Arizona Wild-Cat (Larry & Stretch Western. Book 2) Read online

  “Now then,” challenged Doc Leeds. “What’s all this nonsense about a disease?”

  “They call it the ‘Smoky Plague’,” explained Larry Valentine patiently, “on account of the smoke from the railroad gets into the air and poisons it—and the kids all die from it.”

  “Smoky Plague?” gasped a red-faced Doc Leeds. “Poppycock! I’ve ever heard of it!”

  “You never heard of it?” wondered Stretch.

  “Never heard of it!” repeated the physician.

  Stretch turned to his partner, an expression of acute astonishment on his long face, and said, “He done said he never heard of it!”

  “That’s what he said,” agreed Larry, sadly. “I heard him with my own two ears. He said he never heard of it.” He gave Leeds a mournful look, and added, “I sure hate to think of what’s gonna happen first time you have to tend somebody that’s caught it—if you never heard of it.”

  The doctor, a usually placid man, turned, wildly waved his arms and issued a stern warning to the crowd.

  “It’s my professional opinion, friends,” he roared, “that these two hombres are talking through the backs of their necks! I give you my word, as your doctor, of nineteen years’ standing, that there’s no such disease known to medicine!”

  “Thank you, Dr. Leeds!” smiled Endean triumphantly. He threw a scathing glance at the Texans. “I would suggest, gentlemen,” he advised, “that you refrain from further interruptions. These good people would like to listen to what I have to say—if you don’t mind.”

  “Don’t mind us,” shrugged Larry. “We don’t aim to make trouble for no one.”

  “Very kind of you,” retorted Endean.

  Appreciative laughter rewarded his quick return. He smiled at his audience and resumed.

  “The Taylor-Ames Corporation,” he went on, “invites all of you—even those whose worldly wealth may be small—even if all you possess is a few dollars—to invest those few dollars with this great organization. And your investment, however small, will be doubled, many times. You will have as much chance as your wealthier neighbors of making a fat profit, a fine nest-egg for your future, and the future of your children ...”

  “Taylor-Ames Corporation,” repeated Larry, loudly. “Is that what he calls it?”

  “That’s what he said,” avowed Stretch, also raising his voice.

  Larry blinked mildly up at the glowering man on the dais and asked, politely, “Say, are you sure there is such an outfit? I never heard tell of them before.”

  Silence. The deadly quiet descended upon the gathering as swiftly as if Preacher Joe Kiley had suddenly arisen from beside the punch-bowl and called them to prayer. People stared at the Texans, and at Endean, their faces reflecting their quick surprise.

  “My friend,” chuckled Endean, fast regaining control of himself. “If you have never heard of the Taylor-Ames Corporation, an old-established railroad company which has assisted the march of progress in every State of the Union, I can only conclude that you have lived all your life in the very center of the Cheesocree Desert!”

  Some of his listeners laughed at that sally—but not all of them. Larry Valentine appeared undismayed by the jibe. He simply frowned up at Endean, thoughtfully, and said, “No, mister. Me and my pard’ve done a whole lot of travellin’ together. We been all over the southwest and we worked on a lot of railroads—helped to lay line—”

  “You said you’re cowmen!” blazed Ed Larchmont, aggressively.

  “We been in a lotta perfessions,” retorted Stretch. “We been shotgun guards, miners, railroad workers. I recall the time we ...”

  “You sure there is a Taylor-Ames Railroad?” interrupted Larry, still staring up at Endean.

  “Shut up!” howled Larchmont. “You two saddlebums are only tryin’ to make trouble for an honest gentleman! We ought to ...”

  “Please, Mr. Larchmont.” Endean raised a hand, so that his famous diamond twinkled in the light. “I am not bothered by these interruptions. Every man is entitled to his opinion.” He smiled at the crowd and added suavely, “My company stands on its proud record. I can’t imagine that any of the intelligent, far-sighted citizens of this fair community would heed the—ah—ravings of our two friends here.”

  The applause welled up again. Endean detected, with renewed confidence, a louder and more concerted volume in it. Men were angrily calling to the Texans to quieten down. Others were demanding that Larry and Stretch be given a hearing; Solly Stryker was loud in the forefront of this latter group. The Texans, with impeccable timing, climbed up onto the dais beside Endean, smilingly acknowledging Stryker’s wild yells of encouragement. The saloon-owner had been experimenting with portion of his own stock and, for him, the Texans were fast taking on the appearance of knights in shining armor.

