Larry and Stretch 8 Page 6

  They attacked, swinging hard punches and aiming wild kicks. Larry obeyed his natural instincts and resisted mightily and, to his surprise, the good doctor joined in with a will, slamming a hard left to the midriff of the youngest Hackett.

  ~*~

  Behind the locked door of Sheriff Dreyfus’ office, at about this same time, seven stern-faced champions of law and order were planning the overthrow of the Stark gang. Had they worn the uniform of the U.S. Army, they would have appeared as a replica of some old Civil War photograph—the assembled generals plotting a counter-attack against the entire forces of the Confederacy. Maps were being consulted. Impressive terms were bandied back and forth—“reconnaissance”, “frontal advance”, “field headquarters”, “forward outposts”, etc., etc.

  Barney Dreyfus was Southern Nevada’s most illustrious lawman—if Barney Dreyfus was to be believed. Noonan and his colleagues were suitably impressed by the sheriff’s obvious enthusiasm for the task at hand, the organizing of a wide sweep of all territories to the east, and west and the north of Pelham County. All was in readiness, it seemed. Dreyfus had recruited a heavy force of locals, almost three dozen determined do-gooders who, for a dollar a day, would follow him to the furthermost corners of Nevada, if needs be, in the hunt for the notorious Stark.

  Noonan was equally impressed by Messrs. Chesney and Harbottle, who had acted as go-betweens during the sheriff’s recruiting campaign. When the hunt began, these gun-hung but blue-nosed veterans would act as Dreyfus’ forward scouts, as well as handling liaison between the volunteers and the official lawmen. Stiff-backed and self-righteous, Chesney and Harbottle sat opposite the Pinkertons and listened respectfully to the fast-talking sheriff.

  “A supply wagon exactly a half-mile to our rear at all times,” Dreyfus was saying. “Another at our left flank. Both vehicles carrying ample provisions, ammunition, spare weapons. We leave at dawn, gentlemen. At exactly six-forty-five a.m. we will have advanced to the foothills of the Sierra Encinal, where we will synchronize our watches, and ...” He continued his outline of the great plan, while his deputy, the shabby, scrawny man known to all county folk as Georgia Jake, grimaced impatiently and cut himself a fresh chaw of tobacco. Jake Rillerby was fifty and a veteran lawman, shrewd, cynical, irreverent and as durable as hard leather. His unkempt beard and mustache were iron gray, to match his rarely barbered thatch. He wore a battered wreck of a Stetson, a rumpled alpaca jacket, a patched flannel shirt, dusty riding pants, scuffed boots and a bone-handled Colt; also an expression of acute boredom.

  With characteristic disregard for Dreyfus’ feelings, he drawled an interjection. Cut short in mid-sentence, Dreyfus frowned reproachfully.

  “How about,” prodded Jake, “what Mr. Noonan and his pards told us? I mean, about meetin’ up with that Texas trouble-shooter, that Valentine feller?”

  “Jake,” sighed the sheriff, “Mr. Noonan places no store by the half-baked theories of a drifter. He doesn’t believe Stark will strike at Three Springs, and neither do I.”

  “Could be some hoss-sense in what Valentine done said,” opined Jake.

  “Not a chance, deputy,” frowned Noonan. “It’s a proven fact that Stark strikes like lightning. In other words, never twice in the same place.”

  “I once knew a feller was so blame stupid,” Jake recalled, “he poked his hand in a fire three times. One—two—three. It took him that long to savvy he could get burned thataway.”

  “Let’s not waste time, Sheriff,” grunted Noonan. “Proceed, if you please.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Noonan,” smiled Dreyfus. He arranged his pudgy frame beside the wall-map in a heroic stance, began indicating positions on the map with a long rod. “Here at Pine Bluff, and here at Seven Oak Ridge, we’ll deploy our forces and ...”

  Another interruption—a pounding at the door. Dreyfus muttered an oath, nodded to his deputy and snapped his fingers. “See who it is, Jake.”

  The scrawny Georgia man jack-knifed out of his chair, loafed across to the door, unlocked and opened it. A towner hustled in, flustered and wide-eyed.

  “There’s a fight!” he urgently informed Dreyfus. “Real man-sized hassle, sheriff. You better come break it up fast—’fore they wreck half of Main Street!”

  Right away, Dreyfus became the dedicated defender of the peace. Sternly, he enquired, “How many men involved?”

