Larry and Stretch 18

by Marshall Grover

  “What’s the score, Russ?” demanded Clive Waddell. “You find us a fat bank in Ketchtown?”

  He was as scrawny as Cox was fat, a saturnine, soberly-garbed felon with protruding teeth and eyes set a shade too close together. Like Cox, he was something of a specialist. No safe had been designed, combination-type or otherwise, that Waddell could not open. He rarely resorted to explosives, preferring to work quietly.

  “Well?” challenged Cox. “I’m waitin’.”

  “Yeah, Russ,” grinned Troy Erskine. “How’s it look in Ketchtown?”

  He, too, wore the sober garb of the typical frontier evangelist He was slightly shorter than Waddell, of solid build, blunt-featured and sallow-complexioned. There were times, when Waddell could not work alone. On such occasions, Erskine offered willing and deft assistance. And he had other talents. The wagon contained a harmonium. Erskine performed on that instrument during the preamble to Cox’s spiel.

  “Porter—Comanche ...” Cox was scowling suspiciously, “I don’t like the looks of you. You’re grinnin’—like cats that just cornered a whole family of mice. What’ve you been up to?”

  “You sent us to scout Ketchtown and find a likely bank,” Porter cheerfully reminded him, “and that’s exactly what we did.”

  “Only,” grunted the half-breed, “that ain’t all we did.”

  “He’ll, no,” chuckled Porter. “We picked up a little foldin’ money ’fore we quit town.”

  “Make that plainer,” growled Cox.

  Porter and Trask dismounted. With elaborate nonchalance, Porter emptied a pocket, exhibiting a thick wad of banknotes. Waddell and Erskine raised their eyebrows.

  “Near six thousand, Deacon,” grinned Porter, “and easy pickin’s.”

  The fat man’s eyes gleamed and, despite his bulk, he moved quickly. Porter reeled from the stinging back-hander, tripped and sprawled. The wad dropped to the ground. Before the wind could catch it, Cox scooped it up. Elis pudgy fingers worked quickly, tallying.

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “Near six thousand.” He stuffed the money into a pocket. “But chicken-feed, compared with what we’d find in a bank safe.” He glowered at Porter. “When I send you to do a job, you do exactly like I say—savvy? Don’t try goin’ into business for yourself.” He patted his chest. “I’ll make all the plans. I’ll give all the orders.”

  “Sure, Deacon, sure,” mumbled Porter, as he lurched to his feet. “Whatever you say.”

  “It was an easy chance for us,” frowned Trask, “too easy to pass up.”

  “It happened thisaway,” explained Porter. “We already had a bank spotted, and picked a fine stake-out for the wagon. Then we were about to quit town, but ...”

  “But you didn’t,” guessed Cox.

  “We were passin’ this store,” said Porter. “A big place. There was a side window open, and Comanche spotted this old hombre kneeling beside of an open safe. Wasn’t nothin’ to it, Deacon. We just hustled in through the street door and put our guns on him. He reached for a hogleg inside the safe, so I had to discourage him—you know what I mean?”

  “With a bullet,” scowled Cox. “Yeah. You had to go to shootin’—and rouse up the whole damn town!”

  “Russ didn’t kill him,” offered Trask. “Leastways, I don’t think so. Slug only creased him.”

  “He flopped on his face,” said Porter. “I grabbed the dinero and we lit out of there.”

  “One jump ahead of a posse,” guessed Waddell.

  “There was a posse all right,” nodded Porter, “but we gav ’em the slip. You know how good Comanche can cover a back-trail.”

  “Nobody spotted you?” challenged Cox. He bared his teeth, scowled ferociously. “I want the truth, Porter!”

  “Some hombre come hustlin’ down the stairs,” Porter admitted, “right after I grabbed the dinero. Only—uh—I don’t think he got a clear look at us.”

  “So you straddled them prads and got the hell out of there,” mused the fat man. “And that jasper comin’ downstairs—whoever he was—had time to spot you, to see what kind of animals you were ridin’.”

  “It was dark,” frowned Porter. “It happened after sundown, Deacon.”

  “Maybe so,” said Cox, “but I’m a man believes in takin’ no chances. Clive and Troy and me—we’ll handle this job without you. I don’t want you or Comanche showin’ your noses inside of that town again. That clear?”