  “We wouldn’t want you folks to think we’re nothin’ but a coupla cowpokes,” Larry told the crowd aggrievedly. “Like my pard says, we been in a lotta jobs, in a lotta towns. We know all about railroads ...”

  “I recall one place we was in,” grinned Stretch. “Town called Warbonnet Creek ...”

  “Who in blazes gives a damn about Warbonnet Creek?” raged Ed Larchmont.

  “Quiet down, Ed!” called Sheriff Trumble. “No call to cuss in front of the ladies. These hombres aren’t doin’ any real harm.”

  Endean reddened and cast a covert glance at the crowd, quickly assessing the mood of his audience. People were surging closer to the dais, half of them angrily calling upon the Texans to desist—the other half eager to lend an ear to these sheepishly-grinning hell-raisers. Larchmont leaned close, tugged at his cousin’s pants-leg and muttered, “Out-talk ’em, Jay; else they’ll make you look foolish! You can’t let ’em get away with this!”

  Quickly, Endean crouched down to growl a reply.

  “I can’t afford to lose my temper with them—not in public, Ed. It would be a sign of weakness. We daren’t risk that!”

  “Tell us about Bluebonnet Creek!” bawled Solly Stryker, who had suddenly become tired of Endean’s speech-making.

  “It wasn’t Bluebonnet Creek,” corrected Larry. “It was Warbonnet Creek. Ain’t that right, Stretch?”

  “That’s right, all right,” grinned Stretch, waving the crowd to draw closer still. “That was a railroad town and a real wide-open place. Ten saloons, plenty gamblin’ ...”

  “I haven’t quite worked out what’s going on here,” confided Dr. Leeds’ wife to a lady-friend. “It’s all so confusing. One minute, that dear Mr. Endean was making such a nice speech. But now—those two rough-looking men are up there—telling stories. How did it happen, Sarah?”

  The woman called Sarah was equally at a loss. But she was content to stare up at the broad shoulders and weather-beaten countenance of Larry Valentine, and say, wistfully, “One of them is so all-fired handsome ...!”

  “This place Warbonnet,” Stretch reminisced, “had the most sociable marshal me and by pard ever met. He used to let us sleep in his jail ...”

  “How come you got to be in jail?” roared Larchmont, pointing an accusing finger from out of the milling throng.

  “Influence,” supplied Larry Valentine, without turning a hair. “Go on, Stretch. Tell ’em about Marshal Tovey.”

  “This Marshal Tovey,” Stretch informed the interested audience, “was a real sociable feller. Every Saturday night he used to down a whole bottle of snake-juice and sing a song on the corner of Main Street and Gunsight Alley. Funniest durned song I ever did hear. Wish I could sing it for you folks ...”

  “Sing it!” howled Stryker. “Go ahead and sing it!”

  “Yeah!” yelped Deputy Foy, inflating his chest. “Let’s hear it!”

  “Hush up, Sammy Foy!” snapped his fair companion. “It’s just like your nerve, helpin’ them no-good Texans to spoil Mr. Endean’s speech-makin’!”

  “Heck, Tess,” protested Sammy. “This is supposed to be a sociable function. I’m just tryin’ to make them two feel at home.” He added, somewhat pom
pously: “So’s they’ll know I’ve forgiven ’em for that ruckus they got into.”

  “Don’t reckon your orchestry would know that there song,” apologized Stretch. “That song Marshal Tovey used to sing ...”

  Stacey Allbright prodded Stretch’s spare ribs with his fiddle-bow and asked, hopefully, “What was it called, Texas? Maybe me and my boys know it.”

  Solly Stryker, as it happened, was not the only man present who had tired of speech-making. Stacey Allbright reasoned that, as he and his musicians had been hired for their professional ability, it was a crying shame for them to have to remain respectfully silent while Mr. Endean made one of those long-winded speeches of his. Reinforced by punch, Allbright and his men were ready and willing to perform.

  “This here song,” Stretch told him, “was called ‘Whooee! Goes That Dad-Blamed Train’.”