  “Five,” frowned the local. “The three Hackett boys—”

  “That bunch,” sneered Jake. “Good for nothin’ layabouts. All muscle. No brain.”

  “And Doc Bryson,” said the local, “and some proddy stranger.”

  “Bryson?” challenged Dreyfus. “Surely you’re mistaken.”

  “It’s the doc all right,” the towner assured him. “Him and this stranger—tradin’ punches with the Hackett brothers.”

  “Gentlemen ...” Dreyfus bowed courteously to the Pinkertons. “My apologies for this interruption. If you’ll excuse me for just a few minutes ...”

  “It takes you only a few minutes,” prodded Noonan, “to break up a street-brawl? My compliments, Sheriff.”

  “In my precinct,” drawled Dreyfus, “brawlers get short shrift. Maybe you’d like to come along, see how Jake and I handle a situation of this kind?”

  “It ain’t that Barney’s the braggin’ kind,” yawned Georgia Jake. “It’s just he works best in front of an audience—if you know what I mean.”

  Dreyfus turned red, darted a resentful glance at the deputy. The Pinkertons stood up. Chesney and Harbottle remained seated. To the sheriff, Chesney solemnly asserted, “Me and Elmer’ll mind the office while you’re gone.”

  “We’ll be back,” Dreyfus declared, “inside five minutes. Time us. Ready, Jake?”

  “Ready enough,” grunted the deputy.

  The local law quit the office at the double, tagged by the three Pinkertons.

  A cheering, laughing throng had gathered to watch the proceedings, but from a safe distance, the opposite side of Main Street. The fight was in full swing, and the instigators were getting the worst of it. One Hackett was struggling to rise from a drinking trough, into which a hard blow from the free-swinging medico had hurled him. Another was rolling on the boardwalk now, wrestling with the disheveled but untiring Bryson. The third was aiming wild blows at Larry Valentine, and all to no avail. Every time he swung, Larry ducked, dodged or parried. Every time Larry swung, he connected. The roughneck’s face was bloody and he was sagging at the knees when Dreyfus and company arrived.

  Grim-faced, the sheriff studied the debris. The front window of the Bon Ton, one of Pelham’s most popular ladies’ stores, had been smashed in the conflict. Broken glass littered the boardwalk. Georgia Jake grinned wryly, and drawled, “You’ll need a mite of help, I’m thinkin’.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” snapped Dreyfus. “I’m more than capable of settling this disturbance by myself.” Resolutely, he advanced on the tall stranger. The waterlogged Hackett, at that precise moment, clambered from the trough and barged across the boardwalk, stumbling over Floyd and his adversary and buffeting Dreyfus. Dreyfus reeled, mouthed an oath, regained his balance and made a grab for the brawler. Simultaneously, Larry’s opponent lost consciousness and flopped to his knees. The wet Hackett leapt at Larry from behind. As he landed on Larry’s back, Larry bent and heaved. With a wild yell, he pitched headfirst through the smashed window—and then a second weight was pressing against Larry’s back, a firm hand grasping his shoulder. Nimbly, he twisted, gripped the hand—Dreyfus—and swung with all his might. Dreyfus took off like a plump, outsized quail and, with an enraged yell, followed the wet one into the dim interior of the Bon Ton.

  “Not so fast, Valentine!” called Noonan. “That was the sheriff!”

  “Well,” shrugged Larry, “why in hell didn’t he say so?” He bent again, this time to extricate Floyd from his still-aggressive adversary. Floyd resumed the perpendicular, gasping. So did the third Hackett. Larry’s face loomed before him. He aimed a wild blow at i
t, missed. He was aiming another, when Larry brought the proceedings to a conclusion, landing a driving blow to his belly, following it with a wild, swinging uppercut. Noonan and his colleagues began a confused retreat, as the burly brawler pitched into them. Sheehan went down with his face in the dust and Hackett atop him. Fitzgibbon lurched off-balance and, but for Noonan’s restraining hand, might have flopped into the horse trough.

  “Barney,” called the highly amused Georgia Jake. “You better put your irons on that Hackett in the window.”

  “I’ve got him!” came Dreyfus’ shouted reply. “You keep your eyes on the others! We’re arresting all five of them!”

