Larry and Stretch 9 Read online

  “We owe him a favor,” Larry explained.

  Brazos cast a critical eye over Larry’s sorrel and Stretch’s pinto.

  “Well—on them cayuses—I reckon you could hit Carew Canyon with the first ten. Couple fine prads you own, but they oughta be tended good ’tween now and tomorrer. Tell you what I’ll do. Leave ’em with me. I’ll give ’em everything they need.”

  “We’d be obliged,” said Larry.

  “And,” Brazos continued, “you can borrer any other prads that’s left in the corral, if you figure to ride any place ’tween now and then.” He subjected them to an intent scrutiny. “You hombres stone-broke, huh?”

  “Until we collect from Clem Alden,” drawled Larry, “for nailin’ the sidewinders that drygulched Weaver.”

  “Need a place to sleep?” prodded Brazos.

  “You makin’ us an offer?” asked Stretch.

  “Welcome to bunk in my hay-loft,” said Brazos.

  “We’ll sure appreciate that,” said Larry. He raised his eyes to the clear sky and was silent a few moments. “Brazos,” prodded Larry, “you happen to know the place where they shot Weaver?”

  “Bend of the trail,” Brazos told him, “not far from Bar A range. You could find it easy. There’s mesquite west of it, a mess of rock east. High rock, you know? Kinda like a tower.”

  “No wind,” Larry remarked.

  To prove it, he wet an index finger and raised it. The horse-dealer nodded moodily.

  “That’s how it’s been for better’n ten days. Nary a breath of wind, nary a breeze. Kansas sun gets so blame hot, and ...”

  “No wind in all that time?” challenged Larry.

  “I know what you’re gettin’ at, Larry,” frowned Brazos. “You’re wonderin’ if you’ll still find tracks out where Weaver got ambushed. Well, if there was tracks out there, you’d sure find ’em. Ain’t been no breeze to blow ’em out. But Ed Loomis claims the killers killed their tracks with a branch. It’s been done before.”

  “It’s been done before,” Larry agreed, “but it doesn’t always work, Brazos. You ever try to wipe out every boot-mark you’ve left behind? Easier said than done.”

  “So we ride out there and take a look, huh, runt?” asked Stretch.

  “After we eat,” said Larry, “and after we parlay with the doc. Brazos, is Drew the same sawbones that checked the body?”

  “Ashley Drew,” shrugged Brazos, “is the only sawbones we got. Yeah. He checked Weaver over.” He slid down from the rail. “Well, thanks for the redeye. Time you’re wantin’ to ride out, I’ll have your saddles switched to a couple spare mounts.”

  As the drifters slid down, Larry enquired:

  “Where do we register for the land-rush?”

  “Land office,” said Brazos. “A half-block downtown.” A few moments later they trudged into the small restaurant, introduced themselves to the aged healer and, at his invitation, joined him at his table. Larry ordered their breakfast—double-portions of everything offering—before firing his query. The medico squinted over the top of his spectacles, listening intently.

  “Direction of the death-bullet? Well, the deceased was shot four times, and two of the slugs could’ve caused fatal injury, since they penetrated the heart. Why doesn’t Ed Loomis ask such an intelligent question? Well, never mind.”

  “Which direction?” Larry persisted.

  Drew demonstrated, indicating various sections of his torso.

  “Through here—and here. Down through there and out by the …”

  “Straight through?” prodded Larry.

  “No,” frowned Drew. “At an angle. Why?”

  “What I want to know,” said Larry, “is whether those slugs were triggered from beside the trail or from flat on the ground, or …”

  “High,” said Drew. “Somewhere high above him, as he approached the bend. That’s how it had to be. Every bullet, including the three that downed his horse, came at a slant—and downward.” He eyed Larry curiously. “Well? Does that help you any?”

  “I reckon it does,” nodded Larry. “Much obliged, Doc.” Their breakfast arrived and, for some time thereafter, Ashley Drew lost interest in his own food. He watched, fascinated, and winced frequently. Never had he seen ham, eggs, hot biscuits and cornbread disposed of so rapidly. The Texans consumed every crumb, washed down their food with draughts of hot black coffee, dropped money on the table and reached for their hats. Only then did Drew hazard a comment.

