Larry and Stretch 9 Read online

  “You sure got your nerve, Valentine,” the deputy complained.

  “There’s times,” Larry countered, “when it pays to be careful.” He turned on the seated prisoner, snapped his fingers. “Up.”

  Austin stood up. Larry nudged him aside and climbed on to the bunk. His head and shoulders were now framed in the window. He stared through the bars, inspecting the side alley, and he owed his life to Lew Neech’s keen eyesight. The would-be assassin was, at this moment, squinting along the barrel of his weapon, but noting that the face in the window was not that of his intended victim. Cursing bitterly, Neech hammered down and lowered the Lynch & Varley. Something had gone wrong, but what?

  He could hear voices raised in anger from beyond the cell window. His hirelings had bungled their chore, he guessed. One voice he easily recognized—the voice of the deputy. In urgent haste, he retraced his steps through the empty store, back to the rear window with the broken pane. He raised it quietly, thrust his head out and carefully scanned the back alley. Deserted, for the moment. He clambered through, concealed the gun beneath his coat and sauntered along to the rear door of the saloon.

  In the jailhouse, Kellogg was still berating the Texans. Larry, having satisfied himself that no weapon had been concealed in the cell, was hustling the deputy, the visitors and his partner out into the corridor and resecuring the door.

  “A prisoner as important as this Austin hombre,” he sternly informed Kellogg, “oughtn’t have any visitors at all. If you do let anybody in, search ’em careful, savvy?”

  “Doggone your hide, Valentine!” raged Kellogg. “Are you tellin’ me how to do my job?”

  Larry was ready with an honest answer.

  “Yep.”

  “Out!” yelled Kellogg. “Everybody out!’

  In the front office, Murch and Wilson glared resentfully at the Texans. Then, after retrieving their weapons, they beat a hasty retreat.

  “I’m warnin’ you crazy Texans ...!” Kellogg began. But the Texans were through listening. Curiosity was again bedeviling the questing mind of Larry Valentine. He farewelled the deputy with an impatient gesture, seized Stretch’s arm and hustled him out into the street.

  “What were they after?” Stretch wondered, as he stared after the fast-moving hardcases. “It wasn’t just a sociable visit, runt.”

  “Hard to say,” frowned Larry. “Maybe they were warnin’ him to keep his mouth shut.”

  “There they go.” Stretch pointed. “Into a saloon—and that reminds me ...”

  “Yeah,” grunted Larry. “I’m thirsty too.”

  They hurried along to the batwings of the Lucky Chance. Before entering the saloon they spent a few moments on the porch, peering over the tops of the swinging doors and watching their quarry. Murch and Wilson were making straight for a corner table when one of the men seated there gestured furtively, and the action did not escape Larry’s keen eye. Abruptly, the hardcases changed direction and headed for the stairs. Larry nudged Stretch with an elbow. Their demeanor was elaborately casual, as they sauntered into the saloon and moved across to the bar counter. In the long mirror, Larry pensively studied the reflections of the two men at the corner table—Neech and Bale.

  The barkeep drew two tall beers, accepted payment and made change. They sampled the brew, and Stretch quietly remarked:

  “They were about to parlay with the two fancy-rigged dudes in the corner.”

  “Look now,” said Larry.

  Stretch looked. Neech had risen from his seat and was walking to the stairs. They watched him climb to the floor above, and Stretch asked:

  “What d’you make of that?”

  “I was born suspicious,” Larry asserted, “so I’ll say Murch and Wilson are in cahoots with the tall jasper. He could be goin’ up there to take a bath or cut his toenails or read a book—but I don’t think so. I get the feelin’ he’s gonna parlay with those two hardcases.”

  “Safe guess,” said Stretch. “So now what?”

  Larry half-emptied his tankard, frowned at his reflection in the mirror.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he quietly reflected, “that a killer got himself killed—even while he was in jail. This is somethin’ we’ve run into before, big feller.”

  “Why, sure,” Stretch agreed. “Austin was likely mixed up in the ambush—but it wasn’t all his idea.”

  “Let’s suppose somebody hired him to kill Weaver,” said Larry.

  “All right,” nodded Stretch. “Let’s just suppose that.”

