Larry and Stretch 18 Read online

  “Well,” sighed Gannon, “only one of ’em got away from us, and that’s somethin’. At least his sidekick is locked tight in jail.”

  “Him that claims he’s lost his memory,” mused Salter. “I wonder if that’s a fact—or if he’s lyin?”

  “Doc Everingham might know,” suggested Gannon.

  “Naw.” Salter shook his head emphatically. “That’s a chore for a mighty special kind of doctor. It’s hard to prove a man is lyin’, when he claims he can’t remember nothin’.”

  “About that dinero we took off of ’em,” prodded Gannon. “The cash they stole from old Eli, before they gunned him? When do we give it back to Miss Lucinda?”

  “After the trial,” said Salter. “Until the jury brings in its verdict, that money is evidence that has to be produced in court.”

  “Speakin’ of courts and such,” frowned Gannon, “ain’t Judge Ryman due in Ketchtown about now?”

  “Today or tomorrow,” shrugged Salter.

  They reined up a few yards from the law office hitch rack, because an elderly, well-groomed stranger was calling to them.

  “Sheriff Salter? Deputy Gannon?”

  “That’s us.” nodded Salter. “And who might you be?”

  “Griffin Croft.” The stranger stepped off the boardwalk and accorded them an amiable smile. “I’m the new circuit judge for this area.”

  “That a fact?” frowned Salter. “Well—welcome to Ketchtown, Judge Croft. I’m only holdin’ one man for trial right now. Maybe you’d like to visit with me at my office and talk it over?”

  “How about Judge Ryman?” demanded the deputy. “He sick or somethin’?”

  “Died a couple of months back,” Croft told him. “Very sad, Heart failure.”

  “Sure sorry to hear that,” said Gannon.

  “Me too,” offered Salter. “We always got along fine with old Judge Ryman.”

  “I’m sure, gentlemen,” smiled Croft, “that your association with me will be equally amicable. And now I’ll accept that invitation to visit your office.”

  “Sure, Judge,” nodded Salter, as he dismounted to lead his horse to the rack. “Right along here.”

  Croft climbed the porch steps and waited for the lawmen to tether their animals. Then, in response to Salters gesture, he preceded them through the open office doorway. Salter trudged in, blinked, hastily doffed his Stetson. So did Gannon. Lucinda remained seated in the sheriff’s chair. She had just finished writing her statement and was adding her signature. Judge Croft stood hat to chest, waiting to be presented.

  Remembering his manners, Salter performed introductions.

  “This here’s the new circuit judge, Miss Lucinda.”

  “Griffin Croft,” offered the judge, “at your service.”

  “Miss Lucinda,” Salter nervously explained, “was daughter to Eli Ventaine—him that got shot by the feller upstairs.” He eyed Lucinda curiously. “Somethin’ I can do for you?”

  “I’d appreciate a glass of water,” she frowned. “The afternoon seems unusually hot.”

  Deputy Gannon hustled to oblige. Finding water was no problem, but locating a glass clean enough to offer such a refined young lady—this was something else again. Salter unearthed a tumbler from a drawer of the desk. The deputy filled it from the water bag and passed it to her.

  “Thank you,” she acknowledged. “And now, Sheriff Salter, I suggest you read this.”

  She nudged the three sheets of paper to the outer edge of the desk. Salter dropped his gaze and asked,

  “What is it?”

  “A statement,” said Lucinda. “Every word of it is true, and you may be sure I’ll gladly repeat it in court—under oath.”

  “Statement?” blinked the sheriff. “Statement about what?”

  “Read it, Sheriff,” drawled the judge, as he seated himself on the couch. “Read it aloud—and then we’ll all know.”

  For Bob Salter, this became a grueling experience. His education had been fairly adequate on frontier standards, but he was ill-equipped to cope with Lucinda Ventaine’s superior prose. Several words stumped him. It happened once, twice, four times, before Croft put him out of his misery.

  “May I, Sheriff?”

  “Be glad if you would, Judge,” mumbled Salter.

  Croft continued the statement from Lucinda’s second paragraph, reading it with ease and emphasizing all the main points. When he had finished, the lawmen stood gaping at each other, speechless. Lucinda calmly broke the silence.

  “Surely one of you should go upstairs and set Mr. Randall free.”

