Larry and Stretch 13 Read online

  “Ride up to Sun Dog Mesa?” Stretch rolled over and blinked at him. “Doggone you, runt, you get the damnedest notions!”

  “Whether that flea-bit old buzzard already has the rifles,” Larry patiently explained, “or whether he’s apt to get ’em, it wouldn’t do no harm to discourage him.”

  “Discourage him from what?” demanded Stretch.

  “From usin’ the rifles,” said Larry.

  “How in blazes,” wondered Stretch, “are you gonna do that?”

  Larry told him how, in a few short, terse sentences. And, like so many of his outlandish schemes, it all seemed absurdly simple to his partner.

  “That could work,” Stretch calmly agreed. “Uh, huh. That could sure as hell discourage ’em.”

  “Only one thing,” frowned Larry.

  “What?” asked Stretch.

  “We’d convince those Apaches a damn sight easier,” Larry opined, “if we weren’t just a couple civilians.”

  “You mean you’d rather we got duded up as soldiers?” challenged Stretch.

  “That’d be better,” declared Larry. “A whole lot better. Trouble is, it ain’t easy to grab a couple army rigouts. We can’t just sneak out to Camp Stone and help ourselves. Old Vinegar-Face would order us shot on sight, or maybe throw us into the stockade.” He rose from his bed, trudged to the open window, then pulled it shut. “It’s rainin’.”

  As he unrolled his pack and tugged at his slicker, Stretch enquired,

  “Where are we headed?”

  “We’ll ask Little Lew about a gunsmith,” said Larry. “Later on, I’ll go talk to Martha. Her pappy was a freighter, don’t forget. She’d know this territory good. If there’s any way we can sneak up to the mesa without some army patrol spottin’ us, I reckon she’s the gal could tell us.” He added, while donning his slicker, “But I sure wish I could get us a couple uniforms.”

  Stretch jack-knifed off his bed, unrolled his gear and shrugged into his slicker. They donned their Stetsons, quit the room and descended to the lobby.

  At the livery stable, Little Lew bent a respectful ear to Larry’s query gave it a few moments of deep thought, then offered a name.

  “Shipway—Harv Shipway. Best durn gunsmith in the whole doggone county—-or any other county. He can’t shoot worth a peck o’ sour apples but, when it comes to fixin’ a gun—any kinda gun you can think of—he’s a champeen. You just sashay two blocks downtown. Harv’s place is right opposite of Quincey’s Haberdashery.”

  A few moments later, the tall strangers were dripping water from their slickers on the board floor of the Shipway store, and being accorded a placid greeting by the proprietor. Shipway was pudgy, totally bald and devoted to his trade, an elderly man of even temperament. Politely, he listened to Larry’s request.

  “Latest model repeater? Well now, you got any special make in mind?”

  “The brand,” Larry decided, “won’t be important. Just so long as it’s a repeater, and fresh from stock.”

  “Shiny-new, huh?” grinned Shipway. From under his counter, he produced a 44.40 of the latest design, as handsome a rifle as the Texans had ever examined. “Look it over, gents, and take your time. Brand new. And the innards are as purty as the outside—if you’d like me to take it apart.”

  “No need,” said Larry. “This shooter’ll do fine. How much?”

  Shipway quoted the price. Larry placed the money on the counter and, to the gunsmith’s surprise, added a ten-dollar bill. “What’s that for?” he demanded.

  “That,” said Larry, “is for keepin’ your mouth shut.”

  “About what?” blinked Shipway.

  “About the little chore you’re gonna do on this purty shooter.” Larry picked up the weapon and calmly explained. “What I want is for you to mix up a little molten lead. You can do that, can’t you?”

  “Easily,” frowned Shipway. “But for what?”

  “For the bottom part of the barrel,” said Larry. “I want it blocked—solid.”

  Shipway eyed him incredulously.

  “You’re asking me to block the barrel of this fine new repeater? You realize what that means, friend? The gun’ll be useless!”

  “And,” nodded Larry, “if anybody loaded it, cocked it and fired it ...”

  “That’d be plain murder!” protested Shipway. “The gun would explode! A man could get killed that way!”

  “You better ease his mind, runt,” drawled Stretch. “He’s about ready to holler for the law.”

  “Shipway,” said Larry, as he folded the extra ten and tucked it into the gunsmith’s vest pocket, “one thing you can take my word for. This gun ain’t gunna hurt nobody. That’s a promise. Fair enough?”

