“Of old age,” said Chris.
“That’s a good way to go,” Stretch conceded. “And now, if it ain’t too much trouble, I’d be obliged if you’d unlock this here cell-door.”
“Seems to me I got no choice,” opined Chris.
The old man unhitched his keyring, fitted one into the lock and turned it, then pulled outward. Stretch stood to one side, gesturing with the Colt.
“Come on in, Chris.”
As he entered the cell, Chris nervously enquired,
“You ain’t gonna dent my head with that hogleg are you, or anything like that?”
“Well ...” began Stretch.
“You don’t have to,” Chris pointed out. “Shucks, you should save your energy—specially seein’ as you got a gunshot wound in your shoulder and a bump on your head. I figure hog-tyin’ me would be a durn sight easier.”
Stretch nodded thoughtfully, as he took possession of the keyring, relieved Chris of his gun belt and tossed it out into the corridor. The old man retreated to the wall and stood docile, while Stretch proceeded to tear strips from the blanket that covered the bunk.
“All right, Chris, that’s just what I’ll do. Got to leave you hog-tied and gagged. I’d ask you to gimme your word that you wouldn’t yell for help, only that wouldn’t be fair. You got your duty to think of.”
“For a feller that’s lost his memory,” frowned Chris, “you’re sure thinkin’ clear.”
“Turn around,” ordered Stretch.
Chris turned his face to the wall and held his arms behind him, permitting the tall Texan to bind his wrists.
“Plain truth is,” Stretch confided, “I never lost my memory at all.”
“Well, goldurn ...” Chris sounded deeply hurt, “you done lied to me!”
“There’s times when I’m a liar,” sighed Stretch, “and there’s times when me and my sidekick gets into the most gosh-awful hassles. We ain’t no angels, Larry and me, but one thing’s for sure. We didn’t gun that storekeeper nor steal his dinero. First time we ever come to Ketchtown was when that posse brought us in—and that’s the gospel truth.”
“You ain’t joshin’ me?” challenged Chris.
“Swear it on a stack of bibles,” drawled Stretch. “Only who’s gonna believe me?”
“You got a honest face, so I’ll believe you,” decided Chris.
“Set,” said Stretch.
Chris squatted on the bunk. With another strip of blanket, Stretch secured his ankles.
“You know my handle,” Chris reminded him, “but we never got interdooced proper.”
“My full moniker,” confided Stretch, “is Woodville Eustace Emerson, but mostly nobody ever calls me that.”
“What do they call you?” prodded Chris.
“Stretch.”
“Stretch?”
“Uh huh. Just Stretch. And my partner is Larry Valentine.”
“Stretch and Larry,” mused Chris.
“Larry and Stretch,” corrected Stretch.
“I keep thinkin’ them names is familiar,” drawled Chris. “Could be I heard of you before someplace.”
“Could be,” agreed Stretch. He unknotted the old man’s bandanna, folded it longwise and prepared to wind it about his mouth. “Got to gag you now, Chris.”
“That’s okay,” shrugged Chris.
‘”Sure hate to do this to you,” said Stretch, and he meant it. “You’ve been treatin’ me real friendly.”
“Gonna make a run for it, huh?” guessed Chris.
“Somethin’ like that,” lied Stretch. And, to add weight to the lie, he asked, “Where’d they stash my horse?”
“Meanin’ the pinto?” grunted Chris. “Downtown a ways. Hoppers stable. Other prad got shot from under your friend.”
“Some fool shot Larry’s sorrel?” frowned Stretch. “Hell, he won’t take kindly to that.”
“Well,” said Chris, “he’s straddlin’ a fine hunk o’ hoss-flesh right now—Otis Gannon’s bay stallion.”
“Ol’ Larry,” grinned Stretch, “always did have an eye for a good horse.” He applied the bandanna to the old man’s mouth, drawing the corners to the back of his neck and knotting them. “Well, I reckon that’s it. You just rest quiet, Chris, and I’ll see you again—and that’s a promise.”
