Larry and Stretch 12 Page 5

  “Who?” demanded Larry, nodding to the rider of the mule.

  “Ah—this one.” Quantoza shrugged sadly. “This one they call Loco, senor. Leech is his name. He is called Loco because …” another shrug, “people remember, senor.”

  “People remember what?” prodded Larry.

  “The stories he brings to this town,” Quantoza explained. “So many times, senor. And such wild stories.” He grinned, raised a chubby finger to his temple and winked significantly. “It is the bebida espiritosa—what you call the firewater—no? Too much he drinks. Too much he talks. Once, many hombres of this town ride to the hills with him, because he tells of seeing a two-headed bear. Another time, he brings warning of an Indian attack.” He shook his head again, heaved a sigh. “There were no Indians. Only the ninos at play, with the feathers in their hair. So now nobody believes him. They laugh at him.”

  “They ain’t just laughin’ at him now,” growled Stretch. “They’re startin’ to play rough.”

  And that was putting it mild. Three hefty locals were bedeviling the old man. One had dragged him from the mule. Another, to the accompaniment of much laughter from the onlookers, shoved him to the dust and secured his feet with the noose of a lariat. He then mounted a horse and walked it a few paces, with the end of the lariat lashed to the saddlehorn. The line became taut. For several yards, the wildly protesting Loco Leech was dragged through the dirt.

  Stretch bunched his fists. Larry darted a glance toward the law office and observed that Mole and Clough were fixtures in their chairs, viewing the proceedings, but making no move to interfere. He didn’t notice that the white-bearded gent on the hotel balcony was watching intently, but he did spot the leering Otto Klemper standing in the street doorway of the Clarion office, puffing on a cigar and grinning his mirthless grin.

  “Three of ’em!” fumed Stretch. “He’s old enough to be their gran’pappy—but they gang up on him—and nobody lifts a hand to help him!” He dug an elbow into Larry’s ribs. “What’re we waitin’ for?”

  “Who’s waitin’?” scowled Larry, for he was already crossing the street.

  Junior bounded after them, asserting,

  “I’d better come along. I’m a handy man in any hassle, as you’ll damn soon see.”

  Junior proved his good intentions—and nothing more. When Stretch released the hapless Loco by the simple expedient of slashing the taut lariat with his Bowie, the rider promptly dismounted and advanced on him, swinging. Simultaneously, the other two turned to deal with Larry and Junior. With vigor and grim resolution, Junior swung his first and only punch. It missed and, for some time thereafter, he lost all interest in the violent proceedings. The local rowdy’s fist seemed to explode in his face. He backstepped, tripped, sprawled and slept.

  “Put up that knife, big man!” snarled the owner of the cut lariat. “Let’s see if you’re just as smart with your fists!”

  “Why, sure,” nodded Stretch, as he returned the Bowie to its sheath. “Let’s just find out about that.”

  He ducked a right, parried a left, dodged a lashing kick, then stepped in close with his arms working like pistons. Four hard blows he landed, one and two to the belly, one and two to the face. Loco Leech’s tormentor spun like a dervish and pitched to the dust face-first.

  The man who had felled Junior whirled to lend assistance to Larry’s attacker. Abruptly, Larry reduced the odds. His wild uppercut sent one of them reeling back to collide with Stretch. Stretch promptly turned him round, took aim and drove a hard right that sent the befuddled one somersaulting over the hitchrack.

  A cynical local had once remarked that, if two dogs began fighting in Main Street, at least a dozen citizens would turn out to watch. Naturally, therefore, more than a dozen turned out to view this most spectacular donnybrook. By the time Mole and his deputy bestirred themselves and quit the law office porch, better than two score locals had ringed the brawlers and were yelling encouragement.

  From the saloon porch, other local roughnecks hurled themselves into the fray, only to be swiftly discouraged by the rock-hard fists of the free-swinging Texans, One of Larry’s victims, however, required even sterner discouragement. Larry’s punch sent him reeling into the crowd, from which two locals were attempting to extricate themselves.

  The woman, Larry had time to note, was a beautiful brunette, fashionably-gowned, every inch a lady. The man had one arm in a sling and was using a crutch. He was well dressed, a passably handsome man whose face had lost much of its color. Larry’s blood boiled, when the rowdy snatched the crutch and came barging back to swing it at him.