  “Eating is important, gentlemen, but so is mastication. One without the other is bad for the digestion.”

  “Our digestion,” Larry assured him, “is just fine.”

  “In that case,” sighed the doctor, “allow me to congratulate you—for having the constitution of a rhinoceros.”

  “The which,” challenged Stretch, “of a what?”

  “Don’t fret about it,” grinned Larry. “I think Doc’s payin’ us a compliment.”

  It took them only a few minutes to complete the formalities of registering at the Land Office. Immediately afterward, straddling the horses loaned them by Brazos McMasters, they quit Becksburg and rode off to locate the scene of the ambush.

  Under the hot sun, they searched for sign. Larry could now picture the incident in his mind’s eye. Some blood still showed on the trail, shed no doubt by the stricken horse. But the ground thereabouts also showed the marks of mesquite brushing. The killers had labored hard to erase their tracks.

  Stretch drawled a reminder as he began building a smoke.

  “High—the doc said.”

  “That’s what he said,” Larry agreed, and he turned to scan the surrounding terrain. “As high as those rocks, I reckon.”

  With Stretch tagging him, he trudged to the lava mounds rearing their ugly bulk to the right of the trail. They climbed to the summit of one mound and, after a brief examination, leapt across to another and climbed again. It was then, while clambering upward, that Larry spotted the deposit of soft earth in a rock-hollow, where the heel-print showed.

  “Hold it,” he grunted. “Here’s somethin’ the law-boys missed.”

  Stretch balanced precariously, peering over his partner’s shoulder. It was, undoubtedly, the impression of a boot-heel.

  “This helps?” he demanded.

  “Maybe,” nodded Larry. “Take a closer look at it. What d’you see?”

  “There’s a mark,” Stretch observed, “inside of the heel-print. Crazy-shaped mark.”

  “V-shaped,” said Larry, “and hard. Somethin’ he trod on. It dug in and got stuck. Like a bent nail, for instance.”

  “You’re guessin’,” Stretch accused.

  “Better to guess,” countered Larry, “than never use the brains you were born with. C’mon.”

  They continued their climb to the summit of the mound. Here, the rock surface showed scratch-marks, and there was no doubt in Larry’s mind. They had found the vantage point from which the killers had triggered a hail of lead at the hapless Del Weaver.

  Stretch got around to lighting his cigarette. Larry rose to one knee, stared down to where the butchered horseman had been found.

  “I got a hunch about that heel-print,” he muttered. “It’s no coincidence we found it here. Who else’d want to climb up here—but a gun that was layin’ for Weaver.” He jerked a thumb. “Go on down, big feller. See if you can find where they stashed their horses.”

  The taller Texan made an unhurried descent to level ground and began scouting around. Five minutes later his urgent summons started Larry moving again. He climbed down and strode south to the rock-cleft where his partner awaited. The floor of the cleft was sandy and, like so much of the area, had been swept clean—almost. A few hoofprints were still visible, and one boot print. Again that V-shaped mark in the D of the heel. Larry crouched for an intent appraisal of that mark, and expanded his theory.

  “He’s a big hombre, built heavy. I’d say it takes a heap of weight to press a bent nail into a boot-heel. He trod on it. It wedged and stayed
in. When he walked on, it just pressed in deeper.”

  “Could that nail still be in his heel?” wondered Stretch.

  “It’s possible,” Larry opined.

  “Oh, fine!” Stretch appeared dubious. “So all we gotta do is brace every jasper we find, and tell ’em, ‘Pardon us while we turn you upside down, on accounta we wanta peek under your boots.’ Some fun that’ll be!”

  “That’d take too long,” frowned Larry. “Better we should look for the track. Next time we find it, we might get lucky—and find the man that made it,”

  “All right,” nodded Stretch, “but meantime ...?”

  “Meantime,” said Larry, “I hanker to parlay with Weaver’s boss.”

  “Meanin’ Uncle Clem?” Stretch doffed his Stetson to scratch his sandy thatch. “He ain’t gonna appreciate us bustin’ in on him, runt. Not right after the buryin’.”