He quit the cell, swung the door shut and locked it, then gathered up the gun belt and shotgun and trudged along the corridor to the stairs. Warily, he descended to the sheriff’s office. All was quiet in here—but not outside in Main Street. Ketchtown sinners, thoroughly intimidated by Deacon Cox’s fire-and-brimstone sermon, were raising their voices in the tuneless bellowing of yet another hymn. To the accompaniment of “Rock Of Ages”, Stretch secured the street door and began searching the office.
It would be necessary for him to cross Main Street, in order to reach the Ventaine Emporium, and a great many locals must have been on hand at the time of his arrival. He would be recognized, nothing surer.
“What I need,” he told himself, “is to look a whole lot different.”
For a starter, he removed his head-bandage. He hustled to a closet, opened it and stuck pay-dirt. Cluttering the closet were several items left behind by long-forgotten inmates of Sheriff Salter’s pokey. He found a stove-pipe hat of the type once worn by Abraham Lincoln, also a duster that would cover him from shoulders to knees, also a walking cane. Into the closet, he stowed Chris Randall’s shotgun and keyring.
The hat fitted. He shrugged into the duster and gripped the cane. A pleased grin creased his face when he spotted his own gun belt with his matched Colts still secure in their holsters, hanging from a peg over by the gun-rack. He stashed the turnkey’s hardware into the closet and shut it, went to the peg and helped himself to his gun belt, strapped it about his loins and let the duster hang to cover his holsters.
Emerging from the law office, he moved slowly, his shoulders hunched. The cane was a useful prop. He leaned heavily on it, as he descended the steps and began limping across the street. Nobody spared him a second glance and, very soon, he had reached the store.
There was a sign affixed to the front door. It said, simply, CLOSED. He quit the store porch, entered a narrow side alley and limped around back, to find that the rear door was also locked.
“Rock Of Ages” came to a fervent and raucous conclusion. From his improvised dais, Cox beamed paternally at the sea of upraised faces.
“That’s better, brothers and sisters,” he nodded. “I do believe I detect a new sincerity—an upsurge of faith and jubilation—in your singin’ of the hymns. And now, one of my assistants is gonna pass among you, distributin’ tracts that I got printed all at my own expense. Yes siree, brethren, paid for ‘em out of my own pocket, I did. So—uh—any small coin you place in our collection-box will be gratefully acknowledged.”
That did it. When Troy Erskine abandoned the harmonium and descended to distribute the tracts, nine-tenths of the congregation began retreating. The fat man seated himself on a stool and, from the side of his mouth, held a muttered conference with Clive Waddell.
“It goes well.”
“Yeah,” grunted Waddell. “Be an easy chore this time.”
“That bank” frowned Cox, “shuts up at three-thirty. I figure you and Troy could make your play around three-forty, or thereabouts.”
“So,” guessed Waddell, “you’ll start keeping these hicks busy again, around three-thirty.”
“Same set-up as before,” nodded Cox.
In the kitchen behind the emporium, Wilbur Neale was emptying the contents of a small bottle into a glass of water. A Ketchtown apothecary had been only too willing to supply Lucinda Ventaine’s cousin with a safe dosage of an approved sedative.
“Just empty it into a glass of water, Mr. Neale,” he had instructed. “Tell Miss Lucinda it won’t taste so bad, and I guarantee she’ll sleep for eight hours at least. Do her a power of good, at a time like this.”
Neale placed the glass on a small tray and moved into the store, to
climb the stairs to the parlor. His cousin, just as he had anticipated, was suffering quite a reaction; the funeral had been a tremendous ordeal for her. She sat on the old leather-covered sofa, her head bowed, shoulders slumped in weariness. He set the tray on the small table beside the sofa.
“A sleeping draught,” he explained, “from Ginsberg s drug store. I took the liberty, knowing how little sleep you’ve had.”
“That was very kind of you, Wilbur,” she acknowledged.
“All those people,” he frowned, “crowding the cemetery. I wonder how many actually came to pay their respects. The impression I got was that most of them came to gape.”
“You’re being rather uncharitable, don’t you think?” she murmured.
