Larry and Stretch 12 Page 4

  “You bet your ever-lovin’ life I’m thinkin’!” breathed Larry.

  “This is why him and me are always in trouble,” said Stretch, to Junior. “Other folks’ troubles. Mighty active ’tween the ears is ol’ Larry. Can’t keep his nose outa …”

  “We have to get this boy patched up fast,” Larry briskly announced. “And then, by golly, we got to hightail it to Winfield and check on this Harnsey hombre. All of a sudden, I’m guessin’ why Junior got drygulched, and I’m guessin’ who drygulched him!”

  “Who?” prodded Stretch.

  “The newspaper says Harnsey is no loner,” frowned Larry.

  “Harnsey has seven sidekicks,” said Junior. “As far as I know, they’re still on the loose.”

  “You bet they’re on the loose,” scowled Larry. “And, by now, maybe Harnsey is on the loose! Why d’you suppose they jumped you and stole all your gear?”

  “Yeah.” Junior hung his head in shame. “It’s clear enough. With my identification papers and those warrants to show, any of Harnsey’s men could trick the Winfield sheriff into setting him free—transferring him into their custody.”

  “Like Larry says,” frowned Stretch, “we better head for Winfield.”

  Larry went to the parlor window and called to McTaggart. The sodbuster listened to his request and, in a few moments, big Hannah was lumbering into the parlor, toting balm and bandages. While she bound the Ranger’s shallow wound, her husband dickered with the Texans.

  “A horse? Not a chance! I got no horse to loan you, no saddle neither. What d’you think I’m runnin’ here? A livery stable?”

  “All right, all right!” Larry gestured impatiently. “The Ranger can ride double with me—but what about clothes?”

  “Duds cost money,” growled McTaggart.

  “We ain’t beggin’ damn it all.” Larry produced the bankroll, peeled off a bill. “Here’s ten dollars. The Ranger needs to get covered decent. Now how about it?”

  The best McTaggart could offer was a pair of patched and tattered overalls, no spare shirt. No boots. Just the overalls, three sizes too small for the acutely embarrassed Burch Tatum Junior.

  “I feel snagged all over,” he complained, as he followed the drifters out into the sunlight.

  “We’ll get you an outfit in Winfield,” Larry assured him.

  He swung astride the sorrel, gestured for Junior to clamber up behind him. Stretch straddled the pinto. As they wheeled the horses, they called a final query to the sodbuster.

  “Whichaway to Winfield?”

  McTaggart pointed. They dug in their heels and took off across the basin floor at a loping run. Within a few minutes, they had skirted the ploughed fields and reached the rim of the hollow.

  “C’mon now,” frowned Larry. “Let’s get these horses to movin’.”

  At speed, they crossed open country, clattered through a strip of timber and on to where the Winfield trail snaked across a yucca-dotted plain. Junior clung to Larry’s pants belt and, raising his voice above the thudding of hooves, enlarged on his tale of woe, after which his benefactors formed their own conclusions.

  Larry was thinking.

  “He sure don’t favor his pappy. He fancies himself for a hot-shot Ranger, but he’s too damn loco to get in out of the rain. Colonel Tatum must’ve been out of his natural mind—sending his no-account son to take charge of a professional like Harnsey.”

  And Stretch was thinking,

  “If this blabber-mouthed young ’un had a extra brain, he’d be a half-wit. But he’s Texan sure enough, so we got to help him out of this fix.”

  It was late afternoon when they hustled their panting and winded mounts into Winfield’s main street. At first, it seemed most Winfield folk were indoors, a fact for which Larry was grateful; Burch Tatum Junior wasn’t an impressive sight at this time, hardly a worthy representative of the great Lone Star State. However, by the time they sighted the county law office, the street was filling. Curious locals were emerging onto the sidewalks to stare at the strangers, and particularly at the hapless Junior, a sorry sight in his Long Johns and too-tight overalls.

  From a doorway above which was painted the inscription: “THE CLARION—O. A. KLEMPER, PROP.” a cold-eyed, heavy-jowled man emerged. Larry disliked him on sight. In Klemper’s intent stare, there was a suggestion of cold challenge, of arrogance. They rode past the newspaper office and on to the hitchrack outside the jailhouse. Klemper made it to the porch just as they were dismounting. The sheriff rose from a caneback, spat out a half-smoked cigar and called to Clough, who promptly emerged from the office.

