Larry and Stretch 12 Read online

  She had picked up the horse-tracks of her quarry in the last waning light of sunset and was now headed toward a timbered ridge far to the northeast of Circle T range. In the past, that ridge had provided temporary refuge for marauding bands of rustlers seeking to attack the Shumack spread. It now occurred to her that her father’s assailants may have headed in that direction. Certainly, the tracks suggested this.

  But Harnsey and his men had vacated their camp on the ridge a full ninety minutes before sunset. Within ten minutes of Newcombe and Haines rejoining the main party, Harnsey was leading his men northward along the ridge, and luridly cursing Shumack’s attackers.

  “I gave you a simple order,” he raged, glaring back at them over his shoulder. “Told you to go hunt cottontail. Told you not to let anybody spot you. Cottontail, I said. Or deer!”

  “You wouldn’t want us to pass up such a chance, would you?” demanded Haines. “Fresh beef. Hell, we needed fresh beef …”

  “So you got it!” snarled Harnsey. “And left a dead man behind!”

  “Got ourselves a horse too,” Newcombe pointed out.

  “The hell with the horse—and the beef—and you!” fumed Harnsey. “Next time I give you an order, you’ll do exactly what I say—or else! Maybe you’ve stirred up this whole damn territory, gunnin’ that rancher. If we stayed on that ridge, there might’ve been a law-posse crowdin’ us by midnight.”

  “Naw,” scoffed Haines. “Be long after sunrise ’fore they find that dead jasper.”

  “I don’t aim to stake my life on what you think,” growled Haines. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna stop me from jumpin’ that south-bound freight train and grabbin’ that extra dinero. Nothin’—except …”

  “Except,” finished the scowling Quint Spring, “a law-posse headin’ us off, and all because a couple galoots ain’t got sense enough to follow orders.”

  Even after sundown, the pursuing Texans managed to find their way to the second camp site abandoned by the Harnsey gang. It wasn’t all that difficult. There was bright moonlight, and one of Harnsey’s men had been careless. Dirt had been kicked onto the fire, but not quite enough. It still smoldered, and the smell of the smoke carried quite a distance. Twenty minutes after their first whiff of it, carried to them on the early evening breeze, they spotted the thin wisp of it spiraling up from atop the dark ridge. At the east base of the upgrade, they reined up a moment.

  “I ain’t sure,” Stretch calmly admitted. “It smells like a camp fire sure enough, but there ain’t all that much smoke.”

  “It’s worth checkin’,” decided Larry. “We’re goin’ up— slow, easy, and muy quieto.”

  Warily, they climbed to the wooded summit of the ridge. Even more cautiously, and with their hands gun-filled, they walked their mounts to the cleared area vacated by their quarry a short time before. The half-smothered camp fire told its own story.

  “They were here,” declared Stretch, “and not long ago. Why in hell did they pull out? We’ve been comin’ on sneaky. They couldn’t of spotted us, runt.”

  “Somethin’ else must’ve fazed ’em,” frowned Larry.

  “Well—what’re we waiting for?” challenged Junior. “Let’s keep after ’em!”

  “I’ll tell you what we’re waitin’ for—Ranger,” drawled Larry, as he slid to the ground. “The horses need feed and rest, and so do we. That’s one thing. Another thing, there’s eight of them and three of us. Stretch and me, we don’t care a damn about the odds, but there’s a time for startin’ a showdown and a time for stayin’ hid.”

  “It ain’t smart,” Stretch patiently explained to Junior, “to try crowdin’ a passel of owlhoots after sundown— specially when we don’t know exactly where they’re at.”

  “But,” protested Junior, “all this delay …!”

  “Delay my fat Aunt Fanny!” snorted Stretch, “You think their horses don’t need restin’? They ain’t liable to travel far tonight.”

  “And, come sun-up,” predicted Larry, “we’ll cut their sign again.” He jerked a thumb. “Cool your saddle, Ranger. You can look after the horses while Stretch rustles up supper. I’m goin’ forward a ways to where the ridge ends. Ain’t much chance I’ll spot anther fire, but I’d admire to be sure.”

  By the time he rejoined Stretch and the Ranger, supper was ready and the horses were secured to a picket line. Gruffly, he reported,

  “Nary a sign of ’em. We’ll have better luck tomorrow. Meantime, we eat and sleep.”

