Larry and Stretch 14 Read online

  A curse erupted from him. His target had moved at the moment of his firing, and now others were obscuring his view. Well, the hell with it. He would have to make himself scarce now. But the night was still young. He could still force entry into her hotel room in the wee small hours.

  Addy was now well and truly alarmed. At first, she had assumed the uproar to be applause—Cargell City style. Now she knew better, and was badly scared. Like ravening wolves, cowpokes and towners were struggling to reach her. Thoroughly intimidated, she retreated from the edge of the stage.

  One yelling cowhand, much the worse for whiskey, almost made it. He was clambering onto the stage, when Larry vaulted atop the piano, reached over and seized him by an ankle. One lusty jerk, and the would-be Lothario was hurtling back to fall atop the pianist.

  Others reached the stage. Some attempted to reach Addy. Others grappled with Stretch and, through the confusion of cursing, struggling men, Addy suddenly spotted Larry. On his way to her, he parried a wild swing and downed a cowhand with a devastating uppercut. Also, he ducked to avoid a flying missile—a spittoon—then kicked another rioter squarely in the behind, sending him plummeting into the orchestra pit.

  “Don’t be scared!” he yelled to Addy.

  “Who’s scared?” she retorted, as defiantly as she knew how.

  A gasp escaped her. Larry had bent to wrap his arms about her knees. As he straightened up, she flopped forward, her top half hanging across his brawny shoulder. Abruptly, he whirled and began his descent from the stage. He barked a command to Stretch, who promptly shook loose from his assailants and dropped to the bar-room floor.

  With Stretch leading, they forced their way from the stage to the bar and past it, onward to the corridor leading to the dressing room. Kate Arnold waddled along ahead of them, shaking her head in wonderment, veteran though she was.

  Outside the dressing room door, Larry deposited Addy on her feet.

  “Get back in there,” he brusquely ordered. “When you’re dressed, we’ll walk you to the hotel.” He nodded to the fat woman. “Lend her a hand, huh Kate?”

  “Sure enough,” grunted Kate, as she took Addy’s arm. “C’mon, dearie. My, oh my! I dunno what you got, but you sure stood the Palace on its ear tonight—and then some.”

  “Does that mean ...” Addy eyed her incredulously, “I was a success?”

  “A success?” Kate chuckled heartily, so that her ample bosom rose and fell. “A success, she asks! That’s puttin’ it mild!”

  The door closed behind them. Larry and Stretch traded grins, fished out the makings and began building smokes. At the far end of the corridor, they could see Cooney in conversation with one of the local lawmen, the youthful but formidable-looking Deputy Monkhouse. The uproar had ceased. Obviously, Cargell City’s lawmen had what it took o quell a bunch of rioting cowpokes.

  “Well,” drawled Stretch, “that was quite a ruckus—while it lasted.”

  “I ain’t sore at anybody,” muttered Larry.

  “That’s how I feel,” nodded Stretch.

  “What I mean,” frowned Larry, “you can’t blame a bunch of forty-a-month cowpokes for runnin’ wild. I bet they never before saw a woman so all-fired beautiful.”

  Kate came out of the dressing room, exhibiting the lowered hat with the floppy brim.

  “Hey, Texas, take a look at this.” She poked a pudgy finger through the neat hole in the flimsy cloth of the hat brim. “I’d swear this hole wasn’t here before. And what’s it look like to you?”

  “Damn and blast!” breathed Larry.

  “I’ve been around some,” said Kate, “and I reckon I now the score. If this ain’t a bullet hole from a forty-five lug, I’m Abe Lincoln’s grandmother.”

  “Hell, runt ...!” began Stretch.

  “Yeah—it’s happened again,” growled Larry. “Somebody took a shot at her.”

  “Couldn’t of been any of them cowhands,” asserted Stretch. “They was aimin’ high and, besides, they didn’t want to shoot her. They wanted to ...”

  “They didn’t want to shoot her,” Larry sourly agreed, but they sure made it easy for that lousy killer. Maybe he put down on her from atop the batwings, or from a window. With all that doggone racket—and her up there on the age—he just had to try again.”

  “What’s this all about?” demanded Kate.

  “Let it pass,” said Larry. “And Kate, you’d better not tell her.”

  “Are you boys,” prodded Kate, “kin to that Illinois gal?”