  The front end of the crutch missed Larry’s head by less than an inch. He hurled himself forward, putting all his muscle behind a driving right to the midriff. His victim made a gasping sound, sagged at the knees. Larry seized him by his hair and hauled him to the lame man.

  “Give back the crutch!” he panted. As an added persuader, he struck at the man’s neck with the edge of his palm. “Beg his pardon—and give him the crutch!”

  “Beg—pardon …!” groaned the roughneck, as he surrendered the crutch to its owner.

  “Sorry about this, friend,” muttered Larry. And he took time to doff his Stetson to the young woman. “My apologies to you too, ma’am.”

  Having performed that necessary courtesy, he turned, spun his victim around and swung a hard kick to the seat of the pants. Like a bird in flight, the rowdy soared to the saloon steps and measured his length. Larry turned to seek fresh opposition, only to be bitterly disappointed. As so often happened, his lean saddlepard had contributed more than his fair share to the free-for-all.

  Somewhat belatedly, Mole and Clough arrived. Their hands were gun-filled. They were glaring ferociously at the Texans.

  “I knew,” breathed the sheriff, “if I waited long enough, I’d have an excuse for stashin’ you troublemakers in a cell. Sooner or later, I knew you’d go too far. Doggone shiftless Texans—good-for-nothin’s!”

  Junior revived and struggled to his feet, blinking dazedly and rubbing at an aching jaw. Larry and Stretch stood shoulder to shoulder, and the anger in their eyes should have acted as a warning signal to the belligerent badge-toters. The locals watched tensely.

  And then, suddenly, a sharp voice cut through the silence.

  “Sheriff Mole; A moment of your time—your precious time—if you please.”

  It was the venerable gentleman with the white beard, the man Larry had noted earlier. He didn’t seem quite as venerable now. Scorn flashed from his narrowed eyes. Mole began sweating profusely.

  “Why, howdy there, Judge Swinburne. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I arrived late last night,” snapped the circuit judge.

  “Well now, Judge …” Mole fidgeted uncomfortably, "don’t you fret yourself about this little hassle. I’ll bring these no-account Texans up to the courthouse just as soon as you say the word, and …”

  “I’ll hear charges of disorderly conduct,” scowled Swinburne, “against these

  men…” One by one he nodded to the slumbering locals. “As for these others…” he gestured to the three Texans and the old trapper, “there will be no charges, no arrest!”

  “Well, shucks…” began Mole.

  “Don’t bandy words with me, Sheriff Mole!” The judge fixed a steely glare on both lawmen. “I was watching this affair. I saw you watching! You made no attempt to intervene, when your fellow citizens assaulted an old and helpless man. It was left to these strangers to rescue him—and now you have the barefaced gall to threaten them with arrest?”

  “Well…” Mole tried again.

  “Confound you, sir!” barked Swinburne. “You’re a disgrace to the badge you wear! Sheath your weapons and escort these roughnecks to the courthouse—immediately!”

  “Yessir, Judge,” mumbled Mole. “Whatever you say.”

  The battered rowdies were hauled to their feet and hustled away to the courthouse with His Honor striding majestically in the wake of the d
isgruntled lawmen.

  Larry looked at Loco Leech. The old man stood beside his mule, his head bowed. He was muttering to himself, and with imaginative profanity. The crowd was dispersing, but two locals were lingering—the beautiful brunette, the lame man whose arm was in a sling. They came forward to introduce themselves.

  “Thanks,” grinned the lame man, “for returning my crutch undamaged. I regret I’ll need it several more weeks. May I present Miss Catherine Perry, and my name is Carlyle.”

  “Valentine,” offered Larry.

  “Emerson,” said Stretch.

  “Burch Tatum Junior,” Junior proudly announced, "of the Texas Rangers.”

  “Ah, yes,” nodded Carlyle, “I was hoping for a chance to speak with you, Mr. Tatum.”

  “We read about you folks in the paper,” frowned Larry. "Miss Catherine, we sure hope your father gets to be healthy again—and real soon.”

  “Doctor Webb hasn’t given up hope,” she murmured, “and neither have I. Thank you, Mr. Valentine.”

  “If there’s anything we can do…” began Larry.

  “I appreciate the kindly thought, Valentine,” said Carlyle, “but there’s nothing anybody can do, I’m sorry to say.”

