Larry and Stretch 18 Page 4

  At the end of it, Rafael pursed his lips and dolefully shook his head.

  “This is bad, my friend. So much trouble you have.”

  “I’ve known trouble before, Rafael,” drawled Larry. “Trouble and good fortune. Somehow, the good fortune always comes in time to end the trouble. Finding you, I think, has changed my fortune.”

  “I think about your trouble,” frowned Rafael. “I ask myself what can I do to help—but I can think of no way.”

  “There is a way,” declared Larry. “I need to go back to Ketchtown, but not as I appear now.”

  “One disguise—no?”

  “Yes. Sombrero. Camisa. Pantalones. Sandalias.”

  “These I can give you, my friend. Antonio, my eldest son, is almost of a height with you.”

  “And a mule, Rafael. I cannot be seen on this horse. No need for a saddle, but ...”

  “You may take every mule I own, my good friend.”

  “Just one, Rafael, and I borrow it—I don’t take it.”

  “What else would you need?” demanded Rafael.

  “Cigarillos,” decided Larry. “You keep my tobacco and such food as you find in the saddlebag. Give me provisions and water—Mexicano food. The saddle and the blankets must be hidden—buried.”

  “This I will do personally,” Rafael promised.

  “But the horse ...” Larry shook his head worriedly. “It must not be found on your land, Rafael. I don’t want you involved in this trouble. The horse could be killed and buried, but this would seem a waste.”

  “There is an easier way,” grinned Rafael. “In time, this rurale from whom you stole the horse might find it again—and be much puzzled.”

  “Find the bay again?” challenged Larry. “Where?”

  “Less than a half-day’s ride ...” Rafael pointed, “in that direction—is a great plain where many wild horses roam. I will take the rurale’s animal to that place and set it free.”

  Larry chuckled softly and opined, in English,

  “The stallion’d likely appreciate that, even if Deputy Gannon don’t.”

  One hour later, when Larry bade the Martinez family a fond farewell and quit the plateau, he figured that his chances of escaping the attention of Salter’s search parties had doubled. They might spot him, sure, but would they recognize him? He doubted it.

  As far as appearances were concerned, he had changed considerably. He had borrowed Rafael’s razor and had shaved a three-day stubble from his sun-browned jowls, leaving the dark growth on his upper lip, shaving its edges downward, drooping in the manner favored by the typical peon. His hair and eyes were dark brown. On several occasions during his hectic career, he had used a similar disguise, and had passed as a Mexican. The floppy sombrero concealed most of his face anyway, while ever he kept his head bowed. The other garments—the baggy camisa, pantalones and sandalias—were completely in character. Of the items he had stolen from Deputy Gannon, he had retained only the well-filled gun belt and the holstered .45. The belt was tightly buckled and, along with the holster, concealed under the sagging camisa.

  As for the plodding mule, it wasn’t built for speed, but would tote him wherever he needed to go. He yearned to see Ketchtown again, if only to check on his partner’s welfare. His first destination, however, was the cluster of rock on the grassy hillside. He had tangled once with the hard cases who so resembled two certain Texans, and once wasn’t enough.

  Beyond the rocks and across open territory, he slowly followed their tracks. For all he knew, they might have been staked out somewhere atop the wooded ridge, watching him. That possibility caused him no dismay; it didn’t seem likely they would recognize him as the trigger-fast rescuer of Conchita Martinez. Up to the summit of the ridge he urged the lazy mule, to locate further sign of his quarry. Two sets of hoof prints and boot-marks. They had paused here a while. In the short grass, he saw discarded matches and cigarette-butts.

  He dismounted and dropped to hands and knees, crawled cautiously to the edge of the timber and scanned the terrain beyond. Another vast plain, but not so flat, liberally dotted with clumps of mesquite and rock formations. If they were moving in that direction—and their tracks indicated this—following them would be no difficult chore.

  Down the far slope of the ridge he walked the mule. Along the base, the sign showed clear again. He remounted his borrowed transportation and, for the next forty-five minutes, tagged the horse-tracks west. After that, he saw proof that his quarry had become careless, or maybe they had assumed they wouldn’t be followed. Smoke was spiraling up from beyond a stretch of mesquite.

