Larry and Stretch 9 Page 3

  “Never met ’em personal,” drawled Luke. “But you recall we had a whole heap o’ newspaper back o’ the privy door, when we was homesteadin’ over Curtis Valley way? That’s when I read about them salty Texans. Used to keep you younguns quiet nights, tellin’ you them stories. Only they wasn’t stories. It was just like I read in the papers.” He threw another wistful glance northward, heaved a sigh and declared, “I sure would admire to win me a piece of that canyon land.”

  “We’d be set for life,” guessed Eli, “if we was homesteadin’ one o’ them prime sections.”

  “That’s a fact, boy,” nodded Luke. “Set for life. Plant seed and score a harvest. No strain. No sweat. That’d be a real sweet life, I’m tellin’ you.”

  In the heart of town, seated at a corner table of the Lucky Chance Saloon, Lew Neech and his partner idly scanned the special edition and traded comments. The county’s boss-lawman might have been keenly interested—and professionally—in the hectic past of Lew Neech. Fortunately for the Lucky Chance owner, his old crimes had been perpetrated a goodly distance from Beck County, as far away as Broken Bow, North Dakota Territory, and points west. In Beck County this skin was clean, his reputation unblemished. So far, at least.

  The Lucky Chance was a paying concern, established on the proceeds of Neech’s successful essays into banditry. Nowadays, he lived quietly, but with his eyes still turned to the main chance and his well-manicured fingers as itchy as ever. He was tall and handsome, with dark hair graying at the temples and a thin, carefully tended mustache riding above his full-lipped mouth.

  His partner, Russ Bale, was equally well groomed, but pudgy, compensating for the decrease of his sandy hair with an increase of girth and the addition of a double chin. His eyes were bland, expressionless and unwinking, like the eyes of a snake. He gnawed on a cigar and mumbled his opinion as to how the Lucky Chance might best capitalize on the coming land-rush.

  “When the entries close,” he suggested, “we could make book on the race. How about that, Lew?”

  “That’s a possibility,” nodded Neech. “Me, I’m not ’specially interested. A race for land is out of my line.”

  Neech reached for bottle and glass to pour himself a refill—then froze. His jaw sagged and an oath escaped him. “Hell’s bells! After all these years!”

  “What’s the. matter?” demanded Bale.

  “Take a look at the hombre that just came in,” ordered Neech.

  Bale studied the soberly garbed man standing just inside the batwings.

  “Somebody you know, Lew?”

  “Somebody from the old days,” frowned Neech, as he crooked a finger at the new arrival.

  Denzil Croshaw grinned broadly and came across to shake hands. Neech introduced Bale, motioned his visitor to a chair and asked:

  “What’re you drinking, amigo? Still pickling your innards with tequila?”

  “I’m damn near teetotal nowadays,” Croshaw assured him.

  “Better for the nerves, huh?” prodded Neech. “What’s your specialty now, Denz. You look like you gave up on stagecoaches.”

  “I should’ve stuck to banks—like you,” sighed Croshaw.

  “Keep your voice down,” grunted Neech.

  “All right,” said Croshaw. “Where can we talk? If you’re in the market for a proposition, Lew, I got one that’ll start you dancing with joy.”

  “As good as all that?” challenged Bale. “Lew—maybe you ought to listen to this jasper.”

  “Never was a time I wouldn’t listen,” shrugged Neech. He stared hard at Croshaw. “But why come to me? Don’t you have any other connections?”

  “Not anymore.” Croshaw shook his head. “I took an honest job a couple years back.”

  “An honest job?” blinked Neech. “You?”

  “Hard to believe, I know,” frowned Croshaw. “Well, I never was as successful as you, Lew. I had to eat, so I got a clerking job with St. Louis and Western.”

  “Working for the railroad, huh?” mused Neech.

  “And learning a thing or two,” muttered Croshaw, “picking up a little inside information that could make us a fat profit. How about that, Lew? You interested?”

  “Come on up to my office,” said Neech.

  A few minutes later, they were conferring behind the locked door of the expensively furnished office above the barroom, seated close together and keeping their voices low. Croshaw began with a comprehensive account of the recent board meeting and concluded with an explanation of the board’s decision.

