Arizona Wild-Cat (Larry & Stretch Western. Book 2) Page 5

  They discussed barroom brawls for a while, delving into their memories for details of past battles, noses broken, houses wrecked, comparative merits of methods used and so on. Then, while they were dawdling through their fourth drink, Stryker broke off in mid-sentence and threw a worried frown towards the doorway of one of his back rooms. The door had just opened. A barman was coming towards Stryker.

  “Another bottle?” sighed Stryker.

  The barman nodded, with a frown that matched his chief’s.

  “Tried to talk him out of it,” he confided. “But he’s got his heart set on a day-long jag. Never saw him like this before, boss. Didn’t even know he was a drinkin’ man.”

  “Neither did I,” confessed Stryker, shaking his head. “Okay, Tim. Better give him what he wants—only don’t take any money from him.” As the barman obtained a bottle and took it back to the rear room, Stryker muttered an explanation to his curious guests. “Damn sad business. Can’t understand it. Honest Al—of all people!”

  “Honest Al?” Larry raised his eyebrows.

  “The mayor. A real fine man. Square-shooter. Whole town looks up to him. Never been known to get drunk before. If any of the people saw him like that—well—it’d be bad. Folks’d be mighty disappointed in him.”

  “Man has a right to get himself a skinful every now and then,” argued Stretch.

  “Not this particular man,” growled Stryker, doggedly. “We all admire him—like he was a saint or something. Cleanest-living citizen in the whole country. That’s why he always gets re-elected, unopposed.”

  “Well, then,” frowned Larry. “Why d’you figure he’s gettin’ drunk now?”

  “Your guess,” sighed Stryker, “is as good as mine. Damned if I can understand it. He came in here, couple hours ago, hollered for a bottle and moseyed into that back room. He’s been there ever since—getting drunker and drunker.” He added, fervently: “It’s a mercy his wife and daughter are out of town. They went to Burrowsville, to visit with Carrie’s kinfolks. Carrie’s Honest Al’s wife.”

  “Maybe Honest Al is just takin’ the time to have himself a private drunk,” winked Stretch, “while his wife’s away.”

  “No.” Stryker shook his head, emphatically. “Honest Al ain’t that kind.”

  “Well,” shrugged Larry. “There ain’t a damn thing you can do about it, Solly. Whole town’ll know what’s happened in a little while. When a man gets that drunk, he’s apt to make a lotta noise.”

  “That’s what I’m fretting about,” confessed the saloon-owner. “I just hate to think what folks’ll say, when they catch a sight of him.”

  “Look,” offered Larry, “if it’s gonna make the whole town so blamed unhappy, why don’t we try gettin’ him home—quiet like?”

  Stryker’s face brightened.

  “That’s a helluva good idea,” he nodded. “Would you gents help?”

  “If he’s as straight an hombre as you say,” shrugged Larry, “me and my pard would be glad to help out.”

  “We got nothin’ special to do, right now,” explained Stretch.

  Stryker spent a moment in deep thought then grinned and clicked his fingers.

  “I got it! You could haul him home in a buckboard. I’ll get a sack, so’s you can cover him up.”

  The prospect of avoiding a scandal seemed to please Stryker immensely. It was a tribute to the affection felt for the mayor, by the rank-and-file of the town. Stryker enthusiastically devised a plan. He would obtain a rig and bring it to the alley behind the saloon. Larry and Stretch could pass the dead-drunk Mayor Burden out through the window of the rear room, and into the rig. Stryker would direct them to Burden’s home. The Texans would deliver him there, quietly, and put him to bed. All very simple, and nobody need know anything about it.

  It worked out nicely. Burden was in a drunken stupor, by the time Stryker halted the borrowed buckboard outside the back window. They rammed the mayor’s Stetson securely on his head, lifted him bodily, and passed him through the window into the rear of the vehicle. Stryker covered the inert heap with a sack, whilst Larry and Stretch clambered out of the window and up onto the driver’s seat. Then Stryker got down and gave them hasty directions as to where the mayor’s home was located.

  “On Elm Street,” he told them. “Only house in the street with a red-painted fence. Two storeys. You can’t miss it.”

  “You reckon we could get in the back way?” queried Larry.

