Larry and Stretch 14 Page 3

  “You’re confusing me, Lane,” Gillespie complained. “All lawmen become confused,” sighed Jefford, “at their first encounter with those Texans.”

  They took a corner in a wide skid, with Gillespie almost pitching from his perch. Up the main stem Jefford raced the team, scattering everything in his path. The Casino de Paris was an imposing edifice situated just beyond the heart of the business sector. Light glowed from all the windows—including those already broken—and Jefford was reminded of the fine crystal chandeliers specially imported by the proprietor, the portly Otis Favelle. In all of Omaha, no gambling house enjoyed a finer reputation. Every game of chance was on the square and relations between Favelle’s staff and the local law were more than satisfactory.

  Jefford jerked back on the reins, brought the rig to a halt and swung down, leaving Gillespie to hitch the team. Deputy Henry Logan was rising from the boardwalk, rubbing his jaw, shaking his head dazedly and declaring,

  “I don’t even know who hit me—or with what!”

  “Come along with us, Henry!” gasped Gillespie.

  The upper crust of Omaha society was quitting the Casino fast. Richly-gowned women were being hustled through the white stone pillars of the main entrance by their expensively-tailored menfolk, and their bitter complaints smote the ears of the local law with infinite clarity. “Disgraceful!”

  “Such an exhibition of rowdyism ...!”

  “I wouldn’t have believed it possible!”

  “Pardon us, folks,” muttered Jefford.

  He forced his way into the richly-carpeted foyer, with the local law in attendance. The downstairs area, it seemed, was not yet affected. No sign of broken glass or smashed furniture. Judging from the noises from atop the broad, spiral staircase, the commotion was still confined to the main poker parlor. Jefford took to the stairs, climbing them three at a time, with Gillespie and Logan sweating in his wake.

  Ominously, the sounds of violence ceased. They heard a strident yell and a loud crash, as they advanced to the entrance of the poker parlor—then nothing. Just a tense hush that started Gillespie’s scalp crawling. Jefford led them into the room, halted abruptly and heaved a sigh of resignation.

  Pudgy, pink-faced and perspiring, the casino owner stood in a corner of the room and wrung his hands in anguish.

  “Ruined!” he groaned. “I’ll be ruined!”

  Four men in evening clothes, all members of the Casino staff, were sprawled about the room in varying stages of oblivion. One slumbered beside a silver spittoon which showed a deep dent. One lay face down on a table top, the legs of which had given way. Another struggled weakly to extricate himself from a velvet drape that had once hung by the window—which was smashed. The fourth was huddled amid the wreckage of a chaise-longue.

  A few locals, distinguished citizens with whom Jefford and Gillespie were well acquainted, had retreated discreetly to the far wall. Two of these were nodding affably to the lawmen and puffing at expensive cigars, apparently undismayed by what they had just witnessed. They were quite old, Jefford reflected, too old to be shocked.

  In the center of the room, the bloodied, bruised but victorious Texans stood shoulder to shoulder, their wary eyes fastening on the three lawmen. They wore expensive suits of black broadcloth, fancy vests, white shirts and silken cravats—all much the worse for wear—and Jefford was reminded of a recent newspaper report on the Lone Star Hellions. Larry Valentine had collected a reward for the apprehension of a wanted killer. Stretch Emerson, also, had collected bounty. Usually in a condition of cheerful penury, the Texans were currently solvent. It made no difference. Jefford supposed. Broke or loaded, they would always find trouble—and meet it head-on.

  Larry Valentine spoke up, bluntly and with vehemence. “Just so you badge-toters don’t get any wrong ideas—we didn’t start this hassle.”

  He was a big one and, studying him now, Jefford could believe all the stories he’d heard, all the reports he’d read. About Larry Valentine, there was something indefinable, but compelling, a suggestion of brute strength and keen intellect, a natural belligerence and a hint of humor. His hair was dark brown and unruly, his sun-tanned countenance strong-jawed, handsome, in a weather-beaten way.

