Larry and Stretch 18

by Marshall Grover

  “Holy Hannah!” gasped Stretch.

  “Don’t let them hombres get away—you blame fool!” roared Larry.

  But Porter and Trask were already on the move. They had swung astride their mounts and were pounding along the winding floor of the arroyo, headed for its east end and fast moving out of six-gun range. Larry rose to his feet, cursed in impotent rage and sent a .45 slug flying after them. Stretch wheeled the black and made to pursue them, but this handsome animal was gently raised, no trouble-wise cow-pony, but a horse to carry a fine lady. When Trask triggered a wild bullet, when that bullet kicked up the dust at the filly’s forehooves, it took fright, reared, bucked and jack-knifed, and this violent action took Stretch by surprise. He abruptly parted company with the black, performed an ungraceful somersault and struck ground flat on his back.

  “Of all the loco—useless—good for nothin’…!” raged Larry.

  There was only one thing he could do now. The sorrel and the pinto were raising dust aplenty, toting his quarry far east of the arroyo, and the black filly was still prancing in alarm. He holstered his Colt, descended into the dip and across to the far rim, climbed it to level ground and began a wary approach to the frightened animal, muttering soothingly. While he was thus engaged, Stretch rolled over, rid himself. of a mouthful of dust and grit, and retrieved the stovepipe hat.

  Aggrievedly the taller Texan enquired,

  “How in tarnation you expect me to know you in that get-up? You look like a doggone Mex!”

  “Remind me to tell you,” Larry sourly jibed, “what you look like.”

  He got one hand to the dangling rein, the other to the cropped mane. The filly reacted favorably to his gentling touch. Then,

  “How’d you get here?”

  The Texans voiced the query in perfect unison. Larry scowled impatiently, darted a glance eastward, and said,

  “The hell with it. Time enough later for questions and answers.”

  “Who were them jaspers?” demanded Stretch.

  “Haven’t you guessed?” challenged Larry. “The one on the pinto looks a whole lot like you—meanin’ he’s ugly. The one on the sorrel is near a dead ringer for me.”

  “Meanin’ he’s uglier than the other one,” suggested Stretch.

  “They’re the galoots that gunned the storekeeper and grabbed all his dinero!” fumed Larry.

  “You sure about that?” blinked Stretch. “Well—damnitall—go fetch your horse and we’ll …”

  “I don’t have a cotton-pickin’ horse!” shouted Larry. “All I got is a damn-blasted mule!”

  “No need to holler,” winced Stretch. “I ain’t deef.”

  “Let’s get after ’em,” growled Larry. “Like it or not, this black is gonna have to tote a double-load.”

  He swung astride the charcoal and started it moving. Stretch ran a few paces beside it, then leapt, throwing one leg across its rump. He wound his long arms about his partners hefty torso and they were on their way.

  A quarter-hour later, Porter and Trask were still racing their mounts, and were in full sight of the grimly-pursuing Texans. Into scrubby, rocky country they moved now, desperately seeking a hiding-place wherein they could make a stand.

  “Only one way to stop ’em,” called Trask. “Grab cover—wait for ’em to get closer—then blow ’em clear offa that charcoal!”

  “Other side of that butte!” Porter suggested, pointing dead ahead.

  “As good a place as any,” nodded Trask.

  But, as they plunged through a scattering of brush and advanced closer to the base of the butte, Porter changed his mind, and won a heated protest from the Treed. He had spotted the entrance to a cave. About that opening, the ground was littered with boulders. To Porter’s rash eye, it seemed an ideal stake-out.

  “No, Russ,” argued Trask. “It’s better if we ...”

  “We got no time to jaw about it!” snapped Porter. “Come on. Let’s get in there!”

  He hustled his panting mount to the opening and passed through into the aim interior, with Trask close behind.

  “About ten feet wide at the entrance,” Porter observed, “and it goes back about twenty feet to a blind wall. Well, it could be worse. Room enough for us and the horses.”

  “I ain’t so sure …” began Trask.

  “Shuddup,” scowled Porter. “Take care of the horses, while I keep watch for them galoots that chased us.”

  The black was tiring, but hadn’t yet slowed its pace. Its panting and the lathered condition of its coat told Larry they would have to halt, and soon. They were advancing across the rock-littered area fronting the cave, when Porter opened fire on them. Maybe the outlaw had triggered wildly; maybe his accuracy wasn’t worth a damn at any time. The bullet came high and, had he but realized it, the damage was done. Larry had spotted the gun flash against a dark background.

  He reined up hastily, jerked the blacks head around and hustled it behind a rock large enough to provide protection.

  They slid to the ground. Larry hobbled the filly, emptied his holster and quietly explained,

  “They’ve found a hideout-hole—and I know exactly where it is.”

  “Be kinda handy if I knew too,” muttered Stretch.

  “A cave at the base of the butte—dead ahead,” Larry told him.

  “Bueno,” nodded Stretch. “So now what?”

  “This rock,” Larry decided, “is big enough to cover the horse—but not the two of us as well.” He gestured away to the right. “Another rock over there. It’ll do fine. You go first. I’ll cover you.”