  Salter found his voice.

  “My prisoner—saved you from gettin’ knifed by your own cousin? It’s impossible! This jail is escape proof!”

  “And Wilbur Neale killed his own uncle?” gasped Gannon. “Them thieves—only winged him... ?”

  “I told you,” said Lucinda. “It’s true. Every word of it.”

  “You express yourself concisely, Miss Lucinda,” approved Croft. “I predict you’ll be an excellent witness, despite your personal involvement in this terrible tragedy.”

  Gannon galvanized into action, taking to the stairs two at a time. The sheriff was wringing his hands and sweating profusely.

  “I’ll find ’em, by all that’s holy! If I have to track ‘em clear to Canada, I’ll find those thievin’, back-shootin’ gun hawks...!”

  “Sheriff Salter,” chided Lucinda, “you couldn’t have listened attentively to Judge Croft’s reading of my statement. Mr. Emerson and his friend did not kill my father. You’ll find his murderer—my ingrate cousin Wilbur—in one of those other cells.”

  “This Emerson fellow,” commented the judge, “certainly goes about things with great thoroughness—even to the extent of saving you the trouble of making the arrest.” He rubbed at his jaw. “Now where have I heard that name before?”

  Gannon, a man who took a lot of convincing, yelled to his superior from atop the stairs.

  “He’s gone! He got away! Old Chris is all trussed up, and ...!”

  “So get him untrussed!” bellowed Salter.

  “One aspect intrigues me,” drawled Croft. “This man Emerson—how was he dressed?”

  “He was disguised,” said Lucinda. “A stovepipe hat. A duster.”

  “Quite a coincidence,” Croft grinned wryly. “I met him on my way here. He was kind enough to give me directions.”

  “I’m organisin’ another posse!” fumed Salter. “If those smart-alecks think they can make a fool of me, they got another think comin’. They’ll be shot on sight! I’ll ...!”

  “You aren’t thinking clearly, Sheriff,” countered Lucinda. “We know Mr, Emerson and Mr. Valentine are innocent of my father’s murder, and …”

  “You did say ‘Valentine’?” interjected Croft.

  “Valentine,” she nodded. “I believe his first name is Larry.”

  “By jumpin’ Julius!” whooped Salter. “Them two! Valentine and Emerson—in my territory ...!” He slammed his right fist into his left palm, “Well, that does it! That really. does it!”

  “My cousin,” insisted Lucinda, “confessed to murdering my father.”

  “All right, all right!” Salter gestured wildly. “I heard you the first time. But they’re still fugitives from justice. Neale identified ’em as the thieves that robbed your old man’s safe. You can’t deny Valentine assaulted my deputy and stole his horse and gun. You can’t deny Emerson broke jail!”

  “You’d accept the word of my cousin?” Her lip curled in disdain. “A confessed murderer?”

  “He’s gallows-bait,” Salter triumphantly retorted, “so what’s he got to gain by lyin’? If he says Valentine and Emerson emptied that safe, that’s good enough for me.” He raised his voice to a strident yell. “Otis—Otis...!”

  Gannon descended into the office at speed. Unhurriedly, and with much yawning and flexing of muscles, old Chris came after him.

  “Otis!” gasped Salter. “I’m takin’ another search-party
out! This time, we ain’t comin’ back till we’ve nailed both of them consarned Texans!”

  “What Texans?” blinked Gannon.

  “I’m talkin’ about Valentine and Emerson!” raged Salter. “You sayin’ you never heard of them?”

  “By golly,” grinned Chris. “The Texas Hell-Raisers. I knew them names was familiar.”

  “They should be,” smiled the judge. “According to my information Valentine and Emerson are a thorn in the sides of every lawman west of the Mississippi.” He eyed Salter thoughtfully. “However, Sheriff, I strongly advise you to pause and reconsider, before giving the order to shoot on sight. You’ve been hoodwinked by a couple of professional trouble-shooters—not by thieves or outlaws.”

  “No matter what you call ’em, Judge,” panted Salter, “they’re still wanted—for theft!” He seized Gannon’s arm so tightly that Gannon yelped a protest. “I want two dozen men—three dozen men—more, if you can get ’em! For a long time, I’ve hankered to get my hands on them sassy Texans, them that’s always makin’ fools of lawmen. I wanted to be the one lawman that gave ’em their comeuppance and, by Julius, here’s my chance!”

