies, “is thinkin’ of poor Buck.”

  “Poor Buck my eye!” scowled Gilhauser. “He let that charlatan hoodwink him. And now, instead of taking charge of our defenses, he lies on his fat back, eats like a horse and moans about making his last will and testament.” He took a stiff pull at his drink, shook his head sadly. “I like Buck Craydon, and always have. An honest lawman. Never a coward, when it came to facing up to some trouble-hunting gunslinger, but ...”

  “But,” finished Perrier, “any pill-peddling quack could shoot the bull to Buck—and Buck would always believe him.”

  “Runt,” frowned Stretch, “that ain’t no way for a Texan to behave.”

  “That’s what I’m thinkin’,” growled Larry.

  “Would you go talk to Buck?” prodded Perrier. “Maybe you could snap him out of it—seeing as how you’re Texans, too.”

  “We’ll do that,” Larry decided. He set his empty glass down. “We’ll do it right now.”

  Main Street appeared slightly more at ease to the Texans, as they sauntered from the Rialto to the marshal’s office. No tense silence. Guitar-music issued from a Mexican hash house, and they heard the tinkling of a piano from another saloon.

  In the law office, the marshal’s wife and children had unbarred the street-door; the barricades had been removed from the windows. Buck Craydon still rested under his blanket on the old black leather couch. Carlita had sent the younger children home. Only Anita remained with her, to help nurse the patient.

  The Texans trudged in, doffed their Stetsons and offered their names. Carlita greeted them with a preoccupied nod. Anita summoned up a winsome smile, and remarked:

  “We are glad you came in peace, and sorry that the alcalde and his friends mistook you for bandidos.”

  “Well,” said Larry, “that makes two of us, ma’am.”

  “She ain’t ma’am,” muttered Buck. “She’s ‘miss’—or ‘señorita’. Carlita is ma’am. She’s my wife—best wife any man ever had.” He turned his head to survey his tall visitors. “Larry and Stretch, huh? Well, well, well. Always did figure I’d run into you fiddlefoots. Pleasure to meet a couple waddies from the old Lone Star.”

  “Likewise.” Larry came to the couch and frowned down at the lawman. “But it’s too bad you’re laid up.”

  “Cut down in my prime,” sighed Buck. “One of them rare diseases, you know? Helluva thing. The way that specialist calculates it, I’ll likely cash in my chips inside the month.” He gestured feebly. “So this is all I can do. Just lie here—and wait to die.”

  “Ai caramba!” wailed Carlita. “Por Dios ...”

  “Hush, madre,” frowned Anita.

  “I’d be powerful obliged,” said the marshal, “if you Texas gents would stay on in Three Springs. Until it happens, I mean. Kind of like to have you act as pall-bearers. Always did hanker to be toted to my grave by fellow-Texans.”

  “Aw, hell ...!” began Stretch.

  Larry silenced his partner with a warning frown, then stared challengingly at the horizontal lawman and muttered a reproach.

  “Mayor Gilhauser thinks that Bean hombre was lyin’—just for the sake of sellin’ you a mess of useless pills. And I agree with him.”

  “Max is wrong,” mumbled Buck. “Doc Bean’s an expert. Hell, you think I wanted to believe him? I got a wife and kids. What’s to become of them?”

  “What makes you so sure you could take Bean’s word?” challenged Larry.

  “A dyin’ man,” countered Buck, “knows how he feels.”

  “And how do you feel?” demanded Larry.

  “Like a dyin’ man,” said Buck.

  “Aw, hell ...” scowled Stretch.

  “C’mon,” grunted Larry. “We ain’t about to change his mind.”

  They turned and strode to the doorway. Just as they reached it, Buck Craydon quietly remarked, “I wish old Doc Cuttle was still around.”

  Larry turned and frowned at him.

  “You think the old doc could cure you?”

  “No doctor can cure me,” sighed Buck. “But at least he could ease my pain—so I’d die a sight happier.”

  Seething with impatience, the drifters moved out onto the law office porch.

  “This,” Larry bitterly asserted, “is a helluva situation. An honest-to-gosh Texas lawman—lettin’ himself get played for a sucker—by a two-bit medicine man.”

  He felt a gentle hand on his arm. Anita had moved out to join the strangers.

  “Señores,” she frowned, “there are things I must tell you …”

  Chapter Three

  Stronghold of the Lawless

  The dark-haired beauty closed the street door behind her and stood eyeing them pleadingly. Larry jerked a thumb to the cane-back under the awning. While she seated herself, he perched on the porch-rail beside Stretch. They fished out their makings and began building cigarettes.

  “All right, Anita.” Larry showed her an encouraging grin. “Just what did you want to tell us?”

  “I am sad for my madre,” she murmured, “because she worries for my father. But I am not sad for
him. I am angry. I do not believe what this Señor Bean has said. Papa is not sick—not dying.”

  “Well,” frowned Stretch, “you won’t get no arguments from us, on accounta that’s how we feel about it.”

  “He could be convinced,” Anita asserted. “He would believe a medico—a real medico. Always, he has admired the medicos.”

  “The fakers,” guessed Larry, “as well as the genuine kind.”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “But only a real medico could make him believe—no?”

  “That figures,” grunted Larry.

  “If we could bring such a medico to Tres Agua,” she frowned. “If he examines my father and finds there is no malestar—no sickness ...”

  “The marshal,” opined Larry, “would be off that couch and ready for action quicker than you could wink—itchin’ to tangle with the whole Stark outfit. Yeah. All it takes is a genuine doctor, and that’s what I told the mayor.”

  “You would do this?” she asked. Her expressive eyes beseeched him. “You would travel to the place where there are many medicos—and bring one back to Tres Agua?”

  Larry lifted his broad shoulders in a nonchalant shrug, and assured her, “I was already thinkin’ about it. Now that I’ve met your old man, my mind’s set on it.”

  She rose from her chair and flashed him a grateful smile. “Vaya con Dios, Señor Larry.”

  “Gracias,” he acknowledged.

  “You should talk with Señor Margolies before you go,” she advised. “He has many maps. Maybe he can show you how to reach the ciudad muy pronto.”

  “Uh-huh.” Larry nodded in agreement. “The sooner I can make Pelham City, the sooner I’ll be back—with a genuine, honest sawbones.” He slid from the rail, went to the door and opened it for her. “Hasta la vista, Anita. I’ll be seein’ you.”

  As they retraced their footsteps to the Rialto, Stretch asserted, “You ain’t ridin’ out on your lonesome—without me along.”

  “Guess again,” countered Larry.

  “Well, damn it all,” protested Stretch, “I don’t admire for you and me to split up.”

  “It won’t be for long,” Larry pointed out. “Look at it this way. Maybe Stark’s gunhands are scoutin’ this territory. If that’s a fact, a lone rider stands a better chance of gettin’ through. And another thing—one of us ought to stay in Three Springs and help these towners plan their defense.” He nudged Stretch with a hard elbow. “They could sure use a gun-wise hombre like you—if it comes to a showdown.”

  “That’s what you want I should do?” frowned Stretch. “Stay here and lend a hand with the fightin’?”

  “That’s how it ought to be,” declared Larry. “And keep your fingers crossed. I’m hopin’ to bring back a doctor who’ll check Buck over and tell him the real score—maybe in time for Buck to handle his share of the fightin’.”

  “I guess there will be fightin’,” mused Stretch. “Mayor Gilhauser seems powerful sure them bandidos’ll come a’raidin’.”

  “It’ll happen,” nodded Larry. “Bet your Texas boots on it. I feel it in my bones.”

  Some of the leading citizens—Gilhauser, Margolies and Yuill—were still swigging whisky at the Rialto, making a vain attempt to quell their rising fears. The Texans hustled in, and Larry’s blunt announcement won their immediate interest. The mayor was dubious at first.

  “I swore no man would be allowed to ride out of this town,” he muttered. “We made it a rule, for the protection of every citizen.”

  “On the other hand,” frowned Russ Perrier, “we’d have quite an edge on the Stark gang, if Valentine fetched a doctor to Three Springs. I mean, if him and the doctor arrived ahead of Stark.”

  “Quite an edge,” agreed Margolies. “Buck is the only fool in town that trusted that pill-peddler. I guess we all know Buck is healthy enough, but he can’t help us ’less he knows it.”

  “A genuine doctor could damn soon convince him,” opined Perrier.

  “I’ll be leavin’ rightaway,” said Larry. “My partner’ll stay on here.”

  “And he’ll be mighty welcome,” asserted Perrier. “I don’t forget what I read in the papers, and I’ve heard it said Stretch Emerson can lick double his weight in outlaws.”

  Linus Margolies squinted towards the clock on the far wall. “Gettin’ near high noon,” he observed, “and today’s Monday. I’ve just thought of a way Larry could reach Pelham City in a hurry—maybe by tonight.”

  “It’s a two-day ride,” protested Gilhauser.

  “You’re forgettin’ about the railroad north of here,” said the livery proprietor. “Train bound northwest for Pelham crosses Vermo Flats about mid-afternoon. I could give Larry a map and mark a few short cuts. Ridin’ steady, I calculate he could hit the Flats in time to stop that train. That’d be the fast way.” He eyed Larry enquiringly. “You interested?”

  “And then some,” nodded Larry.

  “No whistle-stop at Vermo Flats,” warned Frayne. “You’d just have to stop that train the hard way.”

  “Easiest way I know,” shrugged Larry, “would be to squat on my horse—plumb smack on those rails. Then they have to stop.” He nodded to Margolies. “Fetch the map.”

  When Linus Margolies returned to the Rialto, Larry, Stretch and Gilhauser were waiting on the front porch. The livery proprietor was leading Larry’s sorrel, saddled and ready for the trail. Into the sorrel’s saddlebags had been packed an ample supply of provisions, including a quart of rye whisky. Larry descended from the porch and swung astride, then bent to accept the chart offered him by Margolies. A cursory perusal revealed that Margolies had marked the all-important short cuts.

  “That’s as fast a route to the Flats as you could hope to find,” Margolies assured him, “and plenty cover—so maybe no Stark scout’ll spot you.”

  “I’m much obliged,” said Larry, as he folded the map and stuffed it into a pocket. Then, thoughtfully, he gazed along the sunlit street. “Mr. Mayor, just what kind of defense have you planned?”

  “Three Springs men aren’t fighters,” shrugged Gilhauser, “but we’ll do our best. You already guessed I’d posted lookouts all around town. That’s how we knew you were coming. I’m counting on those lookouts to give us the warning-—just as soon as they spot a large body of horsemen. We’ll have time to barricade every door and window, block every alley and post riflemen on the rooftops. That’s it, Valentine. The best we can manage.”

  “And maybe good enough,” mused Larry, “to give Stark a bad time.”

  “In Pelham City,” said Gilhauser, “don’t look for any cooperation from Barney Dreyfus—or any sympathy.”

  “Who,” asked Stretch, “is Barney Dreyfus?”

  “Sheriff of Pelham County,” said Gilhauser. “A fancy-Dan with big ideas. We hear tell he’s got his heart set on running for governor some day. Meantime, he doesn’t much care what happens to Three Springs. We’re out of his jurisdiction and, anyway, he never did admire our marshal.”

  “What’s he got against Buck?” demanded Larry.

  “Buck’s Texan,” Gilhauser reminded him. “Dreyfus thinks all Texans are shiftless no-accounts, good for nothing except pushing cattle.”

  Larry looked at Stretch. Stretch looked at Larry, then at the mayor, and asserted, “This Dreyfus better hope Larry don’t run into him.”

  ~*~

  At about the same time that Larry Valentine began his fast ride to Vermo Flats, the notorious Brett Stark was obliged to settle a dispute. Slim Goddard, Stark’s lean and taciturn henchman, came trudging into his chief’s tent to announce, “Couple of the boys are about to fight, and one of ’em could get hisself killed.”

  “Fists or knives?” challenged Stark.

  “Guns,” growled Goddard. “They’re cussin’ each other into a shootout.”

  The boss-outlaw rose to his full height. He was a hefty six-footer, lethal, cunning, gun-wise, a veteran of the owlhoot trail and as anti-social as all his minions, if not more so. His hawk-like visage was clea
n-shaven, except for the thin moustache, jet-black like his lank hair. His chin was pointed and protuberant, his thin-lipped mouth uncommonly small. The pale blue eyes were, at this moment, slightly bloodshot. Still mourning the death of his kinsman, he had been swigging from the bottle beside his pack roll.

  “With Clay gone,” he sourly reflected, “I can’t afford to lose any of my men—specially fightin’ among themselves.”

  He strode from his tent out into the bright sunlight and the always-chilling wind of the high country. This was Flagg Mesa, the arid plateau atop Padilla Mountain, a familiar landmark to any who travelled this northwest corner of the Arizona Territory. The Rio Colorado was less than a day’s ride to the west. Beyond that great river, another day’s ride westward, lay Three Springs, a town Stark was eager to visit, and violently.

  As a hideout, temporary or otherwise, the mesa had much to recommend it. Exit or entry was afforded only by a winding track barely wide enough for two to ride abreast, which led down to the flat prairie far below. Stark had only to assign guards to the topmost sections of that track to ensure his continued safety. From the mesa, his twenty-four guns could hold back an entire army.

  This portion of the mesa was occupied by the tents, lean-tos and pole-corrals that comprised Stark’s stronghold. There were several campfires. Close by one of them, two hot-headed malcontents were about to settle their differences with blood. They were watched from both sides by the other twenty-one, as they faced each other with hands hovering over their gun butts.

  Stark settled that ruckus in short order.

  “Lembeck—and you, Wyatt!” he snarled. “Keep your irons in leather!”

  “He claimed I was sharpin’ him,” scowled the slovenly, scar-faced Lembeck. “I deal square, and no man can call me a sharper.”

  “Shuddup and draw, damn you!” gasped the barrel-chested Wyatt.

  “Both of you shuddup!” scowled Stark. “Don’t you know any better than to tangle over a no-account game of draw poker—when you ain’t even playin’ for cash?”