  Without preamble, Larry hurled his query.

  “You still holdin’ Harnsey?”

  “Not since this mornin’,” frowned Clough.

  “Shuddup, Stew,” chided Mole. “We dunno who these jaspers are.” He came to the top of the steps, traded nods with Klemper, then thoughtfully studied the newcomers. “Who are you? What’s your interest in Harnsey?”

  “The names are Valentine and Emerson,” said Larry, “and Tatum.”

  “Tatum?” challenged Klemper.

  “Burch Tatum Junior,” growled Larry, jerking a thumb. “He’s a Texas Ranger.”

  “He couldn’t be Ranger Tatum,” protested Mole. “I surrendered Harnsey to Tatum this mornin’, and I mean the real Tatum. He had identification papers, a warrant for Harnsey, and …”

  “And,” scowled Larry, “he was likely one of Harnsey’s own men.”

  “They drygulched me!” Junior bitterly complained. “Stole my weapons, my horse, my papers—everything. They stripped me and—and threw me in a creek.”

  “How’re you gonna prove …?” began Mole.

  “Sheriff,” frowned Larry, “you’ll just have to take his word for it.”

  “Damn and blast!” gasped Mole. “We’ve been tricked!” “So it would seem, Sheriff,” drawled Klemper. “It’s a wild story, but with a ring of truth to it. If I were you, I’d organize a search party and get out after Harnsey and that impostor.”

  “Stew…!” began Mole.

  “Yeah—I hear you,” grunted Clough. “We better get a hustle on.”

  As the lawmen descended from the porch, Mole glowered resentfully at Junior and snarled a reproach.

  “You’re a poor excuse for a doggone Texas Ranger, and no mistake! I thought you Lone Star lawboys was supposed to be a right smart outfit! This is all your fault, consarn you! I had Harnsey right here in my jail, and …!”

  “Take it easy,” muttered Larry. “It was a sneak ambush. He never knew what hit him.”

  “Some Ranger,” jeered Clough.

  “Yeah!” jibed Mole. “Some Ranger!”

  The lawmen hustled away. Grim-faced, the Texans traded glances. Junior fidgeted uncomfortably under the amused scrutiny of the locals. Stretch spat in disgust, and said,

  “Well—we were too damn late.”

  “We were too late,” mused Larry, “back when we fished Junior out of the creek. The damage was done already.”

  “I don’t doubt the sheriff and his posse will do their utmost to locate Harnsey,” smiled Klemper. “Harnsey—and the fake Ranger. Of course they’ll fail. Harnsey will make a clean getaway.”

  He lit a cigar, thrust his hands in his pants pockets and went right on smiling at the Texans. Somehow, Larry didn’t much appreciate that smile.

  “You sound happy,” he accused.

  “Happy?” The newspaperman’s smile became downright ugly. “I’m delighted!”

  “Just who the hell are you anyway?” demanded Larry.

  “Otto Klemper, editor and owner of the Winfield Clarion.” Klemper was flushed now. A nerve twitched at his temple. His hands shook, as he gesticulated wildly. “So much for the invincibility of the almighty Texas Rangers! Braggarts! Swaggering showoffs! Craig Harnsey is free to plunder and murder again, and a Texas Ranger has lost his pants. How do you suppose that will look in print? Well, you’ll find out. This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for, and
it rates a special edition. Read the Clarion tomorrow morning. Read it—and hang your heads in shame!”

  “You can’t print that!” gasped Junior.

  “Don’t beg from this hombre,” muttered Larry. He was eyeing Klemper shrewdly, sizing him up, sensing the blind, unreasoning hate of the man. “Unless I miss my guess, this scribbler is a Texas-hater from way back.”

  “You’ll be interested to hear,” Klemper smugly informed them, “that the Clarion enjoys a wide circulation. In fact, this next issue may travel as far as Texas!”

  On that triumphant note, he turned and retraced his steps to the Clarion office.

  Four – Skinned Knuckles in the Morning

  “People keep staring at me,” fretted Burch Tatum Junior.

  “You can’t hardly blame ’em, bub,” drawled Stretch. “I bet it’s the first time they seen a growed man cry.”

  “I’m not crying,” Junior heatedly protested. “I’m sore and sorry and fighting mad—but I don’t cry. The hell with those lousy bandidos!”

