Larry and Stretch 18

by Marshall Grover

  “It likely ain’t proper, Miss Lucinda, and I surely do apologize—only there wasn’t no other way. You just gotta let me talk to you. There’s things I have to explain.”

  “About what?”

  “About the killin’ of your pa—and the robbery—and a few other things.”

  “What is there to explain? My father was robbed and murdered. The guilty men were arrested, and …”

  “Hold on now, Miss Lucinda.” Stretch took a chance on how she would react to his assertion. Either he would win her interest and an invitation to climb into her room—or she would panic; and probably scream blue murder. “A couple hombres did get arrested, only they didn’t rob nor kill your pa. And I oughta know, on accounta I’m one of ’em.” As her eyes widened, he talked on quickly. “You don’t have to be a feared of me. Shucks—I wouldn’t harm a hair of your head.” He crossed his heart. “You got my word on that, as a Texas gentleman.”

  And still she was unafraid. Intrigued, yes, but not afraid. She made her decision quickly, moved back from the window and gestured for him to enter. Like an out-sized grasshopper, the lean trouble-shooter clambered over the sill and into the room.

  “Gotta keep it quiet,” he whispered.

  “Very well,” she nodded, as she seated herself. “I’ll not raise my voice. Now—what is it you have to tell me?”

  She sat with the envelope held in her left hand, temporarily forgotten. The towering intruder had won all her attention.

  “It’s thisaway,” he began. “My names Emerson. Stretch, they call me. Me and my pard, hombre name of Larry Valentine, we were just ridin’ along and mindin’ our own business—when this doggone posse jumped us.”

  “Sheriff Salter’s posse.” She made it a declaration, not a question.

  “For my money,” he scowled, “that badge-toter’s a mite too proddy for his own good. Him and his trigger-happy posse—they opened up on us without givin’ us a chance. No challenge. No questions. No nothin’. They just went to shootin’ and, next thing I knew, I was failin’ offa my prad.” He unfastened the duster and his shirt, to exhibit the bandage at his left shoulder. “Got nicked I did.”

  “Is it serious?” she thought to enquire.

  “I’ll live,” he assured her. “I ’most always do. Well, they winged Larry too and, like you probably heard, they brought us to Salter’s hoosegow. Dunno where ol’ Larry is right now. He flew the coop, after the deputy took him to the sawbones’ house.”

  “Shouldn’t you be in jail?” she demanded.

  He eyed her reproachfully.

  “Miss Lucinda—neither of us should be in jail. We was never in this doggone town before. All I know about this mess is what old Chris told me.”

  “Old Mr. Randall—the turnkey? Did you—did you ...?”

  “He’s fine. I only trussed him up with a blanket, didn’t hurt him one little bit.”

  “And you claim you know nothing of the murder?”

  “That’s what I come to tell you. Larry and me, we’re plumb innocent. Now you mind what I say, Miss Lucinda. When I busted outa that jail just now, I could’ve found my horse and snuck outa town quiet, could’ve made a clean getaway. But I didn’t, because I just had to parley with you. Gotta make you understand. We ain’t thieves nor killers.”

  “You risked recapture,” she mused, “just to tell me that?”

  “Only did what Larry would’ve done,” he muttered “Ain’t nothin’ gripes us worsen gettin’ wrongly blamed—specially for a killin’.”

  “My cousin,” she pointed out, “has identified you.”

  “So I hear,” he nodded. “Well, I ain’t acquainted with this Neale hombre, so I can’t call him a liar. But one thing you can count on—he sure made a mistake. Maybe we look like the jaspers he saw, but we ain’t them.”

  “He wouldn’t deliberately lie about it,” she opined.

  “All right,” He fidgeted impatiently. “So he made an honest mistake.” And now he stopped fidgeting, because she was studying him with great intensity. He met her gaze without flinching. “Miss Lucinda—you just gotta believe me.”

  “You said your name was ...?”

  “Emerson. And my partner ...”

  “Valentine. Emerson and Valentine.”

  “Valentine and Emerson is more like it. Larry—he’s got all the brains. Me—I just tag along with him.”

  “The names are vaguely familiar,” she murmured. “Haven’t I read of you—in a newspaper?”