  “No,” said Stretch. “We’re just keepin’ a friendly eye on her.”

  And those friendly eyes surveyed Addy with deep concern, when she emerged from the dressing room. While changing into her own clothing, she had regained her composure, and was now willing to continue her masquerade. She sketched Larry an impudent salute, winked at Stretch and remarked,

  “That audience sure appreciated me, huh boys?”

  “Yeah.” Larry nodded soberly. “They appreciated you.”

  She farewelled Kate with a grateful smile and, with a tall Texan on either side of her, walked along to the end of the corridor.

  “The boys,” Cooney reported, “have settled down. It ought to be safe for you to move out now.” He offered his hand. “Glad to meet you Texas gents. Keep tryin’ to recall where I heard your names before. Never did have a good memory. Tim—you hire Addy if you can. I’ve seen ’em come and go and, like you say, she’s a rare one.”

  “Damn right,” agreed Tim. “Real rare. C’mon, Addy. We better get you back to the hotel. You’re lookin’ plumb weary.”

  “Well,” she shrugged, “it’s been quite a day.”

  “So long, Gus,” said Tim. “Thanks for the use of the hall.”

  “Any time,” grinned Cooney.

  As Addy and her escorts moved toward the batwings, Cooney’s patrons applauded her again, but, this time, without violence. She acknowledged the applause with a cheerful wave.

  During the short walk to the Occidental, Tim renewed his campaign.

  “A week at the Prairie Queen, Addy. Two weeks, if you want. Name your own price.”

  “I’ll need time to think about it,” Addy told him.

  “Well,” he shrugged, “time is what we got plenty of. We won’t see Wyoming till after sundown tomorrow.”

  A few moments later, when they reached the door of Addy’s room, Larry took her key and insisted on going in first. She had to remain in the corridor with Stretch and Tim, while he lit her lamp and checked every inch of the room.

  “All right,” he frowned, as he beckoned her in. “You can turn in now. Leave your lamp burnin’ if you want.” He pressed the key into her hand. “Soon as I move out, lock your door.”

  “I’m not afraid, Larry,” she murmured.

  “That’s fine,” he approved. “But do just like I’m tellin’ you. And remember—we’re right next door.”

  She obeyed his orders to the letter, taking care to re-lock the door behind him. “Quite a day,” she had remarked, a short time before. What an understatement! As she undressed and donned her nightgown, her mind buzzed with the wonder of it all. In one day, the transformation had become a reality. Her life had been threatened, had almost ended. She was no longer the meek and mild Adelaide of sleepy Elmford. She was a dance-hall queen, a saloon entertainer, bedazzling, notorious and much admired.

  The reverie ended abruptly, when her head touched her pillow. Physically exhausted, she was fast asleep in less than a minute.

  In the next room, Marshal Jefford, Tim Blake and Stretch Emerson sprawled on their beds and slumbered. Larry was still wide awake, and remained that way for the next several hours, squatting on the sofa with his booted feet resting on a chair. In the half-dark, he chain-smoked with his Colt close at hand and both ears cocked.

  The sound alerted him in the early morning, a full ninety minutes after midnight. It was faint, but sharp enough to reach him. Familiar, too. He had heard such a sound before. On certain never-to-be-forgotten oc
casions, he had caused such a sound. The catch of a window had been snapped by a knife-blade. Addy’s window? He rose up with his hand gun-filled and hustled to the door.

  The killer’s quick action roused Addy from sleep. She opened her eyes, as her pillow was whisked from under her head. A man was leaning over her, his teeth bared in a cruel grin. She caught only a brief glimpse of him because, with deadly efficiency, he was pinning her to the mattress, pressing the pillow over her face, pressing it harder—harder—to suffocate her. Her legs threshed and her arms flailed, but in vain.

  In the corridor, Larry remembered that he had warned her to lock her door. No doubt she had obeyed. Well, this was no time for debating the possibility. He had to get in there, and fast, so he chose the easiest way, hurling himself at the door left shoulder first.

  For Nichols, that was the most ominous sound he had ever heard—the sudden crashing noise of the door bursting inward. He leapt away from the bed, emptying his shoulder holster and whirling toward the window. Larry yelled to him.

  “Freeze! You’re covered!”