  “Ketchtown men,” argued Gannon, “had a bellyful of ridin’ with you. It ain’t gonna be easy—scarin’ up another three dozen.”

  As though he hadn’t heard the deputy’s warning, Salter said,

  “Tell ’em to be ready to ride in ten minutes! And go find Fire-Water Jim. He’s three-quarters Sioux and the best tracker in this whole territory. This time, I won’t fail. With that damn ’breed scoutin’ for us, we’re just bound to run ’ ’em down! Well?” He eyed Gannon belligerently. What’re you waitin’ for?”

  “On my way,” sighed Gannon, as he headed for the door.

  Old Chris perched beside Croft on the couch and politely introduced himself, while Salter barged into the ground floor cell-block to check on Neale. After a few moments, Lucinda heard his bull-like roar.

  “No sign of Wilbur Neale in here! Nothin’ but a sack of grain in Cell Four! Who put that in there?”

  “Mr. Randall,” frowned Lucinda, “would you kindly go in there and explain to the sheriff? Tell him he’ll find my cousin inside the sack.”

  “I hope he suffocates,” growled Chris, as he rose from the couch.

  “Is that how you feel about your sheriff?” challenged Croft.

  “Wasn’t talkin’ about Bob, Judge,” grunted Chris. “Talkin’ about the skunk that shot old Eli in the back.” As he entered the cell-block, he threw Lucinda a sidelong glance and humbly assured her, “I always respected your pappy. He was a good man.”

  Croft stood up, came to the desk and eyed her enquiringly,

  “May I have the honor of escorting you home, Miss Lucinda, before I return to the hotel?”

  “Thank you, Judge,” she acknowledged, as she rose and took his arm.

  Before ushering her out, he was careful to place her written statement on Salter’s desk, using the ink-pot as a paperweight. They moved out into the harsh sunlight of mid-afternoon and, right away, their ears were assailed by the booming of the drum and the wailing of the harmonium. Croft glanced in that direction and remarked,

  “I’m something of a hide-bound Baptist, but I try to keep, an open mind. However, I find it hard to condone the tactics of these roving evangelists.” He shook his head, grimaced. “All that noise—is it necessary, I wonder?”

  “I guess clergymen have to be resourceful,” she murmured.

  “Yes,” he agreed, with a wry smile. “Summon the sinners with a drumbeat.” He steered her clear of the milling throng and across to the store porch. There, he doffed his beaver hat and assured her, “You needn’t fear for the welfare of the gallant Stretch Emerson.”

  “How did you know I was worrying about him?” she wondered. “Does it show?”

  “I read your statement,” he reminded her. “He saved your life. Naturally, you’re concerned.”

  “But you feel I shouldn’t worry? Why, Judge?” She eyed him expectantly. “Do you know something that I don’t know?”

  “Surely you’re familiar with their reputation,” he shrugged.

  “I’ve read about them,” she admitted.

  “I’ve read about them,” he declared, “and listened to stories of their exploits from reliable witnesses. My dear young lady, there may be law officers cunning enough to defeat those roughneck Texans, but you may be sure their names are not Salter or Gannon.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the law office, and his smile became faintly derisive. “With all due respects to Ketchtown’s defenders of the peace, I doubt if they’re equipped to cope with such case-hardened veterans.”

  “Judge Croft,” said Lucinda, “I get the impression you actually admire Mr. Emerson and his friend.”

  “We live in violent times,” frowned the judge. “All too often, the lawless outnumber the law-abiding. All too often, county sheriffs and town marshals are no match for their vicious adversaries. Honest men, in their desperation, take the law into their own hands—and fail—because they lack the instincts of the natural-born fighter.” He stopped frowning and, again, the mild grin creased his countenance. “Then come the in-betweens, Miss Lucinda. Honest, after their own fashion. Peaceable, but, in time of crisis, every bit as violent, as unscrupulous as the outlaw element. I’ve heard them called trouble-shooters, and it’s an apt term. Valentine and Emerson are two such men. Do I admire them? I most certainly do, Miss Lucinda.”

  “Our sheriff,” she reflected, “doesn’t echo your sentiments.”