  “Sometimes they write about us in the papers,” he admitted, “but don’t you pay no mind to all that hogwash. We ain’t half as dangerous as they claim. Just a couple do-right Texas boys is what we are—tryin’ to stay outa trouble.”

  “Well, Mr. Emerson,” frowned Lucinda, “it seems I’m obliged to accept your word. I can’t believe that a murderer would have risked recapture by coming to tell me these things. Also, I know something of your reputation. And …’ She stared thoughtfully toward the bedroom door, “it is possible that Wilbur make a mistake.”

  “When they find the real killers,” offered Stretch, “it’s my hunch they’ll look a heap like Larry and me.” He added, modestly, “We ain’t so special, after all. Could be hundreds of hombres that look like us.”

  “What,” she wondered, “will you do now?”

  “Go find my partner, I guess.” He frowned perplexedly. Beyond his burning desire to confer with Lucinda, he hadn’t given much thought to the immediate future. “And findin’ ol’ Larry ain’t gonna be easy, what with him hidin’ out from them posses.”

  “You don’t think he’d quit the county?” she challenged.

  “And leave me in the calaboose?” he countered. “No siree, lady. Not Larry. More likely he’s try in’ to figure a way of findin’ the real killers.” He raised a hand to his temple and nodded significantly. “Mighty active ’tween the ears is Larry. Can’t abide a mystery. Has to get all the answers. You bet your Sunday bonnet he won’t let go of this thing till we know just who did gun your pa. What’s more, he’ll …”

  He stopped talking abruptly, rose to his feet and threw a glance toward the door. The knob had made a slight, rattling sound. Lucinda stood up, still clutching the envelope, her eyes fixed on that slow-turning knob.

  As was so often the case, Stretch did the unexpected. Instead of retreating to the open side window, he made straight for the large wardrobe in the far corner and opened its door. To get inside, he had to jack-knife and twist, but he made it. As he pulled the door shut, Lucinda heard her cousin’s voice.

  “Cousin Lucinda—are you awake?”

  Her next move was instinctive, something she couldn’t explain. She moved to her bed and lay on her back. Just as the door began opening, she closed her eyes, and only then did she realize that she was still holding the bulky envelope.

  Neale moved silently into the room, tiptoed to the dresser. The first glance he threw her was casual; he was sure she had surrendered to the sedative. He shifted his gaze and then, with his pulse racing, stared at her again. His gleaming eyes fastened on the envelope. A gasp escaped him. He stepped to the bed and, as she opened her eyes and raised herself, snatched the envelope from her hand.

  “So you had it!” he breathed.

  “I found it, Wilbur,” she frowned, “just a little while ago. This is it, isn’t it? This is what you’ve been searching for?”

  He examined the envelope, noted that the flap had not been torn.

  “Give it back to me,” she ordered, rising from the bed. “I’m sure Dad meant it for me.”

  “Forget it, Cousin,”’ he scowled. “You’ll never read the old man’s last message.”

  “I insist...!” she began.

  “You insist?” he gasped. “You’d make demands of me? Who do you Ventaines think you are—treating us Neales as poor relations ...?”

  “How can you say such terrible things?” She eyed him aghast. “Dad always treated you fairly!”

  “Your penny-pinching father,” he
raged, “was an interfering old fool. I’d stand for no interference from him—or from you. So you knew I was searching for something, my dear cousin? And, sooner or later, your feminine curiosity would’ve compelled you to go to the sheriff!”

  “Under the circumstances,”’ said Lucinda, with spirit, “you leave me no alternative.” She held out her hand. “Wilbur—give me that envelope!”

  She was ill-prepared for his next act. From an inside pocket of his coat, he produced a knife, one that was poignantly familiar to her.

  “Yes!” He nodded vehemently. “Your father’s paper knife. Very appropriate, don’t you think? You couldn’t endure your grief at his untimely demise. You became temporarily deranged—took your own life—with his knife. Very appropriate!”

  “You can’t mean ...?” she gasped.

  “You know about the envelope,” he muttered, as he moved closer to her. “You know I’ve searched for it—and you’re curious. That’s enough, Cousin. More than enough reason—for my silencing you ...”