  “The somebody that hired him,” opined Larry, “is now frettin’ up a storm, hopin’ Austin will keep his mouth shut, and wantin’ to be sure he does. Only one way he can be sure. He has to fix Austin so he’ll be too dead to talk.”

  “Which means ...?” prodded Stretch.

  “Which means,” said Larry, “it’s time we moseyed back to the jailhouse. From here on we have to keep our eyes peeled.”

  They quit the Lucky Chance and returned to their lookout post opposite the county jail. A few moments later Russ Bale climbed the stairs to his partner’s office. He found Neech seated at his desk, feeding himself a stiff shot of bourbon. Murch and Wilson had just finished describing the incident at the jailhouse.

  “Those interfering saddlebums,” Neech sourly opined, “are getting to be a damn nuisance.”

  “Tall jaspers?” Bale asked the hardcases. “One of ’em fair-haired and packing a double load of Colt?”

  “That’s them,” nodded Murch. “What about ’em?”

  “They were in the barroom just now,” frowned Bale.

  “Coincidence,” shrugged Neech.

  “Maybe not,” said Bale. “Maybe they tagged Murch and Wilson here, out of curiosity.”

  “Well,” said Neech, “curiosity isn’t gonna help ’em any—and there’s nothing can help Austin. Far as I’m concerned, his death warrant is signed.”

  “We’d have had Pike on that damn bunk and peekin’ out the window,” declared Wilson, “if them fool Texans hadn’t busted in on us.”

  “The unexpected sometimes happens,” was Neech’s philosophical rejoinder. “The important thing is nobody suspects what I have in mind. Sending you two to the jailhouse was a good notion but, come to think of it, I don’t really need help from the inside. Sooner or later, Austin is bound to show his face at that window.”

  “So you’re going back to that empty store?” prodded Bale.

  “Right away,” nodded Neech. “And I’ll stay there until this chore is finished.” He got to his feet. “Meantime, we need a replacement for Austin. You take care of that, Russ. We have all the horses we need and all the men—but one.”

  “Sure,” shrugged Bale.

  “From now on,” Neech told the hardcases, “you stay busy. Join up with Slim and Tulsa. Some of those land-hungry sodbusters are in town already. Well, you know what has to be done. Check their wagons. Do it carefully, because I can’t afford to lose any more men. If Loomis or his deputy spotted you sawing on a wagon-tongue or tampering with a wheel, you’d be jailbait.”

  “You just leave it to us, Lew,” grinned Murch. “We’ll play it smart.”

  “One more thing, Russ.” Neech paused on his way to the door. “Don’t forget about the spare horses. I want them staked-out and hidden along the route to the canyon. Right after sundown, you take care of it.”

  “It’s all set up,” Bale assured him.

  “I’m leaving nothing to chance,” muttered Neech. “I’ve hired the best available horses, but I know at least four of them couldn’t last the distance at high speed. Well, there’ll be four spares hidden in the brush—saddled and ready.”

  “That’s smart, figurin’, Lew,” approved Wilson.

  “Sure.” Neech grinned mirthlessly. “But my smart figuring won’t be worth a hoot in hell if Austin decides to talk.”

  A short time later the assassin was again in position in the disused store.

  By mid-afternoon, Clem Alden and his womenfolk were fighting
a losing battle against the rising anger of the Bar A cowpokes. There were ten on Alden’s payroll, ten casehardened punchers loyal to the brand, and especially loyal to the memory of Del Weaver, the ramrod they had all admired. They were down by the corrals, toting their saddles from the harness-shack and readying horses for the trail, when Alden arrived to challenge them.

  A lean, weather-beaten puncher named Byatt elected himself spokesman.

  “Don’t aim to tangle with you, Mr. Alden, but there ain’t a thing you can do to stop us. Hank brought us the word. They got a gunhawk name of Austin in the county jail, and it looks like he was one of the sidewinders that triggered Del.”

  “All right, all right,” growled Alden. “So Loomis has made an arrest—but this is only the start of it. There has to be a trial, with everything legal.”

  “Me and the boys,” Byatt asserted, “got no faith in courts and such. Wouldn’t be the first time a killer went free, on accounta some smart lawyer-feller hoodwinkin’ a jury.”

  “If this Austin hombre is guilty ...” began Alden.

