Larry and Stretch 9 Read online

  “I’m riding to Chestnut Creek,” she confided. “Maybe you’ve heard? Larry and Stretch are in jail there.”

  “Yup—sure enough,” he nodded. “Read about it. They’re stashed in the calaboose. You sayin’ you aim to bring ’em to the county?”

  “If everything I’ve heard is true,” she told him, “Larry Valentine won’t pass up a chance to unmask a drygulcher.”

  “Well—uh—how’re you fixin’ to bust ’em outa jail?” wondered Luke.

  “I’m no jailbreaker, Mr. Sorley,” she smiled. “Getting them released will be easy enough. All I have to do is pay a hundred dollar fine.”

  “Think of that!” Luke was impressed. “You need a hunnerd dollars, so all you gotta do is dig it outa your pocket.” He shook his head incredulously.

  “I must be on my way,” she announced.

  She heeled her mount to a brisk run. He stared after her until she became invisible in the increasing gloom. Then, stiff-legged, he began trudging across country in the general direction of the homestead. Often, he stumbled, because he was deep in thought and paying little attention to the ground beneath his plodding feet. The sluggish brain of Luke Sorley was hard at work.

  He had never seen them, but was familiar with their mode of existence, their attitudes, their rough gallantry, thanks to the busy pens of many a frontier journalist. In a way he felt he knew them already and could count them as old friends—these rampaging, tough-as-leather Texans currently sojourning in the Chestnut Creek pokey. Larry and Stretch, he felt sure, could be recruited to the Sorley cause. Yup. It could be done. Of course, their main concern would be the apprehension of a killer. Still, while they were thus engaged, they might as well be lending much-needed assistance to the deserving Sorley clan. He pondered this possibility at some length and, by the time he returned to his long-suffering spouse and half-starved children—all nine of them—the plan was clear in his mind. He could do it, by Jonas, and do it he would.

  Hattie Alden reached Chestnut Creek at exactly eight-fifty of the following morning. Even at that early hour it was obvious that all was not quiet at the premises housing the town jail and marshal’s office. A red-faced Mace Bridges, backed by an equally harassed Deputy Street, was on the law office porch, brandishing a shotgun and loudly ordering a crowd to disperse.

  The crowd was composed of Chestnut Creek’s low life—barflies, saloon-women, layabouts and casehardened rowdies—all trying to jam into the alley beside the calaboose. There was laughter and there was music, the latter supplied by an improvised orchestra of concertina, two guitars, a harmonica and a Jew’s harp. The entranced lowbrows were listening to a spirited duet rendered by the two men at the cell-window. The women were screaming encouragement. The barflies were cheering lustily and the “orchestra” was giving of its best.

  The song was unfamiliar to Hattie, but she conceded it had a certain appeal—especially for Texans. What these drifters lacked in tonal quality was compensated for by lung-power, so every word reached her clearly.

  If there’s anybody here from Texas,

  Shake my doggone hand.

  If there’s anybody here from Texas,

  Name your doggone brand.

  We got beer from Chicago,

  Brandy from New York,

  Tequila that the wetbacks drink by the quart;

  But if there’s anybody here from Texas,

  Whiskey’s what you’ll get—you bet!

  Whiskey’s what you’ll get ...

  Bridges unleashed a venomous oath and discharged his shotgun to the sky, as a final discourager. Had he exploded a charge of dynamite, the result would have been equally as frustrating. The Texans’ well-wishers were staying put. To the law office hitch-rack, Hattie guided her horse. Deputy Street remembered his manners and descended the steps to help her dismount. She thanked him, after which he followed her up to the porch.

  “Could we talk inside?” she politely enquired of the marshal.

  “Well—sure, ma’am,” frowned the confused Bridges. The lawmen ushered her into the untidy, musty-smelling office. Hoping to shut out some of the uproar, Street slammed the door; it didn’t help. In the general direction of the cells, Bridges bawled a plea.

  “Shuddup—for gosh sakes!” To Hattie, he woefully asserted: “They’ll drive me outa my ever-lovin’ mind! I can’t take much more of this—and they’re in for ninety days. Think of that, ma’am. Ninety days! They sing. They make jokes. They get grub and whiskey for free, donated by the percentage gals and all the stumblebums of Chestnut Creek. Everyone loves these crazy Texans—’cept me!”