  “Sure, Deacon,” shrugged Porter. “You’re the boss.”

  “And don’t you never forget it,” growled Cox. “Now—what about the bank?”

  “It’s called the Ketch County Trust and Security,”’ said Porter. “You couldn’t miss it. It’s half-way ’tween a couple cross-streets and facing the main stem. We checked the rear door. You could stall the wagon in the side alley close by. Wouldn’t be anybody could get past you.”

  “That side alley,” prodded Cox, “opens into a back alley?”

  “Damn right,” nodded Porter, “and that back alley runs clear to the rear door of the bank.”

  “Sounds okay, huh, Deacon?” suggested Erskine.

  “It’ll do,” decided Cox.

  “Should we wait a while,” wondered Waddell, “or move in rightaway?”

  “Why wait?” The fat man grinned mirthlessly. “Who’d get leery of us—three sin-killers bringin’ the good word to all God-fearin’ folks? Hell, no. We go in rightaway.”

  “What about me and Comanche?” asked Porter.

  “You two hotshots,” said Cox, “are gonna stay hid. Squat right here, savvy? This is as good a hideout as any. Keep out of sight. You got grub and you got liquor. I ain’t savin’ just when we’ll take that bank, but we’ll be comin’ back thisaway. All you gotta do is wait for us.”

  “Yeah, sure,” grunted Porter.

  “All right, boys.” Cox gestured to Waddell and Erskine. “Get aboard. We’re headed for Ketchtown to save a few more sinners.”

  Chapter Two –

  The Way of a Texan

  Larry Valentine lay on the white-covered table in Bartley Everingham’s spotlessly clean surgery, using his ears to good advantage and deciding that it was near time for him to be up and away. His scalp smarted. The medico had applied some kind of antiseptic to the shallow gash, plus a dressing and a bandage. From the sound of his voice, it was obvious that the deputy was lounging over by the window. The house was quiet, except for Everingham’s well-modulated voice and Gannon ‘s grunted rejoinders.

  “That’s as much as I can do for him,” Everingham announced. “A very tough specimen he surely is. You might be interested to know that this isn’t the first time his head has been grazed by a bullet.”

  “I got him pegged for a real professional owlhoot,” drawled Gannon.

  “He shows no sign of reviving,” frowned Everingham. “Frankly, I’m puzzled.”

  “You mean he should’ve roused by now?” demanded Gannon.

  “It’s a shallow wound,” shrugged Everingham. “Naturally, it was more than enough to render him senseless, but I see no reason for him to remain unconscious for so long.”

  “I’ll damn soon rouse him,” growled Gannon. “All this jasper needs is shakin’.”

  Everingham moved away. The deputy strode to the table, bent over Larry and grasped his shoulders. A serious error of judgement, which he would regret at some length.

  Larry opened both eyes. His bunched right came up, slamming to the deputy’s jaw in a short, devastating jab. The effect was impressive and almost comical. While Everingham stood gaping, momentarily frozen with shock, Gannon straightened up. His back arched. His eyes were glazed. He made no sounds except for the one startled grunt. Then, abruptly, he collapsed

  “Great—Caesars—ghost!” gasped Everingham, as Larry swung his feet to the floor.

  “Not another word out of you, Doc,” warned Larry. “I’m beholden to you for patchin’ my head but, by golly, I’ll shut your mouth with my fist if I have to. Just stand there. One whoop, and you’ll be s
leepin’ as deep as the deputy.”

  Briskly, he helped himself to Gannon’s gun belt. After strapping it about his loins, he located and donned his bloodied Stetson. He gagged Gannon with the deputy’s own bandanna, secured his wrists behind his back with the manacles and, with rope taken from a closet, bound his ankles. There was sufficient rope left for hog-tying the startled medico and, while engaged in that chore, Larry thought to offer an apology.

  “Sorry about this, Doc, but it seems I got no choice. In case it makes you feel any easier, you got my solemn oath that me and my partner didn’t gun that storekeeper. We ain’t angels, and that’s a fact, but we ain’t thieves nor killers.”

  He laid Everingham gently beside the still slumbering Gannon. His own pockets were empty, so he helped himself to Gannon’s Durham-sack, papers and matches.