  “Ain’t no doubt of it, far as we’re concerned,” declared Byatt. “We all know Austin. He’s bad medicine and hangin’s too good for him—but he’ll hang anyway. We’ll see to that, this very night!”

  “Now you listen to me—all of you!” Alden gestured wildly at his employees. “No Bar A rider ever took the law into his own hands before. It’s something I’m dead against. You feel bad about Del. All right, how do you suppose I feel? He was kin to me—like my own son ...!”

  The heated argument continued. For once, the men of Bar A were defying the employer they admired and trusted. Their fury was high and they weren’t about to be swayed by logic. It was all too obvious to Hattie and her mother, who were watching from the window of the ground floor parlor.

  “Unless they’re stopped,” said Hattie, “they’ll do the one thing Del himself would never have permitted. Del wouldn’t stand for lynch-talk. He’d stand beside Dad with a loaded shotgun and ...” She gestured impatiently. “But what’s the use of talking about it? They have to be stopped. Somebody has to warn the sheriff—at least give him time to barricade the jailhouse.”

  “I’m sure your father ...” began Myra.

  “Dad’s doing his best,” Hattie conceded, “but I’m afraid his best won’t be good enough.” She made her decision with characteristic alacrity. “My horse is out back—and I know what I have to do.”

  “You’ll ride to town?” frowned Myra.

  “By every short cut I know,” nodded Hattie.

  “Hurry, child,” her mother urged, “but ride carefully. I’ll try to explain to your father.”

  “Tell Dad I’m doing what I think is best for Bar A,” said Hattie. “He’ll understand—I hope.”

  She hurried to the rear of the house and, as quickly as possible, readied her mount for the ride to town. She swung astride in a flurry of skirts and petticoats and, at her bidding, the bay filly took off at speed.

  From the parlor window, Myra Alden saw the dispute rise to its inevitable climax. One by one, the hired hands swung astride and urged their mounts away from the corrals. The rancher was yelling protests, but his words were muffled by the clatter of hooves. Red-faced with rage, he came striding back to the house.

  “Hattie’s gone!” Myra told him. “She rode to town to warn the sheriff. Please, Clem, don’t be angry with her. She!”

  “She’s using her head,” he muttered. “Somebody has to warn Loomis, and that’s a fact. How long ago ...?”

  “Five—ten minutes,” she frowned. “She said she’d ride all the short cuts.”

  “Let’s hope she gets there ahead of those proddy fools,” he scowled. “Meantime, I’d better saddle me a horse and get after her. Be dark by the time she’s riding home.”

  In the late afternoon, Hattie’s mount carried her into Main Street at a labored gallop. The animal was lathered and panting a protest. Right away, she spotted the Texans. They were stepping off the boardwalk, waving a greeting. She reined up in a cloud of dust and gasped out her news, all the time wondering how they could take it so calmly. “We have to do something!” she insisted.

  “Sure, sure,” nodded Larry. “You just take it easy, Miss Hattie.” He frowned toward the uptown. “They’ll be comin’ thataway?”

  “Yes, Larry. From the north end.”

  “All right now. Nothin’ more you can do. Better leave the rest to us.”

  “You’ll tell the sheriff?”

  “Uh huh. I’ll make sure Loomis knows what he’s in for. Go on now, Miss Hattie. Skedaddle.”

  She led the panting bay away. Stretch gave his gunbelt a hitch and eyed his partner expectantly.

  “So now what?”

  “Those slow-brained badge-toters,” drawled Larry, “are gonna need all the help they can get—and somebody to keep an eye on ’em. If they lose their nerve and start shootin’, a lot of good men could get hurt. I’ll stake out in Loomis’s office.”

  “What about me?” asked Stretch.

  “Get uptown,” ordered Larry, “and figure some way of slowin’ ’em down. Time is what Loomis will need. Time to barricade the jailhouse.”

  “Who d’you think I am—Buffalo Bill?” challenged Stretch. “How am I gonna stop a whole posse of lynch-happy cowpokes?”

  “You’ll think of somethin’,” Larry calmly predicted, as he turned and hurried toward the law office.

  “Aw, hell!” complained Stretch. “Here we go again!”

  But, without further ado, he began making his way to the uptown area. Main Street was busy at this hour, with the locals blissfully unaware that a crisis was looming. How to forestall it? How to check the rush of so many vengeance-hungry men?