  “Well—all right then,” sighed Shipway. “I’ll block the barrel, but it’s gonna break my heart. This is a fine gun, mister. Can you imagine how I’ll feel? You take a horse rancher, for instance. Would he tie a high-bred horse to a post and take a bullwhip to it, whip it till it dies, for no reason at all?”

  “The difference is,” declared Larry, “I got a reason for what I aim to do—and a damn good reason at that. It’s somethin’ I’ll be glad to explain to you, but not now. You’ll just have to take my word for it. This rifle will be worth wreckin’.”

  “I’ll take your word,” decided Shipway, “and your ten dollars—and keep my mouth shut. Rifle will be ready for you inside the half-hour.”

  “Gracias,” said Larry.

  Outside the gunsmithery, Stretch asked,

  “Where to now?”

  “Up to the freight office,” said Larry, “to shoot a few questions at Martha.”

  They found Martha, with Joey’s assistance worriedly tallying figures in a ledger, in the clapboard headquarters of the freight line. Larry’s query caused her some misgivings.

  “You want to dodge the patrols and travel up to the reservation? But why, Larry?”

  “Go ahead and tell her,” suggested Stretch. “I reckon we can trust Martha and Joey.”

  “Sure,” agreed Larry. “But, on the other hand, what they don’t know can’t hurt ’em. It wouldn’t be fair to tell ’em the whole score.” He perched on a corner of Martha’s desk, flashed her a reassuring grin. “I’ll tell you this much. We aim to parley with old Gayatero—peaceable.”

  “Holy cow!” breathed Joey. “Nobody talks peaceable to the Apaches!”

  “There’s ways,” grinned Stretch.

  “How about it, Martha?” prodded Larry. “Is there a way we could make it to the mesa, without a bunch of soldiers steppin’ on our toes?”

  “There’s a track I know of,” she frowned, as she rose front her chair. “If you could reach it, the rest would be easy.” She moved across to a wall map to indicate the general area of Sun Dog Mesa. “Here, near the east base of the mountain, you’ll see a lot of mesquite. It’s plenty thick—a good place to hide. The track starts from the far side of the brush.”

  “Okay for horses?” asked Larry.

  “Yes,” she nodded. “But narrow, so you couldn’t ride side by side.”

  “What d’you think, runt?” frowned Stretch.

  “It looks okay,” Larry decided.

  “But,” cautioned Martha, “you could run into many a patrol before you ever reached that brush.”

  “That’s a chance we’ll have to take,” shrugged Larry. Back on Main Street, they refastened their slickers and drew their Stetsons tighter over their foreheads. The drizzle had increased to a steady shower; the center of the street was a quagmire. Stretch, while building a cigarette, remarked, “I’m thirsty.”

  “All right,” said Larry. “While you’re buyin’ yourself a beer, I think I’ll mosey back to Shipway’s and wait for him to finish that repeater.”

  “When you say ‘finish’,” chuckled Stretch, “you ain’t whistlin’ ‘Dixie’.” He turned to stare northward. “Hey now. You figure we got time to sneak up to the reservation before sundown?”

  “No,” said Larry. “Be better if we make it tomor
row morning.”

  They parted company temporarily. While Larry trudged downtown through the rain, Stretch steered a course for the nearest saloon, which happened to be the Gold Buckle. The only thought in his mind was beer, the feel of a tall, cold flagon of it, the pleasing sensation of transferring it from the flagon to his welcoming interior. That was the only thought in his mind, until he spotted the familiar, bulky frame of Sergeant Hal Boyle. Abruptly, he forgot his thirst.

  The sergeant and a corporal—a lean jasper almost as tall as Stretch—were entering a building on the opposite side of the street and half-way up the next block. Undeterred by the rain; Stretch crossed the street diagonally and ambled along to inspect that particular establishment. A large, gaily-painted shingle proclaimed it to be “The Happy Swede Bath-House. Gents only. Lars Hunstrom, Prop.”

  “So,” Stretch reflected, “the sarge and his pard are fixin’ to take an all-over bath—which means they got to peel off all their duds.”

  Logical? Very. He pulled his Stetson even lower over his face, darted a cautious glance to right and left, then sneaked into the narrow alley that separated the Hunstrom establishment from the next building in line. The alley was deserted, and he sincerely hoped it would remain so.