  “Shuddup,” grunted Larry. “I’m thinkin’.”

  Stretch scratched a match on a porch-post, held the flame to Larry’s cigarette. Larry puffed a blue cloud, and rendered his decision.

  “Nothin’ we can do rightaway. That lard-bellied sheriff might cut sign of Harnsey before sundown, or maybe he won’t. We need a place to sleep, a man-sized supper and some duds for Junior. Tomorrow mornin’, if that posse hasn’t run Harnsey to ground, I’ll figure our next move.” He untethered the sorrel. “All right. Let’s go.”

  They found a gent’s clothing store, just as the proprietor was about to close up.

  “Come back in the morning,” he suggested. “It’s been a busy day for me, and …”

  “Friend …” Larry eyed him soberly and clapped a hand to Junior’s shoulder, “look at this hombre. Don’t it break your heart to see him rigged this way? Don’t you just itch to sell him a new outfit? It won’t take but a few minutes.” He produced his great persuader—the bankroll—and added, “Cash on the barrelhead.”

  “You’ve made your point, stranger,” grinned the storekeeper. “Come on in.”

  When they emerged from the store, Junior looked somewhat more presentable. The boots fitted. The grey felt hat was the correct size, as were the levis, cotton shirt and denim jacket.

  “I’m beholden to you, Larry,” he humbly acknowledged, “and I guarantee to pay you back—every last cent …”

  “Right now,” Larry countered, “I’m not frettin’ about what you owe Stretch and me. What matters is what you owe Texas.”

  They left their horses at the livery stable of a pudgy and genial Mex, one Diego Quantoza. Along Winfield’s main stem the street lamps glowed. Sundown had escaped their attention and their interiors were clamoring a reminder that it was long past suppertime. To a hotel they retired. The Winfield House, an austere but comfortable establishment situated in the heart of town.

  After disposing of a substantial supper in the hotel dining room, they climbed the stairs to the rooms assigned them—a double for Larry and Stretch, with an adjoining single for the disgruntled Junior. In the larger room, they rolled and lit their after-supper smokes and held their council of war.

  “One thing’s for sure,” Larry began. “It ain’t likely the posse could cut sign of Harnsey before dark.”

  “Harnsey,” breathed Junior, “and the sneaking sonofagun that’s wearing my clothes, my badge, my Colts. And using my name!”

  “Quit belly-achin’ and listen to Larry,” chided Stretch. “This here’s a time for figurin’, not for whinin’. Hell, what kind of a Texan are you anyway?” He nodded to Larry. “Keep talkin’, runt.”

  “Even if they found tracks before sundown,” continued Larry, “they can’t follow sign in the dark. There’s no wind, so those tracks’ll still show tomorrow—which is when we’ll start our own search.”

  “Harnsey,” opined Stretch, “is bound to hightail it out of this territory.”

  “Out of the sheriff’s jurisdiction,” nodded Larry. “He can’t tag those owlhoots any further than the county line.”

  “But we,” asserted Stretch, “can go anyplace.”

  “And we will,” Larry vehemently assured them. “If we have to ride three thousand miles, we’ll still catch up with Harnsey and his sidekick.”

  “Sidekicks,” corrected Junior. “At the last count, Harnsey was bossing an eight-man outfit.”

  “Makes no never-mind,” shrugged Stretch. “We don’t care if this Harnsey jasper bosses eighty guns.”

  And now it finally occurred to Burch Tatum Junior that his benefactors were offering more than a helping hand. Casually, but with assurance, these case-hardened nomads spoke of stalking an enemy of superior strength; the obvious risks seemed unimportant to them. He frowned at Stretch, then at Larry, and remarked,

  “You gents are buying into a heap of trouble, and all on my account. I sure appreciate it but—heck—it isn’t your problem. When you pulled me out of that creek, you saved my life. That’s as much as I can ask of you. From here on, I’ll go it alone.”

  “Guess again,” growled Larry. He rose from his chair, stood over the Ranger and jabbed at his chest with a hard forefinger. “Maybe you got a short memory, boy. Maybe you’re forgettin’ that scribbler, that Klemper galoot. He aims to spread this story clear across the southwest and all the way to Texas. The way he writes it, you’ll look like ten different kinds of fool—but that ain’t the half of it! Klemper hates Texas. Couldn’t you see that?”