  “I can hardly blame him,” said Croft. “Those Texans are inclined to thumb their noses at all duly constituted authority, civil or military. It’s part of the legend. In the final analysis, and speaking not as a jurist but as an ordinary citizen, I have to acknowledge Valentine and Emerson as more of a help than a hindrance. They get results, believe me.” He nodded emphatically. “Yes, indeed. They get results.”

  She murmured a few words of agreement, and he noted that her eyes were heavy-lidded. Reaction was smiting Lucinda, and hard. Solicitously, he opened the door for her.

  “I regret that we meet under such sorry circumstances,” said Croft, with a courtly bow. “Good afternoon, Miss Lucinda.”

  Later, from the balcony of his room at the County Hotel, Judge Griffin Croft studied the street and noted the flurry of preparation preceding the departure of another posse. It took Deputy Gannon considerably longer than ten minutes to muster a force of volunteers, moreover he was unable to acquire the three dozen demanded by his chief. In all of Ketchtown, there were only seven able-bodied men willing to accompany the irascible sheriff on another sweep of the surrounding territories. It wasn’t that Ketchtown men had suddenly become lazy; it was skepticism that compelled them to greet Gannon with a shake of their heads. Bob Salter, unhappily, was losing whatever prestige he had enjoyed.

  Thirty minutes after reading Lucinda Ventaine’s statement, Salter was riding out again, accompanied by the disgruntled Gannon and the seven none-too-enthusiastic volunteers. One of these was Fire-Water Jim, a bloodshot-eyed character descended from a long line of scalp-lifters. Fire-Water Jim certainly was a shrewd and experienced scout and a talented tracker, but only when cold sober. Gannon was in doubt as to whether the ’breed was now in that condition. Come to think of it, he had run him to ground in Rafferty’s Bar and had been obliged to use force to separate him from a bottle and, at that time, Jim had been horizontal.

  Chapter Eight –

  Challenge and Chase

  The tall Texan had just finished a long ascent to the summit of a rise and had paused to spell Lucinda Ventaine’s charcoal filly. From this vantage point, a considerable area of the terrain to the north was clearly” visible. He noted the arroyo with, at first, only casual interest. The depression was shallow, so that the heads and rump of a sorrel and pinto were in plain view.

  “Couple jaspers spellin’ their prads down there,” was his natural conclusion.

  Whoever they
were, he wasn’t interested in them, or so he thought. Only one man figured in his thoughts. His partner, that proddy, indestructible fugitive, Larry Valentine. For a full ten minutes he waited, and then it occurred to him that these riders might have spotted Larry. He could hide down there and ask them, anyway. Sure, he could do that much.

  Not until he was half-way down the slant did he spot the furtive figure skulking along the far rim of the arroyo. His scalp crawled and his jaw jutted aggressively. Dry-gulchers were a breed he could never abide, and it was all too obvious that this Colt-toting Mex was stalking the men in the arroyo.

  “Lousy, back-shootin’ Mex!” he breathed, as he dug in his heels.

  The black carried him fast down the slant and on toward the near rim of the arroyo. Fearful for the welfare of “the unknown and unsuspecting duo, he raised himself in his stirrups and yelled a warning to them.

  “Watch yourselves! Far side of the arroyo! A Mex—gettin’ the drop on you ...!”

  He emptied his right-side holster and triggered a scare-shot toward the crawling figure. As the slug whined over his head, Larry cursed luridly and flopped on his face. Down below, Porter and Trask leapt to their feet.

  “I see him!” snarled Trask, and he drew and fired.

  “Keep him pinned down!” urged the oncoming Stretch. “I’ll circle the arroyo and get around back of him!”

  Porter followed Trasks example. His Colt belched flame as he cut loose at all he could see of the ‘Mex’. And then, high above the din of gunfire, they heard a stream of invective, a torrent of imaginative and ear-reddening profanity that could never have been voiced by any Mexican. Larry hadn’t recognized the stovepipe hat, the duster or the charcoal filly, but his partner’s voice was all too familiar.

  “Stretch! What the hell d’you think you’re doin’—you lame-brained, spare-ribbed, knuckle-headed Texas jack-rabbit?”

  “Hey—runt!” yelled Stretch. “That’s you?”

  “It ain’t General Grant!” snarled Larry.