  At the edge of the brush, he dismounted and hobbled the mule. Through the mesquite he crept, hefting a fistful of .45, his nerves steady, his ears cocked. His first intention was to challenge and interrogate them, but he quickly abandoned this idea. They were talking, and he was more than interested in what they had to say. He bellied down and kept crawling until, dead ahead, he spotted them.

  This closer examination of Conchita’s attackers only served to increase his indignation. Consarn these yellow-bellied sidewinders, the resemblance was startling. He guessed the swarthy one to be part-Indian, and bitterly resented the undoubted likeness to himself. As for that sandy-haired hombre, but for his humorless expression, he could almost have passed for Stretch Emerson’s twin.

  The fire had been lit for the brewing of coffee. Porter was lifting the pot from the flames, half-filling a couple of tin mugs. Trask spiked each mug from a whiskey bottle. They swigged a few mouthfuls and resumed their discussion.

  “Always did figure yourself for a ladies’ man, huh, Comanche?” taunted Porter.

  “I said forget it,” Trask sourly reminded him. “Quit pushin,’ Russ.”

  “You near got both of us killed,” drawled Porter.

  “We could’ve taken that hombre,” opined Trask. “What we should’ve done was use our rifles.”

  “Speakin’ for myself,” shrugged Porter, “I didn’t hanker to take no chances. That waddy threw lead like he was born with a six-gun in his paw.”

  “Well, the hell with it,” muttered Trask. “I’ve had my bellyful of moochin’ around this territory.”

  “Squattin’ in that doggone arroyo, waitin’ for Deacon and the others to show up,” growled Porter, “ain’t my idea of a barrel of fun.”

  “Maybe so,” grunted Trask, “but we ought to be gettin’ back. Deacon gets plenty mean, if we don’t do like he says.”

  “We’ll head for the arroyo,” Porter decided, “just as soon as I’m through drinkin’.” He raised his head, stared away in the general direction of the big town. “Wonder how they’re makin’ out?”

  “Just like always, I reckon,” shrugged the half-breed, “Clive bearin’ the drum, Troy squeezin’ on that damn organ. Deacon preachin’ up a storm.”

  “It’s my guess,” offered Porter, “they’ll hit the bank right after closin’ time today. That’s Deacon’s favorite time. Be an easy chore for Clive and Troy. Who’s gonna notice if they sneak outa the wagon and into that rear alley? Nobody. Not with Deacon shootin’ off at the mouth and a whole passel of folks crowdin’ round to listen.”

  “If they handle it quiet,” reflected Trask, “nobody’s gonna know what happened—leastways not till the bank opens tomorrow. And, by then, we’ll all be long gone and far away.” He took another pull at his spiked coffee, grimaced uneasily. “Russ, we oughta be headin’ back to the arroyo. You know what Deacon said.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Porter. “We’ll be there in plenty time. After the way he took on when we told how we grabbed a wad of greenbacks out of that storekeeper’s safe, I ain’t itchin’ to faze him again. He gets mean does Deacon. You’d think such a fat jasper’d be slow with a gun, wouldn’t you? But no. Not Deacon.”

  “Hell, no,” agreed Trask. “The way he whips that hogleg out from under his coat—it’s like greased lightnin’.”

  “I sure scared the innards outa that old galoot,” mused Porter.

&nbs
p; “What old galoot?” prodded Trask.

  “Old jasper in the store,” grinned Porter. “Betcha life he’ll think twice—next time he itches to pull a gun outa that safe. I creased him good, and he sure bled. Nicked his right shoulder, I did.”

  “Left shoulder,” corrected Trask, “Hell, Russ, you dunno your left side from your right.”

  “What’s the difference?” chuckled Porter. “I sure as hell discouraged him. You hear him cussin’, when me and you was headed for the door?”

  “Sure,” nodded Trask. “I heard him cussin’. That was just before that other feller come down the stairs.” He finished his drink, emptied the grinds from the coffee-pot and carried mug and pot to his saddlebag. “Russ, d’you suppose Deacon’ll give us any part of it—the dinero we grabbed from the store?”