  The blade gleamed from his right hand. His eves appeared glazed, as he drew the weapon back. She opened her mouth to scream, but her voice failed her. And then, with a crash, her unconventional visitor exploded from the wardrobe.

  Stretch came on like a charging buffalo and, too late, Neale began turning, swinging the knife toward him. A bunched right smote the side of his head with jarring force. He reeled. Left-handed, and with no regard for the condition of his injured shoulder, Stretch gripped his wrist and twisted. Neale howled in pain and the knife dropped, and Stretch swung his second punch. Drunkenly, Neale spun to the wall, slammed against it face-first, then collapsed in an untidy heap.

  The tall Texan wasn’t panting from his exertions and, for a wonder, his voice was cold-calm when he spoke to the distraught Lucinda.

  “Don’t start weepin’, Miss Lucinda. I’m plumb useless, around a wailin’ woman.”

  She stared incredulously at her unconscious kinsman.

  “I can’t believe...!” she gasped.

  “The way it looks to me,” offered Stretch, “you got no choice. It really happened. He was fixin’ to shut your mouth—the hard way.” He picked up the knife. The envelope had fallen under the table, so he retrieved it also. The knife he tossed through the open doorway into the corridor. The envelope he handed to her. “Go ahead, Miss Lucinda. You were gonna read it anyway, and maybe there couldn’t be a better time than now.”

  For a long moment, she studied the inscription penned by her father. Then, with her heartbeat quickening, she tore the flap and extracted the contents. Stretch came over to stand beside her.

  “I don’t quite understand ...” she began,

  “What are them papers?” he demanded.

  “These small slips,” she frowned, “are from the bank. For drawing out cash. Any time a client wishes to draw cash from his account, he has to fill out and sign one of these slips.”

  “So?” he prodded.

  “They bear my father’s signature,” she observed.

  “What about that other paper?” asked Stretch.

  She unfolded the closely-written sheet and, after reading the first few lines, heaved a sigh of sadness.

  “I’ll read it to you,” she murmured. “I guess, in a way, you have a right to know.”

  “You don’t have to,” he assured her, “if you don’t want to.”

  “Listen,” she ordered, and she read aloud. ‘“To. my beloved daughter, Lucinda, and to such officers of the law in whom she should see fit to confide—I, Elias Melford Ventaine, solemnly swear that my nephew, Wilbur Neale, is guilty of theft and wanton betrayal of the trust I have placed in him. The enclosed bank forms are forgeries perpetrated by him. I found them accidentally and, upon conferring with Conrad Schuster, a cashier of the Ketchtown Trust and Security Bank, learned that my nephew had drawn fifteen hundred dollars from my account some seven months ago—withdrawals not authorized by myself.

  In the hope of avoiding a scandal, I allowed Conrad Schuster to assume that these withdrawal forms bore my genuine signature. After locating other such forgeries, obviously prepared for the same dishonest purpose, among my nephew’s personal effects, I have decided to seal them with this testimony.

  My nephew sought refuge in desperate denials. I warned him that I shall expose him if he ever again resorted to such dastardly practices. His answer was a demand that I return the forged slips, and a series of wild threats. I will not be deterred by the threats of a thief, and I doubt that he would have the courage to do me a physical injury. As a precaution, however, I have told him that my death, if by unnatural causes, will certainly cause his immediate downfall. He knows I have sealed and secreted this damning evidence. I have no other enemies. In the event of my being violently done to death, I urge my daughter to deliver this statement to Sheriff Robert Salter.’”

  “Well, well, well,” drawled Stretch.

  “It’s signed and dated,” she told him. “There can be no doubt it was written by my father, but ...” She examined the bank forms with keen distaste, “but these are forgeries.”

  “You better stash ’em back in the envelope,” Stretch suggested. She did that. He held out his hand. “Now let me have ’em, Miss Lucinda. I’ll save you the trouble of takin’ ’em to the law.”

  “I’ll save both of you the trouble!” snarled Neale. As Stretch whirled, he added, “Stand right where you are.”

  He had risen to his feet. At close range, the two-shot Remington Derringer in his right fist could kill, and painfully. Well aware of this, Stretch positioned himself in front of the startled Lucinda and eyed the weapon with respect. Mildly, he remarked,

  “I must be slippin’. Should’ve hit you a sight harder.” And he added, dolefully, “Should’ve searched you for a sneak-gun, come to think of it.”