  “You savvy what it means, Lew? They aim to wait and see—figuring it’ll be easier that way.”

  “And they’re dead right,” opined Neech. “I know these hick sodbusters. Never one of ’em would refuse such an offer. A straight thousand? They’ll jump at it.”

  “Lew ...” Croshaw leaned closer to him, prodded his chest, “supposing the farmers didn’t get the land? Supposing one man got to own the whole shebang—by hiring ten fast horses and ten smart riders? He’d be sitting on a fortune.”

  “Ten thousand dollars,” frowned Bale.

  “Ten thousand,” declared Croshaw, “is only part of it.”

  “How’s that?” challenged Neech.

  “Whinnaker and his friends need that canyon,” stressed Croshaw. “And when I say need, I mean they’ll go higher. You could darn near write your own ticket, Lew. You could hold out for fifty thousand—and they’d still pay.”

  “Hell!” breathed Bale.

  “If ever you doubt the importance of Carew Canyon to the St. Louis and Western,” said Croshaw, “just check it on the map, see how it’s located and figure it out for yourself. If they can lay track straight through the canyon, they’ll save themselves a heap of time and trouble and money. All right, boys. There comes a time when you have to spend money to save money, and this is it.”

  Three – The Elimination

  Within an hour, Denzil Croshaw was on his way back to St. Louis. There was only a short separation between the arrivals and departures of east and westbound stages in Becksburg, and Croshaw’s agreement with Lew Neech had been quickly completed. When Neech negotiated with the railroad men—on his own terms—Croshaw would receive a fair percentage of the money won from this nefarious enterprise. For the present he was satisfied. As to the mechanics of the gigantic double-cross, the fixing of the race, the stealthy elimination of all opposition, such dirty work could and would be handled by the man best suited for such chores—Lev Neech—aided by Russ Bale.

  After Croshaw’s departure, Neech and Bale began laying their plans.

  “We’ll buy or hire,” said Neech, “the fastest horses available. That’s our first step.”

  “Ten fast prads,” nodded Bale.

  “If we both ride in the race,” Neech pointed out, “we’ll need to hire only eight men. Eight special men, Russ, as if you didn’t know.”

  “Sure,” grinned Bale. “I know what you mean. The kind who’d do anything for a fast dollar. Hard cases.”

  “But choose them carefully,” warned Neech. “They’ll be taking their orders from me and I’ll be investing a heap of our capital in this little deal, so I want men I can trust.”

  “And the other entries?” prodded Bale.

  “What do you think?” Neech grinned coldly. “I have to be dead sure none of them reach that south gate ahead of us. That means every rig has to be checked by my men, but quietly.”

  “Night-time chore,” Bale agreed. “A little work on the wagon-tongues. A little cutting on harness. A half-sawn crossbar or a loosened wheel—a rigged axle. Sure. It can be done, Lew.”

  “Trouble is,” mused Neech, “there’ll be plenty going it on horseback.”

  “With them,” suggested Bale, “we’ll have to tangle during the race. Plenty places between town and the canyon where a rider can be slowed down.”

  “Who’s bossing this land-rush?” demanded Neech.

  “I thought there’d be a whole army of two-bit officials buying in,” grinn
ed Bale, “but it turns out Loomis and his deputy are gonna ramrod it. The mayor will make a speech. The sheriff will start ’em off and the deputy will be waiting at the canyon—to make sure it’s a fair finish.”

  “Deputy Kellogg,” grinned Neech, “can be taken care of at the right moment.”

  “But there’s one hombre could foul up the whole deal for us,” frowned Bale.

  “Meaning Weaver,” scowled Neech, “on that damn-blasted calico of his? Has he entered for the race?”

  “Knowing him,” shrugged Bale, “I’d say it’s a certainty. You know he can’t resist any kind of race.”

  “Weaver ...” Neech gritted his teeth, “and Snow-Boy.”

  “We got plenty reason to hate Weaver’s innards,” Bale opined.

  And that was an understatement. Unwisely, and on more than one occasion, they had lost heavily by betting against Snow-Boy. Fourth of July celebrations. Picnic races. Quarter races. Snow-Boy won them all, and this was financially unfortunate for Neech and Bale, who had wagered heavy sums on all such occasions. It seemed the big calico was unbeatable and, to add insult to injury, Weaver had caused Neech to lose face with many of his customers. Some time back, he had overturned the Lucky Chance’s roulette table to prove Neech’s wheel was rigged. Neech had sworn to avenge himself, but hadn’t advertised his intention. Now it seemed the time had come.