  “This fool badge-toter’s got money in his pants,” he told Everingham. “He can keep it, and maybe that’ll prove I’m no thief.” He made to gag Everingham with a strip of cloth, but paused for a query. “Just how bad is my friend hurt?”

  “Concussion,” blinked Everingham.

  “Bad concussion?” prodded Larry.

  “That’s—difficult to say,” muttered Everingham. “He may regain his senses within the hour. He may be ill for days. It isn’t a fatal injury—but I’m uncertain as to …”

  “He wouldn’t be fit to ride?” demanded Larry.

  “I wouldn’t advise it,” frowned Everingham. “And—damn it all—you surely don’t imagine you could break him out of jail?”

  “So,” mused Larry, “he’ll just have to stay put.”

  “While you escape,” scowled Everingham.

  “While I,” Larry grimly corrected, “nose around and find out just who did gun the storekeeper. This town is hungry for a lynching, Doc. Only way I can help my friend is to find the real killers.”

  “As I understand it,” countered Everingham, “you were positively identified by an eye-witness—Wilbur Neale—old Eli’s nephew.”

  “Yeah,” nodded Larry. “And that’s interestin’—plumb interestin’. Well, so long, Doc, and thanks for everything.”

  He applied the gag, got to his feet and went to the open window. No sign of Gannon’s horse. Quitting the surgery, he hurried along the hallway to the front door, opened it and glanced out into the tranquil, tree-lined Howland Road. The deputy’s bay was there, hitched to the rack outside the doctor’s front gate. From the porch, he scanned the street. All seemed quiet. It was almost too damned easy, and he felt a twinge of regret, as he sauntered down the front walk and through the gateway. Stretch would languish in the hoosegow, while he rode free. Well, there was no other way.

  He untethered the bay and swung astride. Keeping his head bowed, he turned the animal and rode east, moving further away from the intersection of Howland and Main. No hustling at first. A rider quitting town at speed would be bound to be noticed. He kept to a steady pace, moving to the east end of Howland Road and on through a screen of brush. Not until he was well clear of the big town did he dig in his heels and give his borrowed mount full rein.

  Toward sundown of that day, he was hustling the bay through the shallows of a creek and approaching a range of hills. He would be pursued, nothing surer, but that thought caused him no alarm. When it came to erasing horse-tracks, Larry Valentine was as skilled as any Indian. Let that lard-bellied sheriff search for him—and to hell with him.

  For his night-camp, he chose a sheltered cleft in the rocks by the foothills. The air was chill, but he ruled against lighting a fire. In the deputy’s saddlebags, he found ample provisions, including a supply of coffee and a pint bottle of whiskey. Obviously, Salter’s posse had anticipated a long search for the murderers of Eli Ventaine, because Gannon had brought his saddle-roll along. Two blankets and a slicker. And, also in the saddlebag, spare ammunition, a box of .45 caliber cartridges.

  After an austere but satisfying supper, he checked the loading and mechanism of the deputy’s six-shooter. It would do, he decided. Fortunately, Gannon had kept it clean. He would have preferred his own gun, but beggars can’t be choosers, and neither can trouble-shooters on the run from the law.

  At exactly ten minutes after noon of that day, Stretch Emerson opened his eyes and said,

  “I’m hungry.”

  He had been conscious for quite some time, but hadn’t let anybody know it. Never as mentally spry as his saddle-pard, the taller Texan needed time to adjust to this invidious situation. What exactly had happened to him? He knew he was in jail; that was all too obvious. He could dimly recall being shot at, falling from his horse. Everything else was a blank.

  He rolled over on the bunk and squinted toward the barred door of the cell. Rightawav, he realized that his head and left shoulder were bandaged. He wasn’t suffering intense pain, so concluded his wounds weren’t critical. From the corridor, old Chris Randall inspected the prisoner with bland curiosity, and pegged him for a friendly enough hombre. Sure. This tall feller would be good for many an hour of congenial gab. Some killers were like that. Plumb sociable—except when they were killing.

  “Be fetchin’ your grub in a little while,” said Chris. “Meantime, you ready to talk?”

  “Old timer,” said Stretch, “I dunno what in tarnation it’s all about.”

  He raised a hand to his bandaged head, and winced,

  “You got a name?” asked Chris. “Or can’t you remember?”