  “I dunno,” frowned Porter. “But we oughta get a share. After all, we handled that job all by our own selves.”

  He rose up, kicked dirt onto the fire and strode to the pinto to stash his tin mug. From where he lay Larry could have put them out of action, and easily. Two fast shots would do it. Hit their gun-arms. Maybe he would do exactly that, but not immediately. Later. They had spoken of a rendezvous at which they were to meet three others—Deacon, Clive and Troy—and it was all too clear that these three were in the banking business, in a manner of speaking. The situation was becoming a mite more complicated.

  Chapter Four –

  Play a Waiting Game

  More by luck than arrangement, Porter and Trask remained blissfully unaware that their damning conversation had been overheard. Had they ambled their horses through the mesquite, they would surely have sighted the hobbled mule. As it was, they skirted the brush and took off towards the south-west.

  Larry broke cover, stared after them a while and decided that keeping track of them would be no difficult chore for him. He then lit a cigarillo, squatted on a rock and pondered the significance of all he’d heard.

  Crazy luck. He now knew the two hard cases for whose crime he and Stretch had been arrested. But it wasn’t all that simple. Comanche and Russ had robbed Eli Ventaine, and Russ had bragged of discouraging the storekeeper with a bullet, inflicting a shoulder-wound. The storekeeper was cussing, well and truly alive, when the thieves quit the emporium. Larry considered Comanche and his sidekick to be more than capable of cold-blooded murder. However, it seemed neither of them had actually killed Ventaine. If not Comanche or Russ—who then?

  That was food for thought, and equally intriguing was their mention of three cronies—Deacon, Clive and Troy. Apparently, Deacon was the boss of this unsavory collection of sneak-thieves.

  Why had he permitted Comanche and Russ to depart unchallenged? The answer reflected Larry Valentine’s talent for audacity, the grim pleasure he always derived from springing a trap on the lawless. He intended following Comanche and Russ to the rendezvous. While they waited, so would he. Later, when they were joined by their three cohorts—plus the money stolen from some Ketchtown bank—he would challenge all five of them, and to hell with the risks. What better way to confound that bumptious sheriff than to deliver these thieving sidewinders into his custody?

  One hour later, from the concealment of a stand of timber, he watched his quarry moving south-west, taking their time. Then, suddenly, they were hustling their mounts to speed, making an urgent dash for cover. He wondered why, until he spotted the reason. A formidable body of horsemen descended from the ridge to the south, just as Comanche and Russ disappeared into a cedar brake. Sheriff Salter’s posse was still out and about. Larry grinned, lit another cigarillo and waited patiently for the searchers to file across the flats and past his hiding place.

  As soon as the lawmen and their volunteers were out of sight, the two desperadoes broke cover and continued their journey south-west. Larry gave them a three hundred yard start before nudging the mule to movement again.

  In the hour before noon, from his vantage point at the barred window of his cell, Stretch Emerson saw the mourners returning from the Ketchtown cemetery. An exceptionally beautiful young woman was being escorted to the Ventaine Emporium by a serious-faced man in black broadcloth. Other black-garbed locals converged on the store porch for a few words with this couple.

  Over his shoulder, Stretch drawled a query to the aged turnkey.

  “Who might them folks be?”

  ‘What folks?” grunted Chris. And he added, somewhat unnecessarily, “I can’t see through no stone wall.”

  “Talkin’ about a bunch of citizens in black duds,” frowned Stretch, “gatherin’ outside of the emporium.”

  Chris produced a battered silver timepiece, squinted at it.

  “Oh, sure. That’ll be old Eli Ventaine’s kin and friends—comin’ back from the buryin’.”

  “One of them women,”’ observed Stretch, “the young one—my gosh—I never seen a female so all-fired purty.”

  “If she’s all that purty,” offered Chris, “you can bet you’re lookin’ at Miss Lucinda herself. ‘Case you’re interested, Tex, old Eli was her pappy.”

  Stretch grimaced, seized by a sudden feeling of disquiet.

  “Who’s the good-lookin’ hombre with her?” he demanded.

  “That’d be old Eli’s nephew—Miss Lucinda’s cousin,” said Chris. “Wilbur Neale’s his handle. He’s the feller spotted you and your pard hightailin’ it outa the store—after you gunned Eli.”