  “Shouldn’t be hard,” nodded the saloon-owner. “Anyway, do your damnedest to get him inside, without anybody seeing him.”

  They drove to the mouth of the alley, turned left, cut across Main Street, traversed another alley and turned into Elm. Finding Burden’s home was easy. There were, on the boardwalks, a few groups of chattering women, so they drove out of the street and looked for a rear entrance to the Burden residence. They found one, drove the rig right into the Burdens’ back yard, and lifted the inert mayor to the ground. The back door was locked. Stretch, about to attack it with his shoulder, was restrained by the more thoughtful Larry. The shorter Texan arranged entry by the simple expedient of searching the mayor’s pockets and finding a key.

  Once inside, they carried their load to a staircase and ascended to the top floor of the house. While Larry paused in a corridor, with Burden’s weighty body draped across his shoulders, Stretch opened bedroom doors and peered inside. One contained a small bed and great deal of lace curtains and floral drapes, and was ruled out, by the taller Texan, as being an unlikely environment for Mayor Burden. Another was filled by a large double bed and two pine wardrobes. The bed looked strong.

  “In here,” decided Stretch.

  Larry toted Burden in and dropped him atop the covers, then pulled off his boots. Stretch prised the Stetson from the mayor’s skull and loosened his cravat.

  “That oughta do it,” he grunted. “When he comes to, he’ll have a gosh-awful pain in his head—but at least he’ll be in his own bed—’stead of some gutter.”

  “Fraud,” mumbled Burden. “Dirty thievin’ rats—if I—only had the nerve ...”

  “A talkin’ drunk,” nodded Stretch, boredly. “Wouldn’t you guess it, huh?”

  “They either talk or cry or sing,” shrugged Larry. “What’s the difference?”

  “No such outfit!” grunted Burden. “Taylor-Ames Corp-Corp—Corporation—huh! Folks pourin’ their money into Endean’s dirty pockets ...”

  “On the other hand,” mused Stretch, “I once knew a ranny that didn’t talk, cry or sing, when he took on a load. This jasper I’m recallin’ used to get a urge to steal things. One night, after he’d drunk a whole bottle of redeye inside a half-hour ...”

  “Crooks!” muttered Burden, rolling from side to side. “All my friends’ll be poor men after Endean gets through—”

  “ ... he moseyed out,” continued Stretch, “stole a stove out of an eatery and tried to set himself up in business on the sidewalk, cookin’ frijoles for the Mexicans. When Marshal Gilligan showed up ...”

  “Sssh!” Larry, grim-faced, held a finger to his lips. “Listen to what this jasper’s sayin’!”

  “ ... no fault of mine I got arrested,” moaned Burden. “I didn’t know—damn thing—about that hold-up. Wrong—wrong identification. Man has a right to …”

  “What’s he yappin’ ’bout?” queried Stretch.

  “Let’s hear the rest of it!” snapped Larry.

  They stood on either side of the bed and listened. Burden’s delirious, almost incoherent mumbling continued, while the Texans exchanged wondering looks. The unfortunate mayor was in a semi-comatose condition; he was, as Stretch had dubbed him, a talking drunk; but the things he said drew a gasp from the listening men.

  “We oughtn’t be here,” frowned Stretch. “This poor jasper’s tellin’ his whole life-story!”

  “It’s stuff that folks have a right to know about!” growled Larry, “if what he’s sayin’ is true ...”

  It was true all right—every slurred,
anguished word of it. Burden, in his delirium, was telling all. Bit by bit, sentence by sentence, it all came out. Most of it made no sense at all to Stretch; but his partner’s mind was turning over fast. Larry Valentine was adding it all together—and getting an answer.

  Burden droned on for a few more minutes, then lapsed into a deep sleep. Stretch blinked at Larry and said, “What the hell! I never heard such ravin’. You mean to tell me you understood him?”

  “Most of it,” frowned Larry. “And the parts I couldn’t figure—well—I can guess at.”

  “So? And what d’you make of it?”

  “Well—the way I heard it—this jasper, this Honest Al, is in a whole heap of trouble. He busted out of a jail a long time back, and finally found his way to Widow’s Peak. Got married and settled down to go straight. The other folks liked him so much they made him mayor. Then this Endean ranny showed up ...”

  “The railroad agent?”