  Steam issued from the side windows of the bathhouse, most of which were half-open. He investigated each window with great care, sneaking quick looks inside and glimpsing male citizens from every strata of Bosworth society, in varying stages of undress or, squatting naked in large wooden tubs. Not until he reached the third window did he again sight Boyle and the corporal. As bare as the day of their births, they were stepping into steaming tubs.

  Everything was going Stretch’s way, it seemed. The N.C.O.’s squatted with their backs to the window. Their uniforms and side arms, plus their boots, had been piled on the board floor and, thanks to Stretch’s extensive reach, were available. With Boyle’s saber, he neatly raised the boots and drew them to the window. It then occurred to him to throw a glance toward the alley-mouth. Three men and a woman hustled past, without turning their heads. Again, he used the saber to good advantage. First the hats, then the tunics, then the pants and, finally, the belted side arms.

  He strapped both belts about his lean loins. The britches he wound about his waist and knotted. The tunics and hats he stuffed into the britches. His slicker was voluminous, so he was able to refasten it. Everything, including Boyle’s saber, was concealed beneath it.

  Reaching the rear end of the alley, he paused to take his bearings. The L.P. Corral, he recalled, was located on this same side of Main Street. He could reach it quickly enough, just by hustling along the back laneway. He did that and, within a few minutes, was entering Little Lew’s barn by its rear door.

  The old-timer greeted him cordially.

  “Howdy, Texas. That was sure some whuppin’ you give Sunday’s bunch. I seen the whole thing.”

  “Glad you enjoyed it, Little Lew,” grinned Stretch. He checked the barn to ensure they had it to themselves. Then, “Got a favor to ask you.”

  “Well,” shrugged Little Lew, “all you gotta do is ask.”

  “Can you keep a secret?” Stretch demanded.

  “Why?” challenged Little Lew. “You rob a bank or somethin’?”

  “Nope,” grunted Stretch. “But I just now stole a couple cavalry outfits from the gents’ bathhouse.”

  “That kinda secret I can keep,” the old man calmly asserted. “Anything I can do to help ...”

  “Let me have an empty sack,” begged Stretch.

  Little Lew supplied with an empty feed-sack, into which he swiftly stowed the purloined uniforms. By now, the old-timer was chuckling.

  “Dunno what you’re up to—you and Larry. Don’t wanta know. But it sure looks comical to me.”

  “I have to stash this stuff,” Stretch told him. “You got any objection if I hide it in your hay-loft? Wouldn’t be any use me totin’ it back to the hotel. It’ll only be till tomorrer mornin’, when me and Larry come to fetch our horses.”

  “Okay by me, son,” grinned Little Lew. “Climb up that ladder and hide it under the hay.”

  “I’m sure obliged to you,” said Stretch.

  A few moments later, the taller Texan was rejoining his partner. He encountered Larry on the boardwalk close by the Gold Buckle.

  “The beer cold?” Larry enquired. “I could sure use ...”

  “We can drink later,” frowned Stretch. “Walk along with me a ways runt. There’s somethin’ you oughta see—somethin’ we just wouldn’t want to miss.”

  Larry was hefting the rigged repeater; Shipway had obligingly wrapped it with a strip of tattered canvas. Tucking it under an arm, Larry accompanied his partner along the boardwalk to a position directly opposite the Hunstrom bathhouse. There was a bench. They perched on it, rolled and lit cigarettes, while Stretch quietly described his recent actions. During the telling of it, the rain ceased and rays of late afternoon sun began striking the mud of Main Street, causing a steaming mugginess. They shucked out of their slickers, rolled them and traded expectant glances. Larry was chuckling. Stretch grinned sheepishly, and asked,

  “It was a smart notion, huh?”

  “I got to hand it to you, big feller …” Larry guffawed and slapped his thigh. “You don’t often get a smart notion—but—when you do ...!”

  “It seemed like,” shrugged Stretch, “an easy way of gettin’ us a couple soldier suits. And—uh—stashin’ ’em at Little Lew’s, that wasn’t such a bad idea either, huh, runt? What I mean, they’re just bound to suspicion us. You know how them cavalry hombres are. They got mean minds.”

  “They sure don’t trust Texans,” grinned Larry. “Any time between now and sundown, there’ll be soldiers stampedin’ into the Lincoln House—lookin’ for us ...”