  “Who sits guard?” Junior wanted to know.

  “We all take turn,” said Larry. “Me first, then Stretch, then you.”

  They had finished their supper and were squatting close together, working on their coffee, when the sharp sound reached their ears. Somewhere close by, a dry twig had snapped under a boot. Larry voiced no orders. With gestures, he positioned Junior over to the left of the horses and Stretch behind a tree on the far side of the clearing. They were invisible, and he was about to conceal himself behind a thick trunk, when the aggressive voice challenged him.

  “Freeze—you dad-blamed horse thief!”

  As well as feeling foolish, he was enraged. Only once in a very long time could a marauder get the drop on the wily Larry Valentine. He wasn’t alarmed, realizing full well that his partner was bound to be drawing a head on the intruder. He wasn’t alarmed—just furious. To be challenged from behind was bad enough. To be challenged by a female was worse. Grim-faced, he turned to face her.

  “What in blue blazes,” he coldly demanded, “did you call me?”

  From behind the leveled rifle, she glared at him.

  “You heard me—horse thief!”

  And then, for just a moment, her eyes strayed to the three horses. One—Stretch’s—was a pinto, but obviously not hers. She gnawed at her underlip and returned her gaze to Larry, but too late. He was already leaping, knocking the barrel of the Henry repeater upward, then grasping at it, snatching it from her and hurling it aside. Stretch and Junior emerged from cover, the latter gaping incredulously, because Larry had seized the girl bodily and was seating himself on a rock, throwing her across his knees.

  Ruthy Shumack yelped and struggled, but all to no avail. Larry’s heavy right hand rose and fell, pounding unerringly at the tightest portion of her blue jeans.

  “Nobody …” he growled, “male or female—calls me horse thief!”

  He finished pounding, deposited her on her feet and stood up, towering over her, glowering ferociously. Instead of sobbing, or blurting out a speech of indignation, she stood rubbing at her rear section and eyeing him solemnly. There was no hint of reproach in her voice, when she softly declared,

  “The only other man that ever paddled me was my pa.”

  “I got only one thing against your old man,” retorted Larry. “He didn’t paddle you hard enough—nor often enough—nor teach you manners. Where do you get the nerve to come snoopin’ up here and poke a rifle at me, and call me horse thief?”

  “You’re handsome,” she decided. “Better’n handsome. Downright purty.”

  “I asked you,” Larry curtly reminded her, “a doggone question. You better come up with an answer—or I’m apt to paddle you again.”

  “Are there only three of you?” she asked.

  “Just three,” nodded Junior. “Why?”

  “I guess,” she sighed, “you ain’t the fellers I’m huntin’.” She gestured toward the horses. “I was lookin’ for my pinto colt—and the hardcases that stole it—and shot my pa.”

  Larry relented somewhat.

  “You had your supper?” he demanded.

  “Not yet,” said Ruthy.

  “Still plenty beans in the pan,” offered Stretch. “Sit down and eat.”

  “I’ll eat,” she decided, “but I ain’t settin’.” Again, she rubbed at her smarting rear. “Not just yet a while, anyway.”

  The Texans rolled and lit cigarettes, seated themselves close to their fair visitor, and while she satisfied her hunger, encouraged her to tal
k.

  “Ain’t no call for you to be leery of us,” said Stretch, as comfortingly as he knew how. “We ain’t owlhooters nor nothin’ like that. Matter of fact, the young feller there is a sure enough Texas Ranger …”

  “Burch Tatum Junior,” offered Junior, “at your service, Miss …?”

  “Ruthy.” She smiled directly at Larry. “Ruthy Shumack. Nineteen and single—and lookin’.”

  “He’s Larry,” supplied Stretch. “Larry Valentine. He’s single too—only he ain’t lookin’. And you can call me Stretch.”

  “Stretch?” she blinked. “Is that a name?”

  “His real handle,” drawled Larry, “is Woodville Eustace Emerson. What would you want to call him?”

  “Howdy, Stretch,” she grinned.

  “Howdy, Red,” chuckled Stretch.

  “It strikes me, Miss Ruthy,” asserted Junior, “that you act mighty cheerful for a young lady that’s just lost her father.”

  “They didn’t kill Pa,” she hastened to assure them. “He got nicked twice. Head and shoulder. But ain’t bad. He’ll mend fast.”