  “First,” he frowned, “I have to be sure he’s entered for the race. You hustle down to the Land Office and find out. If the answer is ‘yes,’ you’d better go find Murch, Wilson and Austin, and bring ’em back here.”

  “You aim to get rid of Weaver?” prodded Bale, as he rose from his chair.

  “Weaver—and the white horse,” nodded Neech. “It was bad enough losing a couple thousand every time Snow-Boy ran. I don’t aim to lose this stake, just because Weaver itches to show off. Our little deal won’t be worth a damn if anybody beats a Neech rider to the canyon.”

  Bale rejoined Neech in his office twenty minutes later. The fact that he was accompanied by Messrs. Murch, Wilson and Austin indicated that Neech’s hunch had been accurate.

  “He signed up a quarter-hour ago,” Bale told Neech. “Paid his fee and collected his marker. And do I need to tell you he’ll be riding Snow-Boy?”

  “The hell he will!” breathed Neech.

  “I swear I never seen old Lew so burned up,” remarked Johnny Murch.

  “He looks fit to be tied,” observed Cole Wilson.

  “Don’t he though?” chuckled Pike Austin.

  They were a rough-looking trio, three of the most unsavory locals ever to plague the over-worked, cantankerous Sheriff Loomis. Murch was the youngest, a lean, flashily garbed hombre in his late twenties. Wilson was barrel-chested and flabby, a shifty-looking redhead. Austin was tall, heavy and unkempt, and obviously allergic to soap and water. They eyed Neech expectantly and hung on his every word, the while he outlined his proposition.

  “For my own good reasons,” he told them, “I plan on owning every acre of that canyon land. What’s more, I aim to get it the easy way. There’ll be ten of us joining the land-rush—we five and five others. Your own names will be on your markers but, after you sink those markers in the canyon I’ll take ’em off your hands—at a hundred dollars per stake.”

  “You call that the easy way, Lew?” challenged Murch. “Hell, there’ll be better’n twenty wagons in that race, and as many riders. Maybe more.”

  “Between now and the big day,” drawled Bale, “we’ll be relying on you hombres to take care of the opposition. It can be done, boys, and you’ll have plenty time.”

  “But Del Weaver riding Snow-Boy,” said Neech, “is one piece of opposition that can’t be fixed—except with a bullet.”

  Neech pulled out a drawer, produced a roll of bills and peeled off six.

  “Two hundred apiece I’m offering you,” he muttered, “over and above what I’ll pay you for your other chores.”

  “To settle Weaver’s hash?” frowned Austin.

  “Not just Weaver,” stressed Bale. “You have to get rid of the calico too.”

  Greedily, the three rogues eyed the six banknotes spread on the desktop by Neech.

  “Two hundred apiece,” mused Murch.

  “You don’t care how we handle it?” Austin challenged Neech.

  “Handle it your own way,” offered Neech. “Just so long as it’s for sure.”

  The killers gave their unscrupulous employer value for money. At nine-thirty on the following morning, while riding the trail to town, Hattie Alden came upon the body of her kinsman and the bloodied carcass of the fine white gelding. He had been shot four times, the calico twice. His pockets had been turned out. Thieves, Hattie assumed, had spotted him riding alone and had seized their opportunity. This wanton slaying—all for the few dollars in her cousin’s pockets?

  By noon, the murdered ramrod was being laid out for burial by the local undertaker, the lawmen had checked the scene of the crime and Clem Alden was posting a reward of two thousand dollars for the apprehension of the killer. The ageing Ed Loomis and the plodding, unimaginative Deputy Kellogg were thorough—after their fashion. Alden lost his temper when they came to Bar A to dolefully report:

  “Wasn’t no tracks out there at all, Clem. Whoever drygulched Del, they killed their back-trail—but good.”

  “You’re quitting on it already?” raged the rancher, the while he tried to comfort his grief-stricken spouse. “Damnitall, Sheriff, it couldn’t have happened more than a couple hours ago!”