  He emerged from the debris of the show-window, his manacles secured to his own left wrist, and to the right wrist of his captive. Across the street, the onlookers burst into an uproar of mirth. In his haste, the boss-lawman had secured his hand-irons not to the sodden Hackett, but to the arm of a headless dressmaker’s dummy, garbed in blue bombazine. Georgia Jake chuckled unsympathetically, as his chief realized his mistake and remarked:

  “Better put your gun in her back, Barney. She looks plumb ornery—even without a head.”

  “Damn and blast ...!” panted Dreyfus. He produced his key, unlocked the hand-irons and shoved the dummy back into the window. The sodden Hackett staggered out, called Larry a name, then collapsed atop his unconscious, kinsmen. “Look alive, Jake!” scowled Dreyfus. “They’re all under arrest ...!”

  “That’ll be the day,” growled Larry.

  Dreyfus glowered at him.

  “Who are you?”

  “The name,” said Larry, “is Valentine—and I ain’t about to waste no time in your tin-can calaboose.” He nodded to the frowning Floyd. “Go ahead, Doc. Straighten him out.”

  “You’re being over-zealous, Sheriff Dreyfus,” chided Floyd. “Arrest these bullying Hacketts by all means, but I advise you to think twice before trying to implicate Mr. Valentine or myself. There are several good attorneys in this community, sheriff, any of whom would be only too willing to represent me in a suit for wrongful arrest.”

  “Hold on now …” began Dreyfus.

  “We were attacked by these hardcases,” declared Floyd. “We had no choice but to defend ourselves.”

  “What’re you gonna do, Barney?” jibed Jake. “Call Doc a liar?”

  “Sheriff,” frowned Noonan, “it would seem Valentine and the good doctor were the victims—rather than the instigators—of this little ruckus.”

  “If you aren’t prepared to accept my word ...” began Floyd.

  “That’s all right, doctor,” growled Dreyfus. “Quite all right. Your word is good enough for me.”

  “In that case ...” Floyd re-donned his Stetson, adjusted his cravat and nodded to Larry, “we’ll be on our way.” He retreated to the waiting horses, took the bay’s rein. Larry followed, after a scathing appraisal of the boss-lawman. Then, just as he reached the sorrel, Dreyfus called to him.

  “Valentine!”

  “I hear you,” drawled Larry.

  “If you’re on your way out of Pelham County,” breathed Dreyfus, “that’s just fine by me! I know you by reputation. You’re a Texan and a trouble-maker, the kind who interferes in ...”

  “Take it easy, Barney,” grunted Jake.

  “You keep out of this!” shouted Dreyfus.

  “We have matters of greater importance to discuss,” Noonan reminded him. “I suggest you bring your prisoners along without further delay. The sooner they’re behind bars, the sooner we can get on with-our business.”

  To Dreyfus’ chagrin, Larry turned his back on him and began leading his horse away, in company with the doctor. Jake Rillerby beckoned a half-dozen townmen—big ones—and drawled an order.

  “Pick up these doggone Hacketts and tote ’em to the pokey.”

  Halfway along the block, Larry and the medico glanced backwards in time to see Dreyfus and his visitors retracing their steps to the law office.

  “For awhile there,” grinned Larry, “I was afeared you’d be out of your class—but you did fine.”

  “Believe me, Larry,” sighed Floyd, “I deplore violence.”

  “Well, like you told that lard-bellied sheriff,” shrugged Larry, “them Hacketts didn’t give us any choice.”

  They turned into an alley, followed it to a street running parallel with the main stem and, a few moments later, reached the front gate of the doctor’s home. On the porch, Floyd worriedly examined his hands.

  “Okay?” prodded Larry.

  “Skinned knuckles.” Floyd grinned as elatedly as a small boy accepting his second piece of pie. “No sprain. No bone damage, I’m grateful to say.”

  He escorted Larry into the house. From a doorway along the hall, the aged and sharp-eyed Alice Boulton emerged, to express concern at her employer’s disheveled appearance. Of all the women of Pelham City, this doughty little widow was the only one with whom Floyd Bryson felt at ease. Officially, she was his housekeeper. Unofficially, she was his friend and mentor, a shrewd, acid-tongued old harridan who watched over him with all the fierce possessiveness of a mother hen.

  “Good evening, my dear Mrs. Boulton,” smiled Floyd. “May I present my good friend Mr. Valentine. Larry, this is my housekeeper, as fine a woman as ever ...”

  “Never mind the honey-talk,” snapped Mrs. Boulton. “Look at the state of you! You ought to be ashamed ...!”

  “It wasn’t any fault of ours, ma’am,” Larry assured her.