  “We’ll apologize,” shrugged Larry. “There’s things I crave to know, and I figure Alden’s the man to tell me.”

  On their way across Bar A range, they passed locals returning to town in surreys and buggies and on horseback. Later, when they sighted the rambling, double-storied ranch house, they also noted the grassy rise to the east, dotted with markers, Bar A’s private cemetery. There was some activity about the bunkhouse and corrals. Alden riders, most of them wearing black armbands, were saddling up to ride out to the herd. Every man appeared tense, grim-faced, and Larry was moved to voice another hunch.

  “They admired Weaver. And they’re hoppin’ mad—thinkin’ the killer got away clean.”

  “You know how ramrods are,” shrugged Stretch. “It’s always one way or the other. Hired help admires him a heap—or hate his innards. It looks like Weaver was everybody’s amigo.”

  By the time they reached the broad front yard the hands had ridden out. Only one man remained—an elderly, hard-faced man squatting on a top rail of the corral, gnawing on an unlit cigar.

  They reined up, hooked legs over their saddlehorns and traded nods with the rail sitter.

  “Lookin’ for the boss-man,” Larry explained.

  “You’re looking at him,” frowned Alden. “And I’ve already guessed who you are.”

  “The name’s Valentine,” offered Larry. “This here’s my sidekick ...”

  “Emerson, I guess,” nodded Alden. “All right. You’re here, but you’re not staying. I just got through burying a good man, my own nephew, and I’m in no mood for swapping gab with a couple of trouble-shooting drifters.”

  “I reckon I know how you feel,” said Larry, “and I’m sorry for you—but a deal is a deal. I made your daughter a promise.”

  “Hattie’s like all females,” growled Alden. “A mite too impulsive. From you, she expects miracles. Me—I expect nothing.”

  Larry kept his temper. Some other time, he might enjoy an exchange of insults with this salty old cattleman. But not now.

  “I’m here to ask you a question or two,” he told Alden, “about Del Weaver. You could order us to vamoose, and that’d be that. On the other hand, you can’t hurt Weaver by tellin’ me what I want to know.”

  “Valentine,” said Alden, “I’ve already answered questions—Ed Loomis’s questions. It makes no difference. Loomis is no detective, and neither are you. If my offer of a reward doesn’t get results, I reckon I’ll hire me a Pinkerton.” He softened, but only slightly, “Meantime, I suppose you can’t get hung for asking questions.”

  “All right,” nodded Larry. “There had to be a reason for what happened to Weaver. Somebody hated him enough to kill him, or stood to profit by his death. The killer could even have been a stranger hereabouts.”

  “That’s what Loomis thinks,” shrugged Alden. “They took every cent that was in Del’s pockets. Murder for robbery, Loomis calls it.”

  “And he could be right,” Larry conceded.

  “I don’t know of anybody,” Alden flatly declared, “that hated Del bad enough to kill him.”

  Six –Three for the Calaboose

  Clem Alden was talking. Well, that was better than nothing. He hadn’t yet ordered them off his land, and Larry was prepared to be grateful for small mercies.

  “Every man has enemies. I don’t claim Del was any exception. But an enemy with nerve enough to kill him? No. I don’t reckon so. Not in an open fight, nor from ambush. You want to know who his enemies were? No-accounts. Tinhorn cardsharps. Del had a special grudge against cheaters. Well, I could name every tinhorn in Beck County, and nary a one of ’em would dare trigger a shot at him.”

  “How about the other reason?” prodded Larry.

  “Profit?” frowned Alden.

  “Profit,” nodded Larry.

  “Forget it,” said Alden.

  “Now look,” said Larry, “this isn’t the first time I bought into a murder. You take, for instance, a man that makes a will, naming some friend or relation to inherit his bankroll when he dies. I’ve known of many such a jasper that got put away by whoever stood to collect—because they didn’t hanker to wait for him to die of old age.”

  “It’s a fair theory ... “ Alden grinned sardonically, “but not worth a hill of beans. Not in this case, Valentine. Del was with me from the time he turned fifteen, right after my sister died. When he came of age, I made him ramrod. He worked hard and I paid him well, but he wasn’t the marrying kind, so he didn’t try to save his money. He had no other kin, and he never got around to making a will. His death was a wicked waste, Valentine. No profit for anybody. You’re looking for reasons? I can’t give you any.”