  “That’s where you’re dead wrong, mister,” countered Stretch. “Dead wrong.”

  “Pardon?” frowned the cashier.

  “We’re headed after the Harnsey bunch,” said Larry, and calmly, without bravado, "Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  Junior sternly contributed his ten cents worth, declaring, “I have a score to settle with those sidewinders.”

  Carlyle nodded thoughtfully.

  “I’m not much of a fighting man,” the cashier told Larry. “But, if it weren’t for my injuries, I’d be asking you to take me along.”

  “Ashley is more than an employee to my father,” offered Catherine. “They’ve been friends many years.”

  “You said you wished to speak with me, Mr. Carlyle?” asked Junior.

  “Only to assure you,” said Carlyle, “that not all citizens of this community believe what they read in Otto Klemper’s paper. Anything reported in the Clarion we take with a grain of salt, if you know what I mean. There’s no disgrace to being shot from ambush. It could happen to anybody. I know how you must feel, but I urge you to ignore Klemper’s ravings. The man’s a foul-tempered bigot.”

  “I appreciate your goodwill, sir,” acknowledged Junior. He squared his shoulders, jutted his jaw. “And I give you my word as a Texas gentleman that I’ll do my goldurnedest to catch those thieving coyotes…”

  “Whoa—whoa…” chided Stretch.

  “… and retrieve,” finished Junior, “every dollar they stole from the Settlers’ National.”

  “I’ll relay that promise to Dad,” smiled Catherine.

  “Which reminds me,” frowned Carlyle, “we should be getting back to the house.” He offered his good hand to the Texans. “My pleasure, gentlemen. Good luck on your mission.”

  The Texans shook hands with him, doffed their Stetsons to the comely Catherine. Then, as Carlyle and Catherine walked away, Larry switched his attention to the old-timer mumbling beside the droopy mule. Loco Leech was scratching himself and casting many a resentful glance toward the saloon.

  “Empty-headed idjits!” he panted. “Doubtin’ a man’s word. Belittlin’—always belittlin’. I was gonna tell you. I was gonna let every able-bodied man in this here town take a hand in it—but not anymore. No siree, by gosh, not anymore!” He took the mule’s rein and led it across to where the Texans stood. They greeted him with friendly nods. Squinting at them, he muttered, “You’re the three fellers that sided me. Yeah. You whupped all them smart-alecks, and that was sure a pleasin’ sight. Leech is my handle. They call me Loco, but I ain’t. Sure pleased to meetcha.”

  “Likewise, old-timer,” nodded Larry. “You okay now? They didn’t hurt you bad?”

  “The worst hurt,” sighed Loco, “is them callin’ me a Whiskey-head and a liar. That’s what hurts most.” He glanced furtively to right and left, then leaned close to them and crooked a finger. “Psst! C’mere!”

  Not wishing to offend this apparently addle-brained old man, Larry and Stretch bent to catch his words.

  “I was gonna tell evr’body!” hissed Loco. “But they laughed at me and they cussed me out, so now…”

  “So now you’ll tell ’em nothin’,” nodded Larry.

  “But you three boys,” breathed Loco. “You did me a kindness. You I’ll tell. Nobody else. Information is what I got—the kinda information that’s likely worth a purty passel o’ cash.”

  “What’d you do, friend?” asked Stretch. “Strike gold, while you was settin’ your traps?”

  “Didn’t strike gold,” frowned Loco. “But what I seen is just as doggone valuable.” He crooked his finger again. “Tag along with me where nobody can hear us.”

  Abruptly, he turned away from them and began walking his mule toward the next corner uptown. Larry grinned good-humoredly, and said,

  “What the hell? His feelin’s will be hurt, if we don’t listen to what he wants to tell us. You two go fetch the horses.”

  He sauntered unhurriedly after the old man. By the time he rejoined him at the corner of Main Street and Shemp Road, Stretch and Junior were fast approaching, leading the sorrel, the pinto and a rangy bay stallion.

  “All right, old-timer,” said Larry. “Say your piece.”

  “I’m gonna tell you what I wouldn’t tell nobody else,” Loco hoarsely whispered. “I’m gonna tell you where to find a bunch o’ hardcase owlhooters that’s likely all got a price on their no-good heads. Reckernized ’em, I did. Seen ’em last night. The whole consarned Harnsey gang.”