  “Uh-huh—except there ain’t gonna be no railroad. Endean and his cousin—feller named Larchmont—invented the idea.”

  Larry went on, piecing together the jigsaw of intrigue, while Stretch listened, with mouth agape. Then came an interruption. Their hands dropped to gunbutts, as a door slammed, somewhere below. Women’s voices sounded in the hall, then on the stairs.

  “They’re comin’ up here!” hissed Stretch. “Two females!”

  “Take it easy,” advised Larry, softly. “Didn’t you hear a coach passin’ outside, couple of minutes back?”

  “I heard some kinda rig. What about it?”

  “I’m guessin’ it was the stage. Looks like the mayor’s women folks just got back from their visitin’.”

  Larry was right about that. Carrie Burden, and her daughter Rose, had arrived at the depot, a short while ago.

  And now they were home, coming along the corridor, curious to know whose were the voices they could hear, from the mayor and Mrs. Burden’s room. In the doorway they stood and gaped—the stout, matronly Carrie Burden and Rose, also stout and matronly, and fast becoming a second edition of her mother.

  “Who ...?” blinked Mrs. Burden. “Who are you? And w-what are you doing in our house—and what has happened to my husband?”

  The Texans removed their hats and gave the ladies sheepish grins.

  “No call for you to fret, ma’am,” Larry assured Carrie. “The mayor—uh—was took bad—outside. So we brought him home. That’s all.”

  “The heat got him,” added Stretch, helpfully.

  “Yeah,” nodded Larry. “That’s it. The heat.”

  Mrs. Burden’s nostrils quivered. She sniffed, then with devastating condemnation, said, “I smell liquor! Somebody has been drinking! And my husband is a teetotaler!”

  Each of the Texans promptly pointed a finger at the other and announced, “It’s him!”

  Suspicion hung like an ominous cloud over the bedroom as they sidled to the door and bade the women goodbye. Carrie Burden was looking from the Texans to the bed, then back to the Texans again. Rose, her rotund daughter, planted herself by the doorway, arms folded, round face fixed in a frown of distrust.

  “I’d let the mayor sleep on, if I was you,” Larry advised, coming to a halt beside Miss Burden. “His—uh—collapse—kinda tuckered him out. But don’t you worry none. He’s gonna be just fine.”

  “Who are you?” repeated Mrs. Burden, aggressively. “Larry Valentine’s my handle, ma’am. And that there’s my pardner—Stretch Emerson.”

  “Howdy.” Stretch bobbed his head in what he hoped was gentlemanly courtesy.

  “We’ll be runnin’ along now,” Larry told them. “But—uh—if you should need us for somethin’, why all you gotta do is ask for us at—uh ...”

  “Mr. Trumble would know where to find us,” supplied Stretch. “He’s—uh—he’s a friend of ours. Ain’t that right, Larry?”

  “That’s right all right,” nodded Larry. “He’s a real good friend of ours. ’Bye, ladies.”

  They sidled out of the room, fearful that the formidable Mrs. Burden would try to detain them for further questioning.

  ~*~

  Mid-afternoon found them disposing of a late lunch at a cheap eating-house on lower Main Street. They had worked their way through double portions of everything on the establishment’s menu and were lingering over their coffee. The place was deserted except for the proprietor, who sat out of earshot in the far corner, reading a week-old newspaper and scratching his thinning hair. There was no chance of their conversation being overheard and yet, so deep was the impression made on them by Mayor Burden’s muttered revelation that they kept their voices low, and talked with their heads close together.

  “I still reckon,” asserted Stretch, “that he was ravin’ drunk, and that there wasn’t a mite of sense in any damn thing he said. We oughta forget all about it. It ain’t decent—talkin’ about it. What a man says when he’s loaded, oughtn’t be held against him.”

  “You’re right about that,” agreed Larry, thoughtfully. “And I sure don’t aim to spread his secret around. Only I don’t reckon he was ravin’. I’m sayin’ it was all true—every damn thing he said!”

  He put his hand on Stretch’s arm, suddenly, and nodded towards the entrance. Stretch looked up, then hastily lowered his eyes. The mayor’s bulky frame filled the doorway, as he threw a quick glance around the tiny restaurant. He was sober—very sober. Except for a slight redness about his eyes, there was nothing to betray his lapse. His worried gaze rested on the Texans. Larry met the look and nodded, cordially. Burden bit his lips, removed his hat, grunted a brief greeting to the proprietor, then came and joined them. Without waiting for an invitation, he drew a chair out with his boot and planted himself in it.