  “When he said Texas’,” Stretch recalled, “I swear that scribbler looked like he was about to bring up. Yeah. He sure ain’t partial to the old Lone Star.”

  “Klemper’s report,” predicted Larry, “will be an attack on the whole set-up of the Rangers, on the whole State of Texas. People will read it—and laugh!”

  “At Texas,” scowled Stretch.

  Larry stopped jabbing at Junior’s chest, whirled and strode to the window. He stood there, glowering down into Main Street, his thumbs hooked into his gunbelt.

  “You ain’t goin’ home to Texas,” said Larry, “without Harnsey. That much I promise you. When a newspaper starts snipin’ at the old Lone Star, it’s time for every Texan to hit back. How can we hit back at Klemper? There’s only one way.”

  “Prove Junior’s got what it takes, huh, runt?” prodded Stretch.

  “That’s it,’’ said Larry. “We have to nail Harnsey, but make it look like Junior nailed him—and then Klemper has to eat his words and print the truth.”

  “I’m sure grateful,” mumbled Junior.

  “Boy,” frowned Larry, “we ain’t doin’ it for you. We’re doin’ it for Texas.”

  ~*~

  Over breakfast next morning, they read the Clarion’s report of Craig Harnsey’s escape from custody. It gave them indigestion. Klemper, Larry supposed, had really relished this chore. His scorn was reflected in every derisive sentence. Sheriff Mole and Deputy Clough were mentioned only briefly, the inference being that no blame could be laid at their door. The audacity of the bogus Ranger was emphasized, and the genuine Burch Tatum Junior was described as “this inept buffoon—this sorry advertisement for the allegedly invincible law enforcement body of the Lone Star State.” In conclusion, Klemper reported that Morgan Perry, manager of the Settlers’ National Bank, was still in a critical condition. The cashier, Ashley Carlyle, had been permitted to leave his bed, his two bullet wounds having responded satisfactorily to medical treatment.

  Other occupants of the dining room darted curious glances toward the corner table, when Larry muttered an oath, screwed the newspaper into a ball and flung it to the floor. He swigged his coffee down, got to his feet. Stretch and the humiliated Junior rose up and followed him out into the street. There, while building a smoke, Stretch enquired,

  “What do we do now? Mosey along to the Clarion office and choke that lousy scribbler—with one of his own special editions?”

  “That’d
pleasure me plenty,” Larry grimly assured him, “but it wouldn’t really solve anything.”

  “So?” prodded Stretch.

  “So,” said Larry, “we check with the local law, find out if that tin star found tracks of the Harnsey bunch.”

  It seemed Sheriff Mole and Deputy Clough could always be located at the same spot, the shaded porch of the law office. They squatted side by side in cane backs.

  “How about Harnsey and the other jasper?” demanded Larry. “You cut any sign of ’em?”

  “Nary a track,” growled Mole. “Far as I’m concerned, they’ve quit Winfield County.”

  In disgust, the three Texans moved along Main Street to the Quantoza livery stable. The cheerful, grinning proprietor lent an ear to Larry’s request and nodded.

  “One caballo for your amigo? Si, senor. Muy pronto.”

  “Saddle up,” ordered Larry, “for all three of us.”

  Quantoza hustled to obey, while the Texans loafed in the barn entrance, giving this section of Main Street a casual once-over. It promised to be another hot day. Across the street, on the second story gallery of the Winfield House, Larry noted a tall, white-bearded man, well on in years, venerable-looking. He, too, was watching the street. After that brief scrutiny, Larry lost interest in him.

  The attention of the three Texans was now focused on the shabby old-timer advancing along the center of the thoroughfare. He rode a scrawny mule and was garbed in tattered buckskins. His wreck of a hat was being waved wildly and he was yelling at the top of his voice.

  The old-timer jerked his mule to a halt outside a saloon almost directly opposite the livery stable. Early drinkers appeared on the saloon porch and, even at this distance, Larry observed that their grins were contemptuous.

  “Ever’body turn out!” yelled the old man. “Fetch the sheriff! I got big news …!”

  “What is it, Loco?” challenged one of the loungers on the saloon porch.

  “What’d you see this time?” asked another. “A coyote with seven tails?”

  “You gotta listen to me …!” raged the old man.

  Larry snapped his fingers. Quantoza waddled to the doorway, grinning expectantly.