  “You want to tell us exactly what happened?” prodded Larry.

  She told it, and thoroughly, leaving nothing out. They hung on her every word and, during her description of the marauders, traded quick glances. Junior snapped his fingers and muttered,

  “A new white Stetson, pearl-butted Colts and a black thoroughbred.”

  “Yeah.” Larry nodded pensively. “He could be the same jasper that changed places with you and took Harnsey out of the Winfield pokey.”

  “You know these fellers?” challenged Ruthy.

  “We know of ’em,” explained Larry. “Been doggin’ ’em all the way from the Aguila Hills, back in Winfield County.” He gave her a brief account of the circumstances of their throwing in with Burch Tatum Junior, then assured her, “We figure we stand an even chance of catchin’ up with ’em. When we do, there’s bound to be shooting, but we’ll try and miss your pinto and Junior’s charcoal.”

  “Well,” she shrugged, “I’ll just make sure of that—by taggin’ along with you.”

  “You think so?” Larry scowled aggressively, pointed to her plate and declared, “Soon as you finish your supper, you’re headed for home—where you belong.”

  “You said there’s eight of ’em.” Ruthy stared earnestly at Larry. “That means you can use an extra gun. And, doggone it, Larry, I can fight as good as any man. You’ll see. With Pa’s old Henry, I can hit anything I aim at.”

  “Little gal,” countered Larry, “I don’t care if you got taught to shoot by Bill Hickok himself. If you think you’re tagging along with us Texans, you’re out of your ever-lovin’ mind.” He jerked a thumb. “Finish your supper—then vamoose.”

  “But …!” she began.

  “We’ll keep our eyes peeled for your pinto colt,” Stretch promised. “Give you our word—as a couple do-right Texans —we’ll deliver that crittur to the Circle T corral.”

  “We couldn’t possibly take you with us, Miss Ruthy,” said Junior. “I’m in charge of the hunt for Craig Harnsey— the most dangerous mission I was ever assigned to—and I couldn’t take the responsibility of …”

  “You ever hear such a mess o’ hogwash in all your born days?” Stretch disgustedly enquired of Larry.

  “I never did,” sighed Larry, shaking his head. He looked at the girl again. “Get a hustle on, Ruthy. Drink your coffee and make tracks.”

  “I want to stay with you,” she pleaded. “Gosh, Larry, how am I ever gonna start courtin’ you—’less we’re travellin’ together?”

  “Oh, my Aunt Sarah’s bustle!” guffawed Stretch.

  Larry turned red, balled his right hand into a fist and slammed it into his left palm. His voice shook, as much from mirth as from rage, as he delivered his ultimatum.

  “You pick up that Henry and sashay back to your horse, and then you hightail it for home. You give me any more arguments and, so help me, I’ll paddle you so hard you’ll have a red-raw rear from now till Christmas. You hear me, gal?”

  “You don’t have to holler,” she pouted. When she rose to her feet and retrieved the rifle, she summoned up another smile and offered a last inducement, “in a regular Sunday gown, I’m passable good-lookin’.”

  Larry grinned good-humoredly, and told her,

  “You’d look as purty as paint, even wrapped up in an old grain sack. No hard feelin’s, Ruthy. It’s just you’re a mite young for me and, besides, we’re on our way to what’ll likely be a rough hassle. A female’d only slow us down.”

  “I’ll sure miss you,” she sighed, as she trudged away through the trees.

  When her footsteps were no longer audible, the Texans traded thoughtful glances. Junior said,

  “Well, we surely are on the right track, and no mistake.”

  “They were short of grub,” mused Stretch. “That’s why they butchered a Circle T steer.” He rubbed at his lean jowls. “One thing’s for sure, runt. Them bandidos are gonna eat hearty ’tween now and when we tangle with ’em. They got all the fresh beef they can carry.”

  “It won’t be long,” fretted Junior, “before that Texas-hating editor finishes his dirty work. The Colonel will be reading another special edition of the Clarion—or maybe that blubber-bellied sheriff’ll telegraph Amarillo.” He shook his head sadly. “Dad’ll never forgive me.”

  “The Colonel’s gonna be all-fired proud of his son,” muttered Larry, “and Klemper is gonna eat his words. That much I’ve promised you, and I’m a hombre never breaks a promise.”