  “Shucks, no,” drawled the other Texan. “We never start no hassles. It’s always the other feller. We’re plumb law-abidin’.” Stretch Emerson had earned his nickname by his considerable height. He stood almost three inches taller than his partner, who happened to be six feet two and a half inches, bootless. He was sandy-haired and lantern-jawed, with mild, guileless blue eyes, ears that stuck out and a physique that was deceptive. Many an aggressor had mistaken Stretch’s scrawniness for weakness, with harrowing consequences. He was a beanpole, but he had muscle power—more than his fair share.,

  “Henry,” frowned Gillespie, “put your manacles on the big feller. I’ll take care of the other one.”

  Larry glowered at Gillespie, bunched his fists and said, “Not so fast.”

  “Easy, Tom,” warned Jefford.

  “Vandalism!” gasped Otis Favelle. “Wanton vandalism!”

  “I’ll bet you’re just itchin’ to lock a cell door on us,” Larry challenged Gillespie. “And that’s a cryin’ shame, because we’re gonna disappoint you.”

  “Dealer was usin’ a marked deck,” offered Stretch, still grinning his guileless grin. “Larry called him on it. Well, that dealer turned real mean, gave Larry the back of his hand.”

  “Then the rest of ’em joined in.” Larry gestured to the four befuddled table-hands.

  “So we just nachrally had to defend ourselves, kind of,” drawled Stretch.

  “That’s your story,” growled Logan.

  “Wait, deputy,” cautioned Jefford. “I know these two—by reputation at least. Valentine wouldn’t challenge a cardsharp unless he could prove his claim.”

  “All right, gents,” called Larry. “Time for you to say your piece.”

  The two distinguished looking old-timers detached themselves from the group by the far wall and stepped forward to exchange greetings with the lawmen. One—the stoop-shouldered veteran with the walrus moustache—was Ephraim Pitt, local boss of the Cattlemen’s Association and a civic leader of considerable influence. The other, slender, white-maned and urbane, was none other than Cornelius Shaw, Omaha’s resident judge. Gillespie and Logan accorded them all due respect. The judge produced a deck of cards which he passed to Gillespie.

  “Mr. Valentine,” he calmly explained, “had the foresight to suggest that I confiscate the deck. Examine it, and you’ll have to admit that Moray—the dealer—was giving himself an edge.”

  “This is unthinkable!” protested Favelle. “Judge, you’ve known me for many a long year, and ...!”

  “Quit sweatin’, Otis,” grinned Pitt. “The judge wouldn’t accuse you.”

  “I’m well aware,” Shaw told them, “that Otis chooses his staff with great care. He would never deliberately hire a cardsharp.”

  “I’ll fire him!” breathed Favelle. “I’ll fire him at once!”

  “You’ll have to wait till he wakes up,” chuckled Pitt.

  “Judge Shaw,” frowned Gillespie, “I’ll be guided by whatever you have to say. I mean—with you and Mr. Pitt as witnesses ...”

  “Sorry, Otis.” Shaw smiled wryly at Favelle. “I could not agree to your demanding damages from Valentine and Emerson. I’d have to find in their favor.”

  Jefford had taken the cards from Gillespie. After only a brief examination, he remarked,

  “No doubt about it. Moray had them marked. The old thumbnail caper.”

  “You mean ...” Logan eyed him resentfully, “we don’t get to arrest these hardcases?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Jefford.

  “Well, damnitall,” growled Gillespie, “I have the right to run ’em out of town. They’re trouble makers!”

  “Trouble is what you’re inviting,” sighed Jefford, “if you keep pushing.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t
hear me, Marshal Gillespie?” challenged the judge. “I’ve already assured you that our visitors from Texas are blameless.”

  Favelle began complaining again, bemoaning the destruction of his expensive furnishings. Pitt and the judge were placating him as best they could, and Gillespie was still seething with resentment, when Jefford quietly made him an offer.

  “You asked for my help, so take my advice. Ignore those Texans. Leave them to me.”

  “I want ’em out of Omaha!” breathed Gillespie.

  “So do I,” Jefford assured him. “But they’d have to be persuaded—not pushed. It takes tact, my friend, and I’m quite a diplomat.”

  Chapter Three: Rough Company

  Outside the Casino de Paris, the Federal lawman surprised the Texans. And ‘surprise’ was putting it mildly. They weren’t accustomed to receiving such invitations from peace officers, Federal or otherwise, so they eyed Lane Jefford incredulously, as he repeated,

  “I’d like to introduce you to my wife. She makes fine coffee. Of course, if you haven’t had your supper, Wilma could rustle up a meal, and ...”