  “Mrs. Boulton,” said Floyd, “pack some provisions—enough to last two hungry men for several days. I’m answering an emergency call, travelling south to a town called Three Springs.”

  “Don’t worry about provisions,” said Larry. “Just pack your medical gear. I’m totin’ enough grub for the both of us.”

  “Fine,” nodded Floyd, as he turned and hurried to the surgery. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  The little widow eyed Larry intently.

  “You’re takin’ him out of town?” she demanded.

  “Quite a ways,” he nodded.

  “Well ...” she shrugged philosophically, “… maybe it’s for the best. At least he’ll have a few days of peace and quiet, which he badly needs.”

  “Uh-huh,” grunted Larry. “I got the notion he’s been plenty busy.”

  “Busy,” said Alice Boulton, “is puttin’ it mild. The good doctor can’t turn a corner without some shameless hussy bracin’ him, proposin’ to him.” Again, she ran her shrewd eyes over his lean and muscular frame. “I’m thinkin’ he’ll be in good hands.”

  “Count on it,” said Larry. “I aim to take good care of him.”

  Some ten minutes after Floyd Bryson and his tough escort had begun their southward journey, the housekeeper answered a knock at the front door, to find Georgia Jake Rillerby on the mat. The scrawny deputy doffed his hat to her.

  “Figured I’d find that Texan here,” he explained “That Valentine jasper.”

  “He’s gone,” she told him. “Him and the good doctor. They’re on their way to a town called Three Springs.”

  The Georgia man thanked her for this information and, with his brow creased in deep thought, trudged back to the law office to put a suggestion to his chief.

  Chapter Six

  Another Gun South

  The Pinkertons puffed at their cigars and waited patiently, while the boss-lawman angrily admonished his deputy.

  “All right, Jake, what is it this time? Can’t you see I’m busy? We’re planning a big operation—or trying to.” He paused to glare at the ceiling. From the cells above the narrow stairway, the voices of the prisoners were clearly audible. The Hacketts had returned to consciousness and had found plenty to complain about. “Confound those caterwauling fools!”

  “You don’t have to fret ’bout them Hacketts,” drawled Jake. “They’ll settle down—inside a couple hours.” From the gun rack, he took a Winchester. From a drawer of the sheriff’s desk, he took a box of .44-40 shells, a goodl
y quantity of which he began transferring to his pockets. “Just thought you oughta know—that Texan’s quit town, headed back to Three Springs.”

  “Fine!” growled Dreyfus. “Good riddance.”

  “Doc Bryson went along with him,” said Jake.

  “More fool him,” shrugged Dreyfus.

  “And I,” said Jake, “figure to tag after ’em—if it’s okay by you.”

  “Valentine’s a fool,” protested Dreyfus, “if he thinks Stark will attack at Three Springs.”

  “I’m thinkin’ Valentine could be right,” shrugged Jake, “so I guess that makes me a fool, too, huh, Barney? Anyway, it wouldn’t do no harm for a county lawman to check on Three Springs.”

  “Three Springs,” Dreyfus reminded him, “is out of my jurisdiction.”

  “If Valentine’s hunch is right,” frowned Jake, “you’d want to know ’bout it, wouldn’t you?”

  Dreyfus pretended to ponder Jake’s suggestion, though his decision was already made. The Georgia man was apt to become a thorn in his side, a humiliating irritation. Throughout their long association, he had tried to convince Jake of the necessity for a deputy to show respect for his superior, but in vain. Jake was, at all times, flippant, cynical, sarcastic; this was his nature, and he couldn’t change. Consequently, Dreyfus hadn’t relished the prospect of having Jake participate in the ‘organised sweep of the territories’. There would be too many openings for Jake’s blunt barbs, too many opportunities for him to embarrass his ambitious chief—with the Pinkertons as his audience.

  “One thing you gotta admit,” said Jake, “about this Valentine hombre. He’s got quite a record. What I mean, him and his pard have whupped the tar outa many an owl-hoot outfit. And …” He tapped his temple significantly, “He’s got smart brains. If he says Stark is gonna hit Three Springs ...”

  “You’d rather follow Valentine’s hunch,” challenged Noonan, “than the findings of the Pinkerton Agency’s top criminologists?”

  “Mister,” grunted Jake, “I don’t even savvy what the word means.”

  “Sheriff,” smiled Noonan, “it’s not for me to influence your decision in this matter but, if you’re interested in my opinion ...”