  The pillow fell away from Addy’s face, as she rolled over, gasping. Despite her confusion, she could see the killer clearly. He had thrown one leg through the open window. His right arm was extended toward Larry, who had dropped to one knee. Both weapons roared simultaneously, and something fiery tugged at the material of Larry’s shirt, inches below his left armpit. He hammered back for a second shot at the killer, but there was no need. His bullet had slammed into Nichols’ shoulder with such impact that Nichols was thrown clear back to the balcony rail. His torso hung outward and his legs came up. He struggled to check himself, but too late. With a yell of anguish, he disappeared from sight.

  “Stay right where you are,” Larry growled to her, as he hustled out onto the balcony.

  Still gasping for breath, she pulled herself to a sitting position. Her disheveled hair fell over her face. She bowed her head and wept. In varying stages of undress, Stretch, Jefford and Tim came barging in and crossed to the balcony. Down below, on the floor of the side alley, Larry’s victim lay sprawled on his back. Towners were pouring into the alley, their excited queries rising to the men on the balcony. Larry called down to them.

  “Somebody better fetch the sheriff—and a doctor.”

  “No doctor could help this jasper,” a local yelled. “He’s a goner. His neck is broke.”

  “So fetch the sheriff,” ordered Larry. “Tell him he’ll find me in room fifteen.” He nodded absently to Jefford, as he rammed his Colt into his waistband. Something brushed his face. He reached up to touch it—the bottom end of a length of rope. He raised his eyes, nodded understandingly. “So this is how he got in.”

  “He slid down the rope from the roof,” frowned Jefford, “dropped onto the balcony and forced the lock on the window.”

  “That’s it,” scowled Larry. “And he didn’t care about the risk.”

  “Little Miss Addy,” mused Stretch, “is a target.”

  “Was a target,” Jefford corrected. “That killer is too dead to try again.”

  In the Cargell County law office, the husky, grim-visaged Sheriff Crehan was strapping on his gunbelt and hustling to the street door. His deputy, rising from the office couch, made him an offer.

  “I’ll go, Clem. It’s your turn to sleep anyway.”

  “No,” said Crehan. “Those shots came from the Occidental, unless I’m greatly mistaken. I’ll look into it.”

  When the sheriff entered Room 15 at the Occidental, it was beginning to appear overcrowded. Jefford, Tim and the Texans stood by the bed. Alvin Deveraux, a local doctor, was administering a sedative to the wide-eyed, trembling Addy. Over his shoulder, he assured Crehan,

  “She couldn’t tell you anything anyway, Clem. Whatever you need to know, you can ask her friends here.”

  “Is she hurt bad?” demanded Crehan.

  “This drug will put her to sleep in a hurry,” said Deveraux. “If she stayed awake, she’d be a shock case—nothing surer.”

  He closed his bag and got to his feet.

  “Everybody out,” Larry gruffly suggested.

  The doctor went his way, while Crehan followed them into the adjoining room. Stretch didn’t think to shut the door and, while they were in conversation with the sheriff, another local arrived. He stood in the open doorway, a fat, heavy-jowled man of middle age. His nightshirt was tucked into rumpled black pants, the cuffs of which were tucked into his boots. A rusty black derby perched atop his dome. He gnawed on an unlit cigar and cocked an ear to the talk.

  “You said he was trying to smother her?” Crehan was asking Larry.

  “And this,” declared Larry, “wasn’t the first time he tried to kill her.”

  “He’d be the same polecat that beat her up and shoved her into the Platte,” guessed Stretch, “and took a §hot at her in Cooney’s Place tonight.”

  “The same polecat,” growled Larry, “and I’m sorry I couldn’t take him alive.”

  “I took a look at him,” announced Crehan, “before I came up here. The face was mighty familiar.”

  “You could identify him?” asked Jefford.

  “For sure,” nodded Crehan. “His picture was in many a newspaper, four years back.”

  “Including mine,” offered the fat man in the doorway. “Hello, Hobie.” Crehan flashed the fat man a grin of resignation. “I might’ve known you’d show up. Gents, say howdy to Hobie Wynn, editor of the Cargell City Bugle.”

  “Pleasure.” Wynn nodded to the visitors.

  “Were you in the alley?” demanded Crehan.

  “Got there just before they toted Nichols away,” drawled Wynn. “It was Nichols, Clem. Being dead didn’t change his looks any.”