  “You’re talkin’ to us?” frowned Larry.

  “Aren’t I making myself clear?” Jefford showed them a bland grin. “I’m inviting you to my home.”

  “Why?” demanded Larry.

  “That’s a good question,” Jefford conceded. “Well, let’s just say I’d like to—uh—give you a better impression of lawmen in general.”

  “I guess we got nothin’ to lose,” said Stretch.

  “All right,” nodded Larry. “Lead on, marshal …”

  “Jefford,” said the Federal officer. “Lane Jefford.”

  “I’m Valentine,” said Larry. “He’s Emerson.”

  “I know,” said Jefford.

  They began walking toward the intersection, their conversation scrupulously polite and somewhat guarded. Larry offered the information that they had already disposed of a sizeable supper, but would be glad to try Mrs. Jefford’s coffee. In response to the inevitable query regarding his and Stretch’s immediate plans, he voiced the standard answer.

  “Nothin’ special. We just hankered to visit a big town for a change, that’s all.”

  “And don’t ask us how long we aim to stay in Omaha,” drawled Stretch. “We ain’t yet made up our minds.”

  “Not a bad way to live,” said the marshal. “I mean being able to please yourselves as to where you go, and when, and how.”

  Wilma Jefford was the perfect hostess. It took a lot, Jefford reflected, to shake the poise of his serene and queenly spouse. The Texas hardcases might have been a couple of visiting senators, so cordially did she welcome them. And, being Wilma, she pretended not to notice their battle scars, Larry’s bruised jaw and cut lip, Stretch’s skinned nose.

  They sat about the table in the dining room, sampling Wilma’s coffee and puffing at cigars supplied by their host. Jefford gave his spouse a brief and understated description of the commotion at the Casino, summing it up as “just a small misunderstanding.” Then, feeling that he could now afford to speak bluntly, he told his guests,

  “Omaha has progressed, as you’ve probably noticed. We have a mighty orderly community here.”

  “Why, sure,” nodded Larry. “Except for that one card sharpin’ tinhorn, I’d say you got a right law-abidin’ town.”

  “That being so ...” Jefford chose his words with care, “I wonder that you could find anything to interest you here.”

  “We wasn’t lookin’ for nothin’ interestin’,” shrugged Stretch. “Just a place to rest a while is all we wanted.”

  “You’ve only just arrived?” asked Jefford.

  “Got here yesterday,” said Larry.

  “I trust you enjoyed your journey to Nebraska, Mr. Valentine?” murmured Wilma.

  Larry grinned at her.

  “Ma’am, it wasn’t what you’d call a pleasure trip. We came up all the way from North Arizona with a trail herd.”

  “Uh huh,” grunted Stretch. “Helped push them beeves clear to Garret Junction.”

  “The last I heard of you boys,” frowned Jefford, “you were well-heeled. You’d collected a couple of bounties and were financial—to the tune of two thousand dollars.”

  “Twenty-six hundred is what we got right now,” offered Larry. “We were gamblin’ lucky—till we ran into that Moray jasper.”

  “You traveled clear across Colorado with a trail herd,” challenged Jefford, “and your bankroll stood at more than two thousand dollars? Why, Valentine? You could afford to travel in style, instead of eating dust on a trail drive.”

  “The trail boss was a Texan,” Larry patiently explained, “and he was short of herders.”

  “Ah, yes.” Jefford nodded understandingly. “Texans stick together.”

  “Lone Star loyalty,” smiled Wilma. “Lane, dear, did I ever tell you? I’ve always had a soft spot for Texans. I find them quite fascinating, and rather special.”

  “By golly,” grinned Stretch, “I knew she was a lady, first time I laid eyes on her!”

  Jefford grinned his bland grin, puffed a smoke ring and asked,

  “What about those famous itchy feet? I’ve heard and read a great deal about you boys. Shouldn’t you be tired of Omaha already, and wanting to move on?”

  “Marshal,” drawled Larry, “if you weren’t talkin’ so polite, I’d swear you hankered to get rid of us.”

  The conversation might have become downright awkward at that point, and perhaps overheated, but for Wilma’s smooth intervention. In a quiet but compelling way, she changed the subject.