  That second question planted the germ of the notion in Stretch’s brain. Why tell them? Why reveal his true identity?

  The old man had suggested that maybe he couldn’t remember his own name. Why not let it go at that? Magnesia, they called it. Or was magnesia the right word? Loss of memory. Something like that.

  He shook his head dazedly and declared,

  “I just don’t recall who I am or how I got here—so I reckon you’d best tell me.”

  “Sheriff Salter and his posse jumped you and your sidekick,” explained Chris. “That was early this mornin’.”

  “Think of that,” breathed Stretch. “I got me a sidekick—and I don’t recall him neither.”

  “Texan, ain’t you?” prodded Chris.

  “How would I know?” shrugged Stretch. “I can’t remember a goldurn thing.”

  “Well ...” Old Chris settled himself on his stool, crossed his legs and began stuffing tobacco into the bowl of his corncob, “it seems you and your pard robbed the Ventaine store last night and killed old Eli Ventaine. Posse tracked you quite a ways, ’fore they caught up with you.”

  Stretch blinked reproachfully.

  “Who says we killed this storekeeper feller?”

  “Old Eli’s nephew seen you and your pard hightailin’ it outa the emporium,” drawled Chris. “Ain’t no use tryin’ to argue agin it, boy. Young Wilbur Neale, he identified you hombres for certain-sure, even recalled the prads you was ridin’.”

  “This sidekick of mine,” challenged Stretch, “did he lose his memory, too?”

  “I knew you’d get around to askin’ about him, sooner or later,” sighed Chris.

  “Whatsamatter?” demanded Stretch.

  “Well …” The aged turnkey grinned a wry grin, “it just goes to prove that Bob and Otis ain’t half as smart as they claim to be.”

  “Who’s Bob and Otis?”

  “Sheriff and the deputy. They’re out again. Had to round up another posse.”

  “To do what?”

  “Why, to go chase that pardner of yours.”

  “You said he got caught along with me.”

  “That he did, boy, that he did. But Bob sent Otis up to Doc Everingham’s place on accounta Doc flat refused to tend him in jail. Little while ago, they found Otis and the Doc all trussed like a couple Thanksgiving turkeys. Seems your pardner jumped Otis and flew the coop.”

  Stretch’s heart leapt. Larry was on the loose! Well, good for old Larry. Trust him to turn the tables on these trigger-happy badge-toters. Mindful of the old man’s intent scrut
iny, he managed to keep his elation concealed.

  “That pardner of mine,” he drawled, “he sounds a whole lot smarter’n me.”

  “Yup,” grunted Chris. “Maybe he’ll get clear away—but not you. If you ask me, I’d say you’re gallows-bait.”

  “Thanks,” sighed Stretch.

  “Welcome,” said Chris. “You still hungry?”

  “Still,” nodded Stretch.

  “All right.” Chris got to his feet. “I’ll go fetch your grub.”

  He trudged away along the passage. Stretch heard him descending the stairs to the office below, the while he rose to his feet to test his legs, and asked himself a question. Had he really achieved anything by feigning loss of memory? Maybe. Maybe not. The jailer wasn’t doubting his word. Andy for the time being, he didn’t feel inclined to name himself. Stretch Emerson—held for the murder of an old storekeeper? He hadn’t cared much about his reputation until now.

  Larry was out and about. Well, that was something to be grateful for. He could rely on Larry. It wouldn’t be the first time his case-hardened saddle-pard had investigated a murder. More like the twentieth or thirtieth time. Of course, on all those other occasions, Larry hadn’t always been a fugitive. The deck seemed stacked against them. How could Larry dig into this riddle without exposing himself? Well, Larry would figure a way.

  At this same time, the sole surviving kin of Elias Ventaine were in conversation in the neatly-furnished parlor above the emporium. Though pallid and red-eyed from weeping, Lucinda Ventaine, daughter of the murdered storekeeper, was still a woman of rare beauty. In her twenty-second year, she was a gentle, soft-speaking brunette. Her fine figure was the envy of every female citizen of Ketchtown.

  “Class and dignity,”‘ Ketchtown’s cracker-barrel philosophers were wont to comment, when referring to the fair Lucinda. “A real lady is what she is. She’s quality, but she ain’t high-falutin’. Old Eli sure raised her right.”