  “Monte Nichols,” Crehan told Jefford. “Tried for murder four years ago in some Illinois town. I forget the name of it, but ...”

  “Pascoe,” grunted Wynn. “A two-bit burg called Pascoe.”

  “It was in all the papers,” Crehan continued. “A lot of people claimed Nichols should have stretched rope for that killing, but some full-of-tricks attorney saved his hide, fazed the judge and jury. They brought in a manslaughter verdict, and Nichols served four-fifths of his sentence.”

  “I never heard of that lawyer before,” muttered Wynn, “but he must’ve been quite a spellbinder. His name, if my memory doesn’t fail me ...”

  “Whoever that lawyer was,” shrugged Crehan, “it doesn’t matter a damn. This is a clear-cut case, far as I’m concerned. Nichols made three tries at committing another murder, and now he’s paid the penalty.”

  “In spades,” grunted Tim.

  “Morrison was that lawyer’s name,” said Wynn, wrinkling his brow. “No. Miller. No that wasn’t it either. Milliken. Yeah, that’s it. Milliken. Fergus Milliken.”

  And Larry was only half-listening. A short time, ago, he had saved a woman’s life for the second time. He had fought and defeated her would-be murderer, and the killer’s identity was no longer a secret. But he was still dissatisfied.

  “We know who,” he mused. “But that ain’t enough. We don’t know why.”

  “That’s all anybody can tell me?” challenged Wynn. “Don’t be greedy, Hobie,” grinned the sheriff. “You’ve got enough for a special edition.”

  “Didn’t catch the name of the feller that stopped Nichols,” drawled Wynn.

  “Larry Valentine,” grinned Tim.

  “Well, well, well!” Wynn eyed the Texans with increased interest. “That sure does rate a special edition. Excuse me, gents. I got to go open the office and get this story set up. Be seeing you, Clem.”

  Yawning, Stretch and Tim returned to their beds. Larry flopped onto the sofa and tugged his boots off. Jefford cast a longing glance at the unoccupied bed, and Crehan took the hint.

  “You gents’ll want to catch up on your sleep.”

  “We’ve told you all we know, Sheriff,” said Jefford. “Stop by my office in the morning,” offered Crehan. “Give yourself plenty of t
ime. Roy and me will help you take McKeller to the depot, see you safe aboard the. Special.” He turned to the door. “One last thing, marshal.”

  “Yes?” prodded Jefford.

  “It’s in the papers,” said Crehan. “Did you know that? Bad management, I’d call it. With Erie Preston and five of his sidekicks still riding free, it would’ve been smarter to keep it quiet.”

  “I’m losing you,” frowned Jefford.

  “Don’t blame Hobie,” shrugged Crehan. “It wasn’t in the Bugle.”

  “What wasn’t in the Bugle?” demanded Jefford.

  “The report,” said Crehan. “The whole story of how some Federal deputy jumped McKeller and delivered him to the Omaha pokey—and how you’re taking McKeller to Laramie on the Special.”

  “That was in a newspaper?” Jefford eyed him incredulously.

  “Not a Cargell paper,” frowned Crehan. “I read about it last night in an Omaha paper. The Gazette.”

  “Fox!” breathed Jefford. “That scribbling, scandal-mongering upstart!”

  “Fox?” prodded the sheriff. “He runs the Gazette?”

  “Yes,” nodded Jefford, and he sighed heavily. “I swear I wouldn’t have believed it. Plague take him—you’d think he’d have more sense than to—well—it’s too late now.”

  “The hell of it is,” warned Crehan, “McKeller’s trigger-happy pards might get to read about it. And you know how Preston is. He enjoys taking chances.”

  “The hell with Preston,” scowled Jefford. “If he gets McKeller away from me, it’ll have to be over my dead body.”

  The local law departed and Jefford retired, to sleep fitfully until daybreak. Ten minutes before departure time, when he brought his prisoner to the depot with Crehan and Monkhouse as escorts, Addy Chapman and her bodyguards were already aboard. The Cargell lawmen stood by, as alert as ever, while Jefford seated McKeller and manacled his hands to the left-side armrest. Then, after an exchange of farewells, the local law went their way, Conductor Aldworth signaled the engine-crew and yelled “Board ...!” and the Special was on its way again, steaming out of the depot and heading west.