  ‘"Somethin’ I can get you, Mr. Mayor?” called the proprietor.

  “Just coffee,” growled Burden, not taking his eyes off Larry’s face.

  The proprietor moved around behind the counter, poured a mug of black coffee, brought it to the mayor, then returned to his position in the corner. Burden leaned close to the two Texans and, taking care to keep his voice low, said his piece.

  “My wife described you two to me. I’ve been looking for you all over town. It was you, wasn’t it, carried me away from the Salted Mine?”

  “It was us,” nodded Larry calmly. “But you don’t owe us no thanks. We were glad to oblige.”

  Burden sipped coffee for a long moment, then pushed the cup to one side.

  “I haven’t been drunk in a long time,” he mused. “Because I understand my weaknesses. I know how I am, when I’m drunk. I talk. I talk a lot. That’s why I never drink.”

  “Makes sense,” shrugged Larry.

  He dug tobacco-sack and papers from his shirt pocket and began rolling a cigarette. Burden watched him, pain showing in his red-rimmed eyes.

  “I talked today,” he muttered. “I must have.”

  “You talked,” Larry assured him.

  Burden took a deep breath.

  “How much did you hear?” he demanded.

  Larry scratched a match on his thumbnail and lit his smoke, then looked Burden squarely in the eye and said:

  “Just about everythin’ from the sound of it.” He numbered the main points on his fingertips. “You busted out of a jail called Hilton when you were a young feller. You claim you weren’t guilty of whatever they jailed you for. You came here and nobody knew a thing about you. Maybe you changed your name. I wouldn’t know about that. Anyway, you got along just fine, until this Endean jasper showed up.”

  “Don’t bother to go on,” hissed Burden, through clenched teeth. “This is what I was afraid of. I shot off at the mouth. All right. I know when I’m licked.” From an inside pocket of his coat he produced a wallet, glared at Larry, then said, “How much?”

  “Huh?” Larry raised his eyebrows.

  “You heard. I said how much. I don’t give a damn if I have to go broke—just as long as I can keep your mouth shut.”

  “Don’t be a damn fool,”
interjected Stretch. “Put that thing away. That ain’t the way Larry and me get our dinero!”

  “Don’t put us in the same class as this Endean coyote,” Larry warned Burden, “unless you’re lookin’ for a worse headache than the one you already got. Savvy?”

  Burden stared from Larry to Stretch, momentarily at a loss. His hand shook as he replaced the wallet in his pocket.

  “All right,” he sighed. “So I had you wrong. I apologize.”

  “Forget it,” grunted Larry. “And don’t fret about us keepin’ your secret.”

  “It ain’t none of our business,” added Stretch, flatly.

  “Except,” contradicted Larry, “we’re gonna make it our business.”

  “How’s that?” blinked Stretch.

  “Listen,” breathed Burden. “There isn’t a thing you can do about it. Leave it alone. Endean holds all the aces.”

  “Don’t worry,” grinned Larry. “I don’t aim to ask you to mosey down to Trumble’s office and tell him the score.”

  “I couldn’t do it,” groaned Burden. “And, after all you heard, you know why I couldn’t do it. You’ve already met two of the reasons.”

  “Carrie and Rose,” nodded Larry. “Real nice persons.”

  “So I’m hooked,” shrugged the mayor. “There’s just no way I can beat Endean.”

  “Nobody’s askin’ you to do anythin’,” Larry pointed out.

  Burden frowned perplexedly.

  “What does that mean?” he growled.

  “It means,” grinned Larry, “that me and Stretch don’t cotton to owlhoots like this Endean. Skunks that rob stages and shoot innocent citizens’re bad enough. But rats that come to a nice little town like this, dig up dirt about the mayor’s past, then make him help ’em, while they take money away from a bunch of dumb townsfolk ...”

  “We don’t like that kinda owlhoot,” affirmed Stretch, vehemently. “This Endean—he’s the kinda rat we like to make trouble for.”

  “Just—just for the hell of it—eh?” frowned the mayor.