  “We know it!” whooped the orchestra-leader triumphantly. “Start a-singin’, friend. What’s your key?”

  “Never fret ’bout keys,” boasted Stretch. “Just you and your boys git aboard and foller me.”

  The crowd quietened down in gleeful anticipation. Allbright raised his bow and stomped his foot three times. Stretch, with a poker-faced Larry Valentine providing raucous harmony, launched into the historic Saturday night lament of the convivial Marshal Tovey. The lyrics were “frontier-style” and explicit.

  “Here I am in a railroad town,

  Cain’t find none o’ my friends around,

  Standin’ here with my hat turned down,

  Listenin’ to that railroad sound ...”

  The chorus was rendered with a bewildering amount of whooping and stamping. Women exchanged startled looks, but soon began registering their enjoyment by clapping in time with the orchestra.

  “Whooee! goes that dad-blamed train!

  Soot gits in mah ears.

  Whooee! There it goes again!

  Soot’ll be here fer years!”

  It began with a casual desire to thwart Endean from further acquisition of hard-earned savings. It developed into a shindig of even greater proportions than Endean himself had planned. Allbright and his men stepped up the tempo, Stretch skillfully kept pace with them and turned the lyrics into a square-dance caller’s spiel. Loping forward to the edge of the stage, he clapped his lean hands together and called the measures, whilst the whooping citizens entered into the spirit of the thing. It became, in Stacey Allbright’s words, “The best damn square-dance this town’s ever had!” Endean kept his expression good-humored, wearing the mask of a man who was taking a tolerant attitude to the baulking of his speech. It was the only thing he could do. A show of temper, now, could damage the simple confidence he had worked for in the ranks of the townsfolk. He did not realize, at this stage, that Larry and Stretch had accomplished precisely what they had striven for. Without changing the festivity of the occasion, they had forced Endean to refrain from his latest appeal for fresh investments. And, had Endean but realized it, they had planted the seeds of doubt in the minds of more than one of the people present.

  It was not until the following morning that Jay Endean was given a sharp indication of the change.

  Six – New Strategy

  Most of the town slept late next day. People were, naturally enough, tired out after their energetic enjoyment of the previous night’s function. Jay Endean arose at eight and took his time about bathing and shaving. At nine, he was eating a leisurely breakfast, attired in a richly-embroidered robe from one of San Francisco’s most expensive stores, when the door of his suite was pushed open to admit his scowling cousin.

  “Why so gloomy, Ed?” smiled the blond man, as Larchmont slumped into a chair. “Not worrying about last night, are you? Quit fretting about those Texans. Nobody paid any attention to them.”

  “You think not?” growled Larchmont. “Well—I am worried! And it’s high time you started worrying, too!”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that, just now, when I was coming out of the barber shop,' three different galoots up and grabbed me and started asking questions. Is Mr. Endean thinking of leaving town in a hurry? Do I think their money is safe with Mr. Endean? Am I sure there is a Taylor-Ames Corporation? Stuff like that!”

  Endean put down his fork, raised his eyebrows, and said, “Well, well, well! So some of them did listen to those drifters from Texas!”

  “It’s bad,” fretted Larchmont. “Make no mistake about that. I even heard that some of the citizens are going to keep an eye on the hotel, in case you try making a run for it—with their money. You have to face it, Jay. They just don’t trust you anymore!”

  “So?” frowned Endean thoughtfully.

  “You have to think of a way out of this,” growled his cousin, “and quick!”

  “Don’t worry,” grinned Endean. “If I couldn’t back myself to out-think a bunch of rubes like these, I wouldn’t have taken this caper on in the first place. I’ll think of something. I always do, don’t I?”

  The knock at the door sounded like the knell of doom to the quaking Larchmont, but Endean was not alarmed. The knock had been soft, hesitant. He jerked a thumb towards the door and said, “Open it, Ed, and let them in, whoever it is. And leave all the talking to me.”

  Larchmont got up, moved over to the door and opened it, to admit a familiar Widow’s Peak identity named Hap Priddy. Priddy, like many of Endean’s investors, was a poor man, a menial who eked out a living as a swamper for the Salted Mine Saloon.