  Until eleven o’clock that night, he kept the fire going and sat guard. From eleven until three a.m., it was Stretch’s turn. Junior, when roused from sleep by the taller Texan, was bleary-eyed and befuddled. Ten minutes after Stretch had returned to his blanket-roll, Junior’s eyelids were drooping. He squatted with his back to a tree-trunk and Larry’s Winchester resting across his knees, and fought hard to stay awake. It was a brief fight; Morpheus won.

  Larry aroused to the feel of early sunlight warming his face, and to the sound of his partner’s laughter. What the hell was Stretch laughing about? It seemed too damned early in the day for mirth. He raised himself on his elbows, and the first sight that met his eyes was Ranger Tatum, as alert as a Thanksgiving turkey—on the plate and ready for carving. Junior was still squatting with his back to the tree, his head lolling forward, his loud snores startling the birds in the branches above. Larry cursed and rolled over.

  The second sight that met his eyes caused him to curse again—louder, and more violently. Tousled fire-red hair cascaded over the edge of the blanket—the blanket positioned close beside his. There were signs of movement. Ruthy Shumack sat up, knuckled sleep from her eyes and flashed him an impudent grin. Over by the fire, where he hovered over sizzling pan and bubbling coffee pot, Stretch chuckled again.

  “Durned if I can understand it, runt,” he jibed. “You ain’t half as handsome as me—but you’re the one they always chase after.”

  “How would you like …” Larry’s voice soared to a bellow, “to shut your cotton-pickin’ mouth …?”

  His roar roused Junior, who promptly lurched to his feet, gripped the Winchester by its wrong end and said,

  “What—who—where …?”

  “Smartest Ranger in Texas,” drawled Stretch, “until he wakes up.”

  Larry leapt to his feet, became entangled in his blanket and fell on his face. Again, Stretch felt entitled to offer a comment,

  “Speakin’ of awkward Texans …”

  “Shuddup …!” snarled Larry, as he regained the perpendicular. Sternly, he pointed at the smiling Ruthy. “How long’ve you been there?”

  “Well …” she shrugged and winked, “I was tempted to sneak in when Stretch was settin’ guard, only he looked a mite too wide awake. It was different—a whole lot easier—when Ranger Tatum took over …”

  “I wasn’t asleep!” panted Junior. “Just—just resting my eyes …”


  “And your brain,” jeered Stretch, “and every inch of your consarned carcass. Outside of that, you were wide awake.”

  “Hell’s bells and Holy Hannah!” raged Larry. “This man-hungry little varmint …!”

  “She slept alongside of Larry all night?” blinked Junior.

  “Not all night.” She sighed regretfully. “Only from when you took your turn at guard.” She stood up. The blanket fell away from her and Larry, fearing the worst, was about to close his eyes. Ruthy, it transpired, had removed only her boots. She smiled a bantering smile. “Might’s well make up your mind to it, Larry. I go where you go—sleep where you sleep.”

  “Like hell you do!” he fumed.

  She turned her back on him, squatted to pull on her boots. Over her shoulder, she cheerfully announced,

  “You gents’ll have to excuse me while I go wash up. But I’ll be back in time to handle my share of the cookin’ chores.”

  She bent to pick up her canteen and saddlebag, and Larry reacted instinctively. His right foot swung up in a powerful kick that would have sent Red Ruthy rocketing clear to the far side of the camp—had it landed. She straightened up and moved forward in the nick of time. And then, as lithely as an antelope, she was making her exit.

  Larry helped himself to a canteen, uncapped it and poured water over his head and face. Then, trudging across to crouch beside Stretch, he said, “What am I gonna do with her?”

  “You’re askin’ me?” blinked Stretch.

  “She can’t come with us,” frowned Larry. “Too much danger for her.”

  “That’s a fact,” agreed Stretch.

  “So,” said Larry “we feed her again, put her on her horse and send her home and—this time—it better be for sure!”

  Seven – Homer’s Soliloquy

  When the Texans quit the ridge some thirty minutes later to resume their tracking of the Harnsey gang, they were minus Red Ruthy. If the dark threats, grim warnings and vehement bullying by Larry Valentine carried any muscle at all, they would never see her again; at least not until—and if—they retrieved and returned her pinto colt.