  “I’d know what I’d be doing,” she mused, “if I found myself in your position. Footloose, fancy-free—and financial. I’d travel again, and not by horseback. No, indeed. I’d travel for pleasure, and I’d cover a great many miles in absolute comfort.”

  “You mean by stagecoach?” blinked Stretch. “Shucks!”

  “Heavens, no,” she countered. “Haven’t you heard of the Special?”

  “Special what?” Larry asked.

  “The Ohio and Western Special,” said Wilma. “It’s quite famous, Mr. Valentine. The ultimate in luxury travel.”

  “Why, yes,” mused Jefford. “The Ohio and Western set the standard, so now I guess the Trans-Continental will follow suit. Train travel isn’t what it used to be. They’re raising the price of passage, and the quality of their services.”

  “On the Special,” Wilma told the Texans, “every seat is upholstered. There are private compartments for those who desire them, and even a club car, and ...”

  “What,” wondered Larry, “is a club car?”

  “Kind of a saloon on wheels,” said Jefford. “You get thirsty, all you have to do is go through to the club car. The best quality liquor—served by stewards in white jackets.”

  “Sounds fine,” frowned Larry.

  “What a wonderful journey it would be!” Wilma sighed wistfully. “All the way from Columbus, Ohio, clear across Indiana, North Illinois and Iowa, then on to Nebraska, South Wyoming, and Idaho ...”

  “A man could see a heap of country that way,” reflected Larry, “and never get saddle-sore.”

  “Well,” shrugged Wilma, “I wouldn’t try to influence you.” She heaved another sigh. “But—when I think of that beautiful train—the chance to travel in such comfort ...”

  “Hey, marshal,” prodded Stretch, “you happen to know if that fancy train comes through Omaha?”

  “I think so,” frowned Jefford.

  “It most certainly does,” Wilma informed them. “As a matter of fact, it makes a mid-morning stop here tomorrow.”

  “D’you suppose,” Stretch asked Larry, “we could buy passage at the Omaha depot? Heck, runt, I’d sure admire to travel that way—like a doggone prince.”

  “Don’t hustle me,” grunted Larry. “I’m still thinkin’ it over.”

  “Think of that club car,” suggested Stretch.

  “I’ve finished thinkin’,” said Larry. “You
and me are headed for the railroad depot right away.” He pushed his chair back, rose and bowed to Wilma. “Mrs. Jefford, ma’am, it’s been a rare pleasure.”

  “Sure obliged for your hospitality,” grinned Stretch. “We were glad to have you,” Jefford assured them, and he rose to escort them to the front door.

  Five minutes later, the marshal entered the kitchen. His wife was the epitome of serenity. Conscious of his intent scrutiny, she flashed him a smile and asked,

  “Why do you look at me that way?”

  “I am married,” Jefford fervently declared, “to a rare and wonderful woman. She’s clairvoyant, and a natural born diplomat.” He came across to stand behind her and kiss the top of her head. “Like a veteran go-between, you took that awkward chore completely out of my hands, and sent them on their way.”

  “What awkward chore?” she demanded. “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t you realize,” he asked, “that I was trying to persuade those trouble shooters to quit Omaha?”

  “Well, no,” she frowned. “I can’t say I did. You seemed to be friendly with them. You were making them welcome.”

  “That,” said Jefford, “was essential diplomacy—and I do mean essential. They’re aggressively independent, those two. To order them out would be futile. The more belligerent a lawman becomes, the more obstinate they become.” He turned her around to face him, placed his hands on her shoulders. “So there I was-—trying to talk them into leaving, and not having much success, until you, with perfect timing, began selling them an idea—the idea of a pleasure trip on the Special.”

  “Is that what I did?” she smiled.

  “Undoubtedly,” he grinned. “They’re on their way, and now I can stop worrying.”

  “About those two Texans?” prodded Wilma. “So homespun, so friendly, so gentle ...?”

  “Wilma, my dear,” said Jefford, “you are speaking of two very special Texans. Larry and Stretch are trouble shooters, the wandering kind. They seem to attract strife and violence wherever they go. And that’s why I wanted them out of Omaha. The commotion at the Casino was a picnic, compared with the upheaval they’ve caused in other communities.”