  They would come charging along Main, no doubt. Well, for a starter, he could block the thoroughfare. No barriers would hold them for long, but at least he might win some time for Larry and the sheriff. He climbed to the seat of a stalled wagon, kicked off the brake and guided the team to the very center of the street, then halted them, climbed down and released them from their harness. The animals wandered away.

  Stretch found another unoccupied wagon, then a third, and repeated this process. Three bulky rigs now stood end-to-end at an angle to the right of way. He dashed to a fourth. The driver was perched on the seat, but Stretch swiftly overcame this obstacle.

  “Climb down and start runnin’, friend,” he briskly ordered. “I just now seen your wife drinkin’ with a whiskey-drummer, down to the Becksburg Hotel.”

  “By Judas ...!” gasped the driver.

  And he clambered down and ran a whole block before remembering that he was a bachelor. Meanwhile, Stretch added that wagon to the others. In a matter of minutes, a half-dozen rigs of varying shape and size were strung across Main. It was as sturdy a barrier as he could devise at such short notice and, much as he admired his handiwork, he had to concede:

  “That won’t hold ’em for long. I gotta think of somethin’ else.”

  He was pondering the problem when the thunder of hooves smote his ears with harrowing clarity. The Bar A men were fast approaching, bearing down on the stalled wagons and filling the air with wild whoops and shouted curses.

  Something soft and furry nudged his boot. He stared downward into the doleful eyes of a nondescript, longhaired dog, and the inspiration struck him with all the impact of a physical blow. Grinning, he bent, gathered the animal into his arms and hustled across the street to the barbershop.

  As he entered the tonsorial parlor the barber and two customers eyed him curiously, and the barber enquired:

  “What’s goin’ on out there?”

  “You gents stay right where you are,” Stretch cheerfully informed them, “and you’ll be safe.”

  He advanced to the occupied chair, nodded affably to the barber’s half-shaved client. Then, to the consternation of the barber, he relieved him of his shaving brush and began applying lather to the moist nose and slack mouth of the bemused hound.
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br />   “Hey!” wailed the barber. “You can’t do that!”

  “Doin’ it, ain’t I?” grinned Stretch.

  He discarded the brush and subjected the animal to a critical examination. Shocked to the core, the barber gasped a challenge.

  “You ain’t gonna shave him?”

  “You loco or somethin’?” frowned Stretch. “Who ever heard of a man shavin’ a dog? They’re supposed to have whiskers.”

  “Don’t you use that brush on my face again, Sam Skinner!” growled the half-shaved customer. “It ain’t hygienical.”

  “If the hound ain’t complainin’,” argued Stretch, “why should you?”

  He whirled and dashed out into the street. By now, the Bar A men were storming the makeshift barricade. The two center wagons had been shoved clear and the riders were moving through, when Stretch deposited his furry friend on the ground and yelled his warning.

  “Look out, ever’body! Mad dog! Scatter ...”

  Those few words had an electrifying effect on everybody within earshot, including the friendly canine. Suddenly conscious that it had become the center of attention, the hound bounded into the street and began barking joyfully. The lead riders jerked their horses to a slithering halt.

  “Mad dog ...!” Stretch loudly repeated.

  And the panic was on. A gun roared. The bullet kicked up dust wide of its mark—the scampering, posturing hound. Stretch yelled to the animal. It promptly turned and came trotting toward him. Feigning terror, he turned and ran, with the dog in hot pursuit. All around him the guns roared.

  Shedding lather, the dog chased Stretch into a side alley. He paused to pat the furry head, before continuing his fast run along the rear laneway. He had done his best, he reflected, but he had won only a temporary respite for the defenders of the jailhouse.

  Eight – The Stand-Off

  Dusk was settling by the time Stretch came hustling along the side alley to climb to the law office porch. The cowpokes were advancing in force along Main Street, and still shooting, shooting at shadows now, because the lathered hound had disappeared into a rear alley. Right now, the cause of all the commotion was scrambling up to the rim of a horse-trough to quench its thirst. This action was to cleanse away the soap applied by Stretch, thus ensuring the obliging animal would cease to be a target for the over-stimulated cattlemen.