  Five – Red Ruthy Shumack

  The reactions of the Texans were somewhat varied. Larry lifted one eyebrow—high. Stretch excitedly seized Loco by his shoulders. Junior started convulsively.

  “It sounded like he said …” began Stretch.

  “Nothin’ wrong with my ears,” muttered Larry. “I heard what he said.” He stared hard at the old man. “Listen, Pop, if this is some kind of a joke …”

  “I ain’t no liar,” Loco asserted. “Even if I was, I’d never lie to three boys that I’m beholden to.” For the third time, he crooked a finger at them. “Tag along with me.”

  “Where are we goin’ now?” demanded Stretch.

  “To Doc Webb’s house!” Loco squinted at him reproachfully, as though he’d asked a foolish question. “Where the heck else?”

  He led them past the first three homes on Shemp Road. Outside the fourth, a neat double-storied house, he tethered his mule to the hitchrack. The Texans followed his example and tagged him up the walk to the front porch. In response to Loco’s jingling of the bell, the door was opened by an aged, undersized housemaid who greeted him with two short words.

  '“You again?”

  “Yes’m.” Loco nodded eagerly. “Be obliged for a few words with the doc. Just a little parley, ma’am. Won’t take but a coupla minutes.”

  “A couple of minutes,” frowned the housemaid, “is about all the time he can spare. McGarrity’s wife is expecting her seventh.” She stood to one side. “You can come in, but wipe your feet.”

  They waited for Dr. Howard Webb in a neatly furnished parlor. The Texans remained standing. The old man squatted on the edge of a chair, eyed them challengingly and said.

  “Been hearin’ things ’bout me, haven’t you?”

  “Well …” frowned Larry.

  “I know what these towners say ’bout me,” Loco grimly assured him. “They claim I see ghosts and such, fill my innards with moonshine Whiskey ever’ night of the year. Uh huh. And that’s why I done brung you here. Ain’t no use tellin’ you nothin’—not till you listen to the doc.” He jerked to his feet and bobbed his head respectfully. “Howdy-do, Doc.”

  The medico was a man of advanced years and even disposition. His mane of snow-white hair and his old Prince Albert coat gave him the look of
an elder statesman.

  “Hallo there, Julian,” he greeted. “Stay seated. No need to rise on my account.” He looked at the Texans. “Don’t recall I’ve had the pleasure.”

  The Texans offered their names. Webb nodded affably, then returned to studying the trapper.

  “You wished to see me, Julian?”

  “Julian,” Loco repeated, for the benefit of the Texans. “That’s my real name. You got to admit it sounds a sight purtier’n Loco.”

  “Yup,” grunted Stretch. “We got to admit that.”

  “Doc,” said Loco, “all I want is for you to tell these gents ’bout me. You know what I mean. Them hally—hally …”

  “Hallucinations?” frowned the doctor.

  “That’s it,” grinned Loco. “Go ahead, Doc. Tell ’em.”

  “You’d better tell me something first, old friend,” smiled Webb. “Have you been, uh, behaving yourself?”

  He went to where Loco sat, took his wrist and checked his pulse. While the old man talked, he intently examined his eyes and held a stethoscope to the sunken chest.

  “Just been doin’ what I always do,” mumbled Loco, “settin’ my traps, mindin’ my own business, eatin’ regular. And I ain’t touched a drop of you-know-what since you-know-when.”

  “I believe you, Julian,” said Webb. He straightened up, turned to face the Texans. “Well, gentlemen, I presume my old friend wishes me to vouch for his, uh, integrity.”

  “We ain’t sure just why he brought us here,” shrugged Stretch.

  “Tell ’em ’bout …” began Loco.

  “Of course,” nodded Webb. “The hallucinations.” He grinned wryly at Larry. “Under the circumstances, it’s not surprising that Julian’s imagination went haywire. He was cooking up a violent mess of moonshine in those days and spending most of his time drinking it. Naturally, he had hallucinations. He saw two-headed bears, brush turkeys that breathed fire, wolves bigger than elephants—and so on. Every so often, he came riding into town to report one of these strange visions and, inevitably, the townsfolk came to realize that—uh—his word couldn’t be relied upon. You know how it is.”