“I worried about you,” he told her, “every moment of the time. I feared you’d faint during the parson’s graveside eulogy. Good grief, why did he have to drone on so long?”
“I guess Reverend Hardacre has never learned to deliver a short sermon,” she shrugged.
“Reverend Hardacre,” growled Neale, “is a long-winded loud-mouth.” He gestured to the glass, as he sauntered across to the window. “Drink it, Cousin.”
“Yes,” she nodded. “I’ll drink it.”
She reached for the glass, while she threw a covert glance toward the window. He was standing with his back to her, still talking.
“Speaking of long-winded loud-mouths, those infernal drum-beaters are still at it. Don’t they ever get tired?”
He continued to complain of itinerant sin-killers and clergymen in general, and she saw her chance to get rid of the sleeping draught. There was, within reach of her right hand, a large vase on a polished mahogany pedestal. She kept her eyes on him and worked by feel, extended her arm, nudging the glass against the top of the vase, then twisting her hand so that the glass emptied. When he turned to face her again, she was holding the empty glass in her lap.
“You should turn in now,” he gently advised. “If Ginsberg’s prediction is accurate, you should become drowsy within the next ten minutes and sleep deeply until eight o’clock tonight, or maybe as late as nine. That’s what you need, my dear.”
“I do feel tired,” she frowned, as she rose to her feet.
And now it would begin again; she was sure of it. She would hear those same sounds, maybe louder this time, because he would assume her to be in a drugged sleep. His search would be resumed. His search for what?
From the parlor, he escorted her to the door of her bedroom.
“Tonight, when you awake,” he told her, “I’ll have supper brought in from the Delroy Restaurant. Your appetite may have returned.”
“Thank you, Wilbur,” said Lucinda.
A shudder wracked her, after she had closed the door. She couldn’t decide whether she should be sad or frightened or both. Why was Wilbur being so secretive, and what was he searching for? She stripped to her underwear and donned a robe, seated herself by the front window and, with the grim thoughts still plaguing her, stared down into Main Street. There was a second window at the left side of the room. She kept it locked, but didn’t think it necessary to lower the shade. There was a small balcony beyond, with a flight of wood steps leading down into the side alley.
Again, those muffled, furtive sounds. Wilbur was downstairs in the store. It sounded as though he were checking every piece of merchandise in the place. And there was another sound, one so faint that she never heard it, a gentle rapping at the street door.
With a grimace of impatience, Neale strode to the door and unlocked it. The rapping was repeated. He opened the door to find himself face to face with the saturnine, flashily-garbed Wes Webster, owner of the Blue Door Casino.
“Wes,” breathed Neale, “what the hell’re you doing here?”
“When you’re in debt to a man,” chided Webster, “it ain’t wise to be so almighty impolite. Come on out, Wilbur.”
Neale moved out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind him. They parleyed, unaware that a recent escapee from the county jail was lurking in the side alley.
Chapter Five –
Rising Tension
Stretch had, at this time, no interest in the two men quietly conversing on the porch of the emporium. He was concerned only with the problem of getting out of sight before the return of the posse. Also, he was pondering ways and means of forcing his way into this building and locating a certain beautiful lady. The fire-stairs leading up to the small balcony looked promising, so he investigated.
On the porch, the Blue Door owner lit a cigar and eyed Neale expectantly.
“The will been read yet?” he demanded.
“We’ll have to wait a few days,” muttered Neale. “In any case, I can’t make any promises. The old man may have cut me off without a cent.”
“So you got just two choices, Wilbur,” frowned Webster. “Find the five thousand you owe me and pay me off.”
“Five thousand.” Neale cursed softly. “How could I be such a fool—and so damned unlucky—as to run up a debt that big?”
“You managed it,” grinned Webster. “Four hours at my roulette table was all it took. Those I.O.U’s you kept writing—they just grew and grew.”
“You can’t get blood from a stone,” growled Neale. “I don’t know how I can settle up with you.”
“Already told you how,” countered Webster.
“Deal faro for you at the Blue Door?” challenged Neale, “Become your employee?”
“Sure,” nodded Webster. “Good faro dealers are getting scarce, and you’re one of the best.”