  “You don’t know any reasons,” countered Larry, “but there are reasons. I don’t believe he was killed for the money in his pockets.”

  “What you believe,” said Alden, “doesn’t interest me at all.”

  “Runt,” grunted Stretch, “we done wore out our welcome.”

  “What welcome?” scowled Larry.

  Later, while they were again crossing Bar A range and approaching the town trail, Stretch remarked:

  “He sure was unfriendly.”

  “Folks don’t always admire the likes of us,” Larry philosophically declared.

  “Damned if I savvy why not,” frowned Stretch. “Take me, for instance. I’m just a fair-square do-right Texas boy that’s kind to women and kids and horses, and ...”

  “Why, sure,” grunted Larry. “It’s a mortal shame you look like bad medicine. Trouble is folks never get to know you.”

  The trail narrowed in its approach to a rock-bordered bend. Riding this section, they suddenly heard a clatter of hooves. Horsemen were advancing from the opposite direction, and at speed. They began the instinctive action of nudging their mounts to the side of the trail—but too late. Three riders rounded the bend at speed, the leader’s horse almost colliding with Stretch’s. The animal reared, whinnying shrilly and throwing its rider. The second animal came shoulder to shoulder with Larry’s, buffeting it.

  To the accompaniment of much lurid cussing, all five men struggled to regain control of their animals, and the tempers of Murch, Wilson and Austin were frayed beyond repair. They had been racing the animals hired for them by Lew Neech, to test their speed for tomorrow’s important event. One by one, they guided their mounts to the left side of the trail. Murch’s flashy clothing was caked with dust from his fall. He was spitting grit and profanity. Wilson and Austin swung down, scowling at the strangers. After an exchange of thoughtful glances, the Texans cooled their saddles.

  “Consarn you damn-blasted saddlebums!” raged Wilson. “Ain’t you got no more sense than to get in our way?”

  “The trail’s free,” Larry calmly pointed out. “You came round the bend like all the devils of hell were chasin’ you.”

  “So let up on the cussin’, boys,” advised Stretch. “More your fault than ours, I reckon.”

  “If you jaspers know what’s good for you,” growled Austin, “you’ll fork them horses and get the hell outa here—before we really lose our tempers!”

  “Runt,”
grinned Stretch, “you ever see three such proddy galoots?”

  “Not since we run into Waldick and his pards,” drawled Larry.

  “What these jaspers need,” fumed Murch, “is a lesson!” He came barging across the trail with his right fist drawn back. Wilson and Austin, figuring three against two were safe odds, came hustling after him. Larry and Stretch had been encountered, observed and underestimated by three rogues who were soon to rue their rashness. As Murch came first, he qualified as the first casualty. His wild, swinging right missed Larry’s head by a full seven inches and, in this brief conflict, that was the one and only blow he threw. Larry’s jabbing left mangled his mouth and knocked him senseless. He reeled back against Wilson, caught him off-balance and pulled him to the ground.

  The burly Austin hurled himself at Stretch and actually landed a blow, a roundhouse right that stung Stretch’s left ear. Stretch winced and swore, slammed his left to Austin’s belly and brought his right up in a devastating uppercut. Suddenly, Austin was in flight, careering backward, crashing to the ground and sliding.

  Wilson leapt to his feet, his hand clawing at his holster. Larry darted at him and, with a lashing kick, knocked him off his feet. His full weight pinned Wilson to the dust for the short time it took him to empty the hardcase’s holster and fling his weapon clear. He then rose up and patiently waited for Wilson to regain his feet. Wilson did so, for a fraction of a second. As soon as he was upright, Larry returned him to the horizontal with a right to the jaw.

  The drifters blew on their knuckles, traded grins.

  “They don’t look so all-fired proddy now,” was Larry’s scathing comment.

  “Well?” prodded Stretch. “What do we do with ’em?”

  “Can’t leave ’em spread across the trail,” Larry decided.

  “They’re apt to get stomped. That’s about what they deserve. Still ...”

  “Let’s stash ’em by their horses and get on back to town,” suggested Stretch.