  “And lookin’,” guessed Stretch, “for them soldier suits.”

  “Bet your Texas boots,” nodded Larry. He frowned across to the bathhouse entrance. “How long d’you figure they’ve been in there?”

  “Long enough,” opined Stretch.

  They waited, placed, patient, completely at their ease. Exactly three and one half minutes later it happened. There were sounds of uproar from within Hunstrom’s establishment, loud, strident curses, harsh oaths, the bull-like voice of Sergeant Boyle, so poignantly familiar. The sergeant made a spectacular entrance on the Main Street scene, with the corporal in close attendance. Their fury had clouded their thinking. They were acting rashly, bounding out onto the boardwalk garbed in naught but their longjohns, and this spectacle was too much for a female passer-by, who promptly screamed and swooned.

  Inquisitive towners quickly materialized. Boyle raged and ranted, while the locals laughed derisively. A few yelled jeering comments and, inevitably, the uproar reached the alert ears of Sheriff Adam Upshaw.

  When the lawman arrived, Boyle and the corporal unleashed a torrent of complaint. But Upshaw wasn’t listening. As far as he was concerned, indecent exposure was being committed on the busiest street of his town, so he interrupted Boyle’s tirade with a stern command.

  “Turn around and head for my office—muy pronto, savvy? Sooner I get you jaspers off the street, the better for all concerned. Move!”

  With interest, the drifters followed the progress of Upshaw and his prisoners all the way to the law office. Then, unhurriedly, they rose from the bench. It took them less than a quarter-hour to satisfy their thirsts and return to their room at the Lincoln House. By then, Boyle and the corporal were on their way back to Camp Stone, with blankets wrapped about them and a grim-visaged Upshaw acting as escort.

  They arrived at the garrison camp around 4.50 p.m., at which time Major Spencer Vaughan was concluding an exhaustive medical examination of his most illustrious patient—the disgruntled and irascible Colonel Mortimer Stone.

  Six

  The Natural Suspects

  The medical officer delivered his warning in blunt language.

  “Without the patient’s cooperation,
high blood pressure is hard to beat. I must emphasize, Colonel, that you have to help yourself, learn to control your temper, practice patience at all times ...”

  “Patience be damned!” snorted Stone.

  “A trigger-temper,” shrugged Vaughan, “and high blood pressure—that’s a bad combination, Colonel.”

  “I’ll have you know,” retorted Stone, “that I am the most even-tempered commanding officer the Ninth has ever known.”

  He has to be joking, Vaughan thought to himself. No. Damn the old firebrand, he really means it! Aloud, he said, “The only alternative would be a sedative, something to keep you in a relaxed condition.”

  “Pills and potions,” sneered the colonel.

  “In your case,” said Vaughan, “I wouldn’t recommend sedation. Constant use of the medication would induce a state—uh—similar to that caused by alcoholism.”

  “Well,” said Stone, as tartly as he knew how, “we could hardly have that, could we, my dear Major?”

  “Hardly,” frowned Vaughan. “So I can only advise that you make the attempt to ...”

  “To be calm at all times,” jeered Stone. “To control my temper. Come, Major. No need to mince words.”

  “There’s nothing more I can say,” muttered Vaughan, as he replaced his instruments in his bag. “The rest, Colonel, is up to you.”

  “How can I remain in a state of good humor, serene and unruffled,” wondered Stone, “with all that infernal racket outside? What the devil is happening out there, anyway?”

  “I have no idea,” said Vaughan.

  He stepped aside hastily to avoid being jostled by the four men barging into the tent. First came the orderly officer, Captain Kerwin, as urbane as ever and, if Vaughan’s hunch was correct, doing his utmost not to burst into laughter. Next came Boyle and the scrawny corporal, still clad in their red underwear. Sheriff Upshaw brought up the rear. Doggedly, self-righteously, he began addressing the bug-eyed colonel.

  “I’ve been wearin’ this badge many a long year, Colonel, and I’m a fair-minded man. Don’t mind closin’ my eyes to some of the ructions your soldiers have caused in Bosworth. I reckon every trooper hankers to get drunk once in a while and let off a little steam. But, doggone it, this is too much! We got decent women in Bosworth. How would you feel, if your wife was walking along—mindin’ her own business—and suddenly got an eyeful of a couple growed men in their longjohns—a’prancin’ and a’cussin’ and a’roarin’ up a storm ...?”