  Stretch sprang up and ran toward the other rock. As he did so, Porter and Trask cut loose from the cave-mouth, and Larry triggered a deadly and demoralizing challenge. Four times his Colt boomed, the shots sounding as one continuous roar, because he was fanning his hammer. His bullets scattered about the opening. Cursing, Porter and Trask ducked down and traded glances.

  “He shoots,” complained Trask, “as fast and ornery as that other hombre—the one that jumped us in the hills!”

  “They’re movin’,” Porter observed, as he raised himself again. “Yeah—the one rigged in Mex duds.”

  He raised himself slightly higher and extended his gun-arm, moving it leftward to follow the darting figure of Larry Valentine, who had broken cover and was hustling to where his partner awaited him. Simultaneously, Stretch showed his face and his matched Colts, which roared a savage discourager. Porter loosed a yell of agony, turned and threw himself to the floor of the cave.

  “You hit?” demanded Trask.

  “Gun-arm,” groaned Porter. “Damn their—mangy hides. It—feels like it’s—broke!”

  Behind their granite shield, Stretch squatted cross-legged, nodded affably to his perspiring partner and said,

  “Welcome home.”

  “Keep ’em busy,” growled Larry, “while I reload.”

  The taller Texan had doffed his stovepipe hat. Warily, he raised himself, squinted along the barrel of his right-hand Colt.

  “Don’t shoot to kill,” ordered Larry. “Just keep ’em pinned down. I want those jaspers alive.”

  “How come?” wondered Stretch.

  “They’re kind of important to us,” Larry explained. “After I borrowed these duds from a Mex sodbuster, I tagged these skunks a ways—and heard ’em talkin’.”

  “You always was a mite inquisitive,” accused Stretch, as a bullet spanged off the top of the rock and ricocheted.

  “They talked plenty,” drawled Larry, “and I was plumb interested. You didn’t get much of a look at ’em, did you?”

  “Not real close,” said Stretch.

  “They look like us,” said Larry. “Too much like us. You spot their horses? A sorrel and a pinto. No wonder that Neale jasper claimed it was us gunned and robbed Ventaine. We’re the spittin’ image of those thievin’ gunhawks.”

  “And that,” opined Stretch, “ain’t nothin’ to brag about.”

  “They’re the ones,” Larry assured him. “I
heard ’em talkin’ of how they winged the storekeeper and made off with the loot.”

  Another bullet whined over their heads. Another kicked grit off the top of the rock. Larry rose up and returned fire, ducked again.

  “They haven’t budged,” he cheerfully reported, “and they ain’t about to. I think one of ’em is shootin’ left-handed now.” He again ejected his spent shells, tugged fresh cartridges from his belt. “Now how about you?”

  “Oh,” frowned Stretch, as he sent another bullet hurtling to the cave mouth, “I been busy, kinda.”

  “How’d you bust out of that calaboose?” demanded Larry.

  “Real easy,” said Stretch. “Real quiet. Real friendly.”

  “You said friendly?” blinked Larry.

  “Uh huh,” grunted Stretch. “That old turnkey—gent name of Chris Randall—is as sociable a feller as you’d ever meet. I didn’t hurt him none.” He described his unspectacular leave-taking of the Ketchtown jail in a few terse sentences, while Porter and Trask continued to challenge them with their roaring Colts. “And then,” he added, “I went to visit with Miss Lucinda.”

  “You went courtin’?” Larry eyed him incredulously. “At a time like that? Who in hell is Miss Lucinda?”

  “I wasn’t courtin’ her,” Stretch hastened to assure him. “Shucks, runt, she’s a real high born lady, too good for the likes of me.”

  “Any female,” scowled Larry, “is too good for the likes of you. Start makin’ sense, for gosh sakes. We still got chores aplenty.” He rose up. From the cave, a six-gun roared. A jagged hole appeared in the top section of the straw sombrero’s crown, but Larry didn’t duck until he had bounced two slugs off the rocks behind which the outlaws were crouched. “It’s for sure these galoots winged Ventaine and stole his dinero—but I ain’t so sure they killed him.”

  “Me neither,” said Stretch.

  “Which means,” sighed Larry, “we still got troubles.”

  “Well …” began Stretch.

  “You better let me finish,” said Larry. “I got to be sure you savvy what we’re up against.”

  “Yeah—well—okay,” grunted Stretch.

  “These two,” explained Larry, “are part of a five-man outfit. You’re wonderin’ why I was keepin’ an eye on ’em, I’ll bet, back there at the arroyo.”

  “No.” Stretch was always honest about such things. “I wasn’t wonderin’ about that at all.”

  “They expected to meet up with their three pards there,” Larry impatiently told him,

  “Oh,” shrugged Stretch.

  “Now,” said Larry, “nailin’ these two is only half of our chore. We still got to figure who killed Ventaine. One of these galoots—Russ is his handle—creased Ventaine. You follow me? Only creased him. Didn’t kill him.”

  “Yup,” nodded Stretch. “I foller that.”

  “The big question is,” finished Larry, “who did kill Ventaine?”

  He began rising. Trask aimed and fired. The bullet came lower this time, a shade too low. It made a sullen, thudding sound, as