  “Howdy, Mr. Endean,” he greeted nervously, doffing his battered hat. “I sure am sorry for bustin’ in on you while you’re eatin’.”

  Endean rose and extended his right hand.

  “Mr. Priddy, is it not?” he smiled., “I remember you well. As I recall it, you were one of the very first to avail yourself of my company’s generous offer.”

  Remembering names and faces at a moment’s notice was part of Endean’s system. Larchmont never ceased to wonder at his cousin’s talent in that regard.

  “That’s me,” nodded Priddy, lowering his scrawny posterior onto the chair offered him by his host. “I—uh—I invested twenty-five dollars with you, Mr. Endean.”

  “Fine,” beamed the blond man. “Now—is there something I can do for you?”

  “I—uh—I was wonderin’,” faltered the little swamper, “if I could—uh—get it back.”

  “Get it back?” Larchmont started convulsively. “What the hell do you mean by that, Priddy?”

  “Steady,” warned Endean. “Mr. Priddy is a business partner of the corporation, in a sense. He’s entitled to every courtesy, Ed.”

  “Sorry,” grunted Larchmont, fixing a baleful glare on the back of Priddy’s neck.

  “Now, Mr. Priddy,” smiled Endean, settling back in his chair, “I think I should explain to you that it is not customary in a venture of this kind for moneys invested to be returned to the investor before the cessation of the period agreed upon.”

  “D-does that mean,” gulped Priddy, “I c-can’t get my twenty-five dollars back?”

  “As a rule, you couldn’t,” shrugged Endean. “But I’d be happy to make an exception in your case. The Taylor-Ames Corporation is a very ethical organization, Mr. Priddy. We see no point in withholding the investments of people who—ah—people who have suffered a change of heart—like yourself.”

  “I sure hate to put you to the trouble,” apologized Priddy. “It’s just—well—I got to thinkin’. If anythin’ happened to stop your railroad goin’ through ...”

  “The railroad will go through,” smiled Endean, “But that need no longer concern you, Mr. Priddy. As a gesture of goodwill, as a mark of generosity of my company, I am going to return your twenty-five dollars—at once. Ed, would you mind opening the safe?”

  Ed minded; but he opened it anyway. Endean went to it, took out a sheaf of banknotes, peeled off three and handed them to Priddy. Priddy mumbled his thanks, then handed back his share certificate.

  “I’ll—uh—give you a receipt fo
r the twenty-five,” he offered, but Endean shook his head.

  “Quite unnecessary, Mr. Priddy. You requested the return of your money, and I have returned it. No need for you to write a receipt. A man’s word is good enough for me.” He said that grandly, as though he had just paid Priddy a hundred dollar bonus. Priddy, in his simple way, was very impressed.

  “That sure is white of you, Mr. Endean,” he avowed.

  He muttered a sheepish good-morning then and wandered over to the door. He had his hand on the knob, when Endean said, “It’s because of what those Texans said last night, isn’t it?”

  “Well,” Priddy seemed embarrassed. “Sort of.”

  “A pity.” Endean shook his head sadly. “I’ve seen it happen before, Mr. Priddy. Some hot-head starts shooting off at the mouth, and a whole town panics. Others may decide to ask for the return of their investments—thus missing out on a golden opportunity of reaping the rich profits we’re going to make. Such a shame.”

  Priddy carried that sobering thought with him as he nodded a farewell to them and went out. Larchmont, after ensuring that the man was out of earshot, frowned at his cousin and said, “You gave him back his money! Hell!”

  “A wise move,” Endean assured him. “Dickering would have been fatal.”

  “There’ll be others!” Larchmont promised. “Nothing surer. They’ll all come trooping up those stairs, demanding their blasted investment money. They’ll clean us out—unless you can figure out some way for us to get out of town—fast and quiet.”

  “Let’s revise the situation,” grinned Endean, resuming his chair.

  “Revise be damned!”

  “Take it easy, Ed. We’re not licked yet. As long as we don’t lose our heads, we’ll figure a way out of this.”

  “Those fool drifters!” wailed Larchmont. “Those Texans! What’s their stake in this thing? Why’d they do it?” His jaw dropped. A stunned expression came over his heavy features. “By all that’s holy!” he breathed. “Burden! I’ll bet Burden’s at the bottom of this!”