“How many years would I have to work for you,” Neale bitterly demanded, “to discharge my financial obligations?”
“That’s up to you,” drawled Webster. “It’d depend—on just how slick a dealer you get to be. The house profit is what matters to me.”
“You pick a fine time to come plaguing me for your money,” Neale complained. “As if I don’t have problems already.”
“What problems?” challenged Webster.
“None of your damn business,” said Neale. “Just—leave me alone. There’s—well—there’s something I have to get settled, before I can enter into any agreement with you. I need more time, Wes.”
“You know what your biggest problem is?” Webster’s tone was scathing now. “You aim too high, boy. How much of a salary did old Eli pay you for helping him here at the store? Not much. Not enough for the kind of life you hanker to live. You and your fancy women, the expensive duds, the high stake gambling. For that kind of life, you need a fat bankroll, and a fat bank-roll is just what you never had.”
“For pity’s sake,” said Neale, “don’t preach to me.”
“Tell you what I’ll do.” The casino owner flicked ash from his cigar. “I’ll give you just three more days, and that’s all. If you can’t pay what you owe me, you’re gonna work off the debt as my faro-dealer.”
“I’ll see you in three days,” Neale promised.
Abruptly, he turned and opened the street door , moved back inside. Webster shrugged his well-tailored shoulders and descended from the porch, to retrace his steps to the Blue Door Casino. Perspiration beaded on Neale’s brow, as he stood by the counter surveying the stock, much of which he had pulled from the shelves.
“Where?” he wondered. “Where did you hide it—you parsimonious, psalm-singing old killjoy? Where?”
He resumed his search while, in her bedroom, his cousin quit her seat by the window and walked tiredly to her dresser. Memories of her dead father, for whom she had always felt great affection and respect, were crowding her mind. She longed to see him again, not as he had appeared while lying in the casket, but as he had appeared in life, erect and dignified, with his mane of white hair and his clear, reassuring gaze. She was thinking of the photograph for which he had posed two years ago, at the Fischer Gallery on North Main Street.
She pulled out a drawer and lifted the flat box. So many papers of personal importance were kept in that leather-covered box. As a small
child, under her mother’s supervision, she had folded her birth certificate and deposited it here. And there were other treasured memories, including a letter written by her mother a few months before her death, and tintype commemorating the wedding of Elias and Hildegarde Ventaine. The pictures interested her most at this moment.
For a long minute, and wistfully, she studied the photograph of her father. Then, as she made to replace it in the box, she noticed the sealed envelope. It was strange to her. How had it gotten there? The inscription had been penned in a familiar hand; the neat, distinctive writing was her father’s.
“TO BE OPENED,” he had written, “IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH FROM OTHER THAN NATURAL CAUSES.”
Other than natural causes—meaning a violent demise—murder! Her hands trembled, as she placed the box atop her dresser and began fumbling with the envelope.
About to tear the flap, she froze. A scuffling sound had reached her ears, not from down below. Closer. Somewhere close by. She darted a glance to the window overlooking Main Street, then to the side window. A man was crouched on the balcony, staring in at her, making urgent gestures. One long index finger was crooking, beckoning her. The other was held to his lips, pantomiming a plea for her silence.
She was confused, but not completely frightened, not really alarmed. There was, about that ungainly figure, a touch of the comical. Ketchtown men rarely wore stovepipe hats. The narrow brim of this one accentuated her tall visitor’s out-sized cars and lantern-jaw.
Her hesitation was short-lived. She moved to the window, unlocked and opened it.
“What is the meaning of ...?” she began.
“Pssst!” he hissed.
“I—beg your pardon?” she blinked.
“I said psst.” Stretch eyed her pleadingly. “That means hush up and don’t holler—beggin’ your pardon, Miss Lucinda. You and me gotta talk, but I mean quiet—real quiet.”
“You seem to know me,” she frowned.
“Sure—I know you.”
“Then you must be aware that I’m in mourning. My father was buried only a short time ago. Do you think it proper to visit me unannounced—coming to my bedroom window?”
Larry and Stretch 18 Page 5