  “That being so,” said Hattie, “you should thank me for coming. My name is Alden.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am,” sighed Bridges. “I’m Mace Bridges.” He darted a scowl of resentment at the cellblock door. “That Valentine—goldang his ornery hide. You know what he calls me? Me! The town marshal! He keeps callin’ me Lace Britches! Consarn him. It ain’t decent!”

  “How would you like,” Hattie asked, “to be rid of them?”

  The lawman tensed. Bridges made a choking sound.

  “Say that again?”

  “Will you surrender them to my custody,” she challenged, “if I pay their fine and guarantee they’ll leave town before noon?”

  “You’d pay their fine?” Street eyed her beseechingly. “You’d really do that?”

  “And—get em outa Chestnut Creek,” gasped Bridges, “by high noon? Oh, glory ...!” He seized Hattie’s hands and, for one startling moment, she wondered if he would kiss them. “You’d take ’em away ...?”

  “I mean what I say,” frowned Hattie. From a pocket of her riding skirt she produced two fifty-dollar bills. “I’ll pay their fine. You’ll let me have a receipt, of course. Then, if you’ll tell me where you left their horses, I’ll wait for them there.”

  At a speed that belied his years, Marshal Bridges planted his excess fat in a chair, reached for pen and paper and began scribbling a receipt. Hattie surrendered the money, and asked:

  “Which livery stable?”

  “Holley’s,” panted Street. “Two blocks uptown. You can’t miss it.”

  She pocketed the receipt, turned toward the door.

  “Very well, Marshal Bridges. I’ll wait for them at Holley’s.”

  The day was clear and sunny. Her weariness left her and, as she led her mount uptown to the livery stable, she felt restored, optimistic, justified in what she had done. Zeke Holley proved to be genial and paternal. While she rested on the bench outside the barn door, he took charge of her animal and began rubbing it down.

  She relaxed, her eyes turned to the downtown area. The uproar at Bridges’ headquarters had subsided somewhat. Garishly garbed women and shabby loafers were drifting away from the building and she felt sure the Texans would soon be joining her.

  “You have the horses of Marshal Bridges’ prisoners?” she asked Holley.

  “Sure enough, ma’am,” he nodded. “The sorrel and the pinto.”

  “Would you saddle them, please?” she requested.

  “What for?” he blinked. “Them saddlebums ain’t goin’ nowheres.”

  “They’ll be leaving soon,” she assured him. “I paid their fine.”

  “Well, all right,” he shrugged. “No skin offa my nose.”

  She waited patiently for ten more minutes, and then her patience was rewarded. Two tall men had descended the law office steps and were ambling toward her. They had strapped on their side arms. The taller man hefted their rifles and several bottles. His partner, whom she knew to be Larry Valentine, was toting a sagging gunnysack. Balanced on the flat of his left hand was a pie-dish. The barflies and saloon girls of Chestnut Creek, she reflected, had been more than generous.

  Would her father approve of this? She wondered about that, as she pensively scrutinized the approaching Texans. Was she expecting too much of them, over-estimating their ability? Maybe the newspapers had exaggerated, but she didn’t think so. It was easy to believe that
Larry Valentine had planned and triggered many a violent showdown with the forces of lawlessness. He looked rough and shabby, even shiftless, but formidable, as he sauntered toward her. Despite the pie-dish balanced on his left hand. And the other one, the beanpole. An almost comical figure was the scrawny Stretch Emerson—but who could discount the significance of those matched .45s?

  She had read of the legend. Now, the legend was coming to life before her eyes. They paused, subjected her to a searching scrutiny.

  “You the lady paid our fine?” Larry enquired.

  “Yes,” she nodded. “You’re Mr. Valentine.” She transferred her gaze to the taller one. “And this will be Mr. Emerson.”

  “I guess you had a reason,” Larry challenged.

  “A reason which should interest you,” she murmured.

  “Well,” he frowned, “you paid a hundred good American dollars to get us out of old Lace Britches’ calaboose. Least we can do is thank you—and invite you to tell us why.” He hunkered down beside the bench. “You can call me Larry.”