  “Well,” said Stretch, “that Neale hombre made a powerful bad mistake.”

  “How would you know?” challenged Chris. “You done lost your memory, boy. You can’t ’member nothin’.”

  “Can’t recall a thing,” lied Stretch. “But I’ll tell you somethin’, old timer. I sure don’t feel like a killer.”

  “Must be kinda handy at that,” reflected Chris. “Losin’ your memory, I mean. Wish it could happen to me. I can think of a heap of things I’d like to forget.”

  Stretch lowered himself to the bunk, sprawled on his back and closed his eyes, but couldn’t erase that one impression of Lucinda Ventaine—her beauty, her dignity, her obvious grief. That fine lady thought him to be an accessory in the murder of her father, to whom she was probably devoted. Yeah. Him and Larry. Scapegoats. It wasn’t the first time the Texas Hell-Raisers had been unjustly accused. As a matter of fact, such incidents had occurred with monotonous regularity over the past fifteen years. It seemed that, at the first sight of them, any and all lawmen were wont to assert “They did it!”

  Sometimes, there had been an undercurrent of ironic humor in those false accusations. Sometimes—but not this time. He rankled at the thought. A fine lady like her? It was a doggone outrage. At this very moment, he would have given a year of his life for just fifteen minutes of private conversation with her, the chance to assure her of his and Larry’s innocence.

  But how to reach her? How to get to talk with her? It just didn’t seem possible. He could hardly send for her. Hell. no. You don’t send a note to such a lady—“Dear Miss Lucinda, I’d be obliged if you’d come visit me at the calaboose, on account of I want to tell you I didn’t shoot your pappy.” Hell, no. That would never do.

  So there had to be another way.

  The posse was still out searching for Larry. Well, that was a break. Except for himself and the turnkey, the jail seemed deserted. He threw the old man a furtive sidelong glance. Chris was squatting on his stool, stuffing tobacco into the bowl of his corncob. The shotgun rested across his bony knees. His Colt sagged in the well-worn holster slung to his right hip. Right now, Chris Randall didn’t look any too dangerous. Stretch figured he could take him, and without working up a sweat. But it would be a doggone shame. He didn’t relish the notion of striking a man old enough to be his father and, besides, he had become genuinely fond of him. Chris was such a genial jasper. Real friendly.

  He rose up again, peered out the window. The Chapel on Wheels still blocked the entrance to a side alley a short distance uptown. That bull-voiced deacon feller was leading an assembly o
f some two score locals in the singing of a hymn. Solid-built jasper was performing on the harmonium. Pasty-faced one was squatting on the platform, his head bent to an open Bible.

  Now, Stretch decided, might be just as good a time as any other. He perched on the edge of the bunk, fished out his makings and built a cigarette. With the cigarette canting from the side of his mouth, he ambled across to the bars. Chris looked up, flashed him a companionable grin.

  “Ever thought of takin’ to a pipe, son? Durn sight smoother’n a cigareet.”

  “Oh,” shrugged Stretch, “I guess I’ll stick to Bull Durham.”

  He dug out his matches, leaned against the bars. Then, as he slid a vesta from the box, he pretended to fumble. The box slipped from his hand and fell into the corridor, and Chris reacted instinctively, bending to retrieve it for him; His torso was within easy reach of Stretch’s long arms. Stretch bent. His left arm snaked between the bars, the hand closing over the butt of Chris’s .45. The old Colt cleared the holster fast. Chris slowly straightened up, blinking. His own gun was cocked and pointed unerringly at his chest. He frowned, took a tighter grip on his shotgun.

  “Old timer,” said Stretch, very gently, “you could never swing and cock that cannon—not any faster’n I could pull trigger. And I don’t want to do that—so don’t make me.”

  “Young feller,” said Chris, “you ain’t tellin’ me nothin’ I don’t already know.”

  “So set that cannon down—real quiet,” begged Stretch.

  Chris set the shotgun down, shrugged philosophically, and declared,

  “It ain’t that I’m cowardly, you understand. It’s just I always did have a hankerin’ to die in bed.”

  “Sure,” nodded Stretch.