  “I’ll take that envelope,” Neale extended his left hand.

  “That purty little pistol,” frowned Stretch, “holds two slugs. I reckon I know what’s in your mind, mister. The lady and me—we’re the only ones that know the truth about you, and you’re plumb edgy about your reputation.”

  “Shut up!” breathed Neale. “And hand me that envelope!”

  “So you get these here papers—and then what?” challenged Stretch. “You still figure to shut our mouths. You’d kill to stay outa jail.”

  “I already have killed!” Neale spat the words out, his face ashen with emotion. “When those two thieves shot the old man and rifled his safe, they gave me just the chance I needed!”

  “No!” groaned Lucinda.

  “If you aim to gun me anyway,” drawled Stretch, “I got nothin’ to gain by givin’ you these papers,” He half-turned and, coolly, deliberately, tossed the envelope through the open side window. “You need it so bad? Okay. Go fetch it.”

  Chapter Six –

  Come to the Calaboose

  Stretch’s action took Neale by surprise. For a tense moment, he was paralyzed, shocked almost to the point of physical sickness. His eyes switched from Stretch to the window, and Stretch was quick to take advantage.

  He took one step forward and swung his right foot up in a wild but well-aimed kick. The toe of his boot struck Neale’s gun-hand and, before being torn from his grasp, the tiny weapon discharged with a barking, coughing sound, and a hole appeared in the ceiling. Neale yelled a curse and lurched backward, while Stretch moved in close, swinging. That punishing uppercut jarred every tooth in Neale s head. He followed it with a hard jab to the belly, and Neale flopped to his knees, groaning, spitting blood.

  As he scooped up the Derringer, Stretch muttered a request to the stunned Lucinda.

  “Take a look out on the balcony. Them papers are plumb important. If they ain’t on the balcony, check the alley.”

  The envelope, it transpired, had struck the balcony rail and fallen to the top step of the fire stairs. Lucinda retrieved it and came back into the room in time to see the Texan hauling her cousin to his feet, shaking him roughly.


  “What I oughta do,” Stretch sourly opined, “is break every bone in your no-good carcass! I’ve been threatened by tougher hombres than you, and it didn’t faze me one little bit—but—any man that’d try to gun a lady...!”

  He wedged the heel of his hand under Neale’s chin and shoved. Neale back-stepped four paces to flop into a chair. There he sat, trembling with rage and frustration, giving vent to his bitterness. They listened to him—Stretch contemptuous, Lucinda incredulous.

  “His own fault—damn the penny-pinching old tyrant! He as good as invited me to kill him! While ever he lived, I’d be in his power, never daring to make a wrong move. But I wasn’t going to stand it forever and—when those thieves looted the safe and shot him—that was my chance. I was sure he kept those forged bank forms in the safe, and...!”

  “It’s a combination lock,” Lucinda softly informed Stretch. “Nobody else could open it. Only my father.”

  “It was open that night,” panted Neale, “and the old fool even left the street door unlocked. All those thieves had to do was walk in, put a gun on him and help themselves.”

  “And that,” challenged Stretch, “gave you your chance? How?”

  Suddenly, Neale hid his feelings behind an impassive mask. He ceased to rave. His next words were delivered curtly.

  “The thieves shot him. I saw them—identified them later—and that’s all I’m telling you.”

  “Oh, no it ain’t!” breathed Stretch. He shrugged out of his borrowed duster and threw it aside, balled his right fist and advanced on the seated man. “You got a heap more to say, mister. You’re gonna tell us everything!”

  Pain, it seemed, was Wilbur Neale’s Achilles Heel. He couldn’t bear it even to the slightest degree, and Stretch’s mighty wallop lifted him out of the chair. The chair went over backwards. Neale cringed against the wall, groaning, with his hands raised to cover his face.

  “No more!” gasped Neale. “Please! No more...!”

  “Even as a boy,” sighed Lucinda, “he’d cry from a pin-prick.” She came to Stretch, put a hand on his arm. “For my sake, please don’t ...”