  “And call me Stretch,” offered Stretch.

  Larry produced his Bowie, flashed her an amiable grin “You want a piece of pie?”

  Four – “Us Poor Sorleys”

  She was able to forget, for a few moments, the sadness that had afflicted her since her discovery of the murdered Del Weaver. It was easy to thrust sadness aside when confronted by two such affable hellions.

  “Thanks,” she smiled. “I’ll take a small piece.”

  “I’ll have me a sizeable chunk,” Larry decided.

  “Don’t worry ’bout me,” offered Stretch. “I’ll just eat the rest of it.”

  And that was how it began for Hattie Alden. Her association with the Texas nomads had its beginning outside a small town livery stable, in leisurely, unconventional fashion, during the consuming of an apple pie baked by some woman of easy virtue whose name the Texans couldn’t remember.

  She told them everything she knew of her kinsman’s death, her discovery of the body, the fact that Del had been riding his thoroughbred quarter-horse at the time of the ambush, the futile attempts of Sheriff Loomis and Deputy Kellogg to cut sign of the killer, her father’s decision to post a reward, her own conviction that only an experienced trouble-shooter—a man of Larry’s caliber—could get to the bottom of such a mystery.

  “My cousin was a good man, Larry,” she frowned. “He dealt fairly with everybody, and I never believed he had an enemy—until now. Maybe I’m asking too much of you. You’d be in strange territory. My own father will probably refuse to help you, because he doesn’t trust drifters. Well? Am I asking too much?”

  “Runt,” grunted Stretch, “we was gettin’ weary of this burg.”

  “Uh huh,” nodded Larry. “Time for us to be movin’ on—and Becksburg would be as a good a place as any.”

  “I know you aren’t bounty-hunters,” said Hattie, “but my father is offering a reward of two thousand dollars. When you’ve found Del’s murderer, I think you should take the money. You’ll have earned it.” Her next words were chosen with care. “In the meantime, if you need money for expenses ...”

  “You paid our fine,” Larry reminded her. “That’s as much dinero as we’ll let you lose on our account. We owe you plenty.”

  “Includin’,” drawled Stretch, “the sidewinder that gunned Cousin Del.”

  “More than one sidewinder is my guess,” frowned Larry, “if they killed the horse as well.” He grimaced in disgust. “It’s rough what happened to Weaver, but it’s worse when they trigger a good horse. Where’s the sense to that?”

  “I’ve wondered about that,” Hattie admitted.

  “You said there’s gonna be some kind of race in Beck County?” prodded Larry.

  “A land-rush, officially,” she told him. “I guess you could call it a race.”

  “I wonder,” he mused, “if some local sport is makin’ book on the race, and maybe figured to lose a passel of dinero if Snow-Boy won. That could be a reason for killin’ the calico.”

  “As far as I know,” said Hattie, “nobody has begun gambling on the race. But, of course, they might.” She rose from the bench as Holley emerged from the barn, leading her horse. “I’m starting for home now. It might be wiser if we traveled separately, if you don’t mind ...”

  “That’s okay.” Larry nodded knowingly. “Your pappy’d be sore as a new boil, if he knew you’d ridden such a distance with a couple drifters.”

  “What’s her pappy got against drifters?” wondered Stretch. “Shucks, me and you been on the drift all our lives—and we’re plumb harmless.”

  “You know it, and I know it,” countered Larry, “but Clem Alden—he don’t know it.” He doffed his Stetson, boosted Hattie into her saddle, then told her, “We’ll tag you, Miss Hattie, but not real close.”

  “I expect to reach Bar A by midnight,” she announced. “I guess that means you’ll arrive in Becksburg tomorrow morning. Well, take care, Larry, and I hope your luck holds.”

  They waved farewell. She wheeled her mount and rode uptown, while they rolled cigarettes and stared after her, quietly trading comments. In response to Stretch’s inevitable query, “What d’you make of it?” Larry asserted:

  “It’s a mite early for hunches and such. All we know is what she told us.”

  “She told us plenty,” Stretch pointed out.

  “Only as much as she knows,” said Larry. “There has to be a reason for everything, big feller. Includin’ murder. Maybe I’ll start by lookin’ for the reason. I don’t know—won’t know—till we’re takin’ a look at Becksburg.”