  “I ain’t quittin’ on it, Clem,” frowned the sheriff. “All I’m sayin’ is we found no sign at the bend. That don’t mean I’m through investigatin’.”

  “You gotta have confidence in us, Mr. Alden,” mumbled Hutch Kellogg.

  “Confidence ...?” scowled Alden.

  It occurred to him, then, that he was probably being too harsh. They meant well and they were honest enough, efficient too, when it came to the apprehension of run-of-the-mill troublemakers. They weren’t afraid of hard work. But, unhappily, they had little talent for intrigue. As detectives, they were next to useless. He knew this, and chided himself for having subjected them to a tongue-lashing.

  “We’ll be doin’ our best, Clem,” Loomis assured him. “You know that.”

  He was a big man and awkward, past middle age and running to fat. The only distinctive feature of his broad, sun-tanned face was a well-tended spade beard. His garb was a compromise between range-rig and the attire of a townsman. A battered Stetson, a Prince Albert coat, gray striped pants tucked into knee-length boots, with the inevitable Colt strapped to his plump right hip.

  Hutch Kellogg was some ten years Loomis’s junior, a short, thickset forty-year-old, balding, self-effacing and slow to anger—or to any other emotion. With such officials, Alden reflected, nothing could be gained by a show of impatience. He gestured resignedly, and told them:

  “Sure. I know you’ll do your best.”

  His grieving daughter waited for the lawmen to depart before heatedly asserting:

  “Their best won’t be half good enough.”

  “Poor Del,” sighed her mother. “Cut down like that—and him always so popular. Bar A will never be the same.”

  “Amen to that,” muttered Alden.

  He was kept busy for the remainder of that day. It was necessary for him to visit the county seat and interview the undertaker and the minister of the Baptist Chapel, to arrange for the funeral. Also, he negotiated with Lucius Gifford for a fast printing job—reward notices to be prominently displayed all throughout the county. It was one hour from nightfall when he returned to Bar A, where his wife worriedly announced:

  “Hattie rode away. I’m not sure where. She left a note on her bed.”

  “Gone?” he frowned. “Consarn her—she picks a fine time to fly the coop.”

  “All she said,” Myra Alden reported, “was I shouldn’t worry and she’d take good care of herself and—she’d be back in time for the funeral.�
��

  “I’d better read that note,” he growled.

  It was brief and to the point.

  Dear Dad,

  I know you will not approve my action, but please try to understand it is something I feel I have to do. I am riding to Chestnut Creek to talk with Mr. Valentine and Mr. Emerson. Maybe I can persuade them to come to Beck County and investigate this terrible tragedy. Whatever you think of Larry Valentine, you have to admit he is a better detective than Sheriff Loomis or Deputy Kellogg.

  Don’t worry about me. I will stay overnight at the Elk Ford Relay Station. If I make good time, I should reach Chestnut Creek tomorrow morning and be home by midnight.

  Del was always kind to me, Dad. I feel I owe him this much. Don’t be angry with me—please.

  Hattie

  Alden read the message aloud, then balled it and flung it to the floor.

  “Riding all the way to Chestnut Creek,” he, scowled, “to talk turkey with a couple crazy Texans. I don’t like it, Myra, but I guess it’s too late to stop her.”

  The shadows of dusk were lengthening into night when, along the south trail, Hattie was accosted by a familiar figure. Luke Sorley was out on foot, his Sharps tucked under his left arm, three jackrabbit carcasses slung over his right shoulder. The elder sons always accorded her great courtesy, clumsy but sincere. Probably they took their cue from their sire, who now doffed his hat and fervently declared:

  “Us Sorleys was right grieved to hear ’bout your cousin, Miss Hattie.”

  “We’ll all miss Del,” she murmured.

  “And perdition to them that shot him down,” growled Luke. “Won’t be long before the sheriff rousts ’em outa wherever they’re hidin’.”

  “I wish I was as confident as you, about Sheriff Loomis,” she frowned. “Anyway, I’m taking no chances on Del’s killer escaping punishment. He might be a Beck County man—still here—and thinking he’ll never be found out.”

  “Could be,” Luke pensively agreed. “Well—uh—just what’re you fixin’ to do, Miss Hattie?”