  They ambled into the barn where Holley had readied their horses. Unhurriedly, they stowed the gift offerings into their saddlebags.

  “Enough chow and redeye to last us quite a spell,” Stretch cheerfully remarked.

  “Damn right,” Larry agreed. “We found plenty friendly folks in this town—as well as the other kind.”

  They secured the flaps of their saddlebags, slid their rifles into the scabbards and swung astride. In leisurely fashion they guided their mounts out of the barn and along the main stem, moving northward.

  In the first hour after noon they camped by a rippling creek, spelled their horses and rustled up a sizeable lunch. Later, their spirits boosted by black coffee spiked with raw whiskey, they broke camp and traveled on. Hattie Alden was moving at a steady pace, while her new friends were advancing at a dawdle. She was a full three miles to the north of them, when they approached the southern border of Beck County—and encountered the first evidence of opposition.

  To their right, a high butte towered to the fading blue sky of late afternoon. Away to their left stood a few stunted cedars. They were in between, traveling a wide-open strip of country, when they heard the distant crackle of rifles. The shots were fired from high above, away to their right, obviously from atop the butte. The first slug whistled six inches above the top of Stretch’s Stetson. The second sped between two heads—Larry’s and the sorrel’s and ricocheted off a boulder embedded in the trail. Stretch gave vent to a lurid curse, as he slid his Winchester from its sheath. Larry’s mount reared, neighing shrilly.

  ‘They’re atop the butte!” yelled Stretch. “Damn and blast!”

  He rose in his stirrups, triggered a slug toward the summit of the butte, while Larry lithely dismounted.

  “Head for cover, big feller! The trees ...”

  They quit the trail with the fast-triggered slugs still smacking into the ground all around them.

  And then they spotted the scarecrow, the human, moving scarecrow that was Luke Sorley. The old man had bustled out of the trees and was gesturing to them, brandishing a Henry repeater.

  “Keep a’comin’, gents!” he called. “I’ll cover for you!”

  “Wait a minute!” gasped Larry.

  To his astonishment the old-timer dashed out on to the trail—in plain sight of the snipers atop the butte. Standing there with his legs braced, he raised the Henry and
began triggering in retaliation, the while he yelled defiance.

  “Come out where I can see you—you lousy, sneakin’ sidewinders! Come out and fight like men.”

  The Henry barked in angry defiance. The guns of the snipers were setting up a clatter reminiscent of a July Fourth celebration and, all around that standing scarecrow, the dust rose from rifle-slugs spattering the baked ground.

  “What in tarnation does he think he’s doin’?” wondered Stretch. “Hell’s bells! They’ll cut him down for sure!”

  “Hey, Pop!” roared Larry. “Over here!”

  “You gents stay where it’s safe,” retorted Luke, “and don’t fret about me. I’ll protect you, by golly. I ain’t afeared to risk my hide for you!”

  “What did he say?” blinked Stretch.

  “My ears,” frowned Larry, “must be playin’ tricks!” The scarecrow hadn’t budged. He was still cutting loose with his Henry, and the attackers hadn’t begun to quit. Larry saw a puff of dust arise a mere five inches from the old man’s right boot, and that was enough—more than enough. Flushed with rage, Larry gripped his rifle and rammed an elbow into Stretch’s ribs.

  “What in blazes are we waitin’ for? He’s old enough to be our gran’pappy! Are we gonna let him stop a bullet on our account?”

  “Lead on, runt!” scowled Stretch.

  They broke from the timber and, bent double, ran across to join their “protector.” Stretch rendered the old man prone by the simple expedient of ramming his rifle crosswise at the backs of his knees. Luke sat down. Stretch sprawled atop him, shielding him with his own body, while Larry dropped to one knee and triggered a burst.

  “Hold on, gents,” panted Luke. “They’ve quit!”

  Larry stopped shooting abruptly, cocked an ear. The old man was right. No more shooting from the butte.

  “What the hell ...?” he began.

  “Plain enough, ain’t it?” The old man struggled from under Stretch and lurched to his feet. “I skeered ’em off. Hah! Yeller-bellied cowards!”

  “Get the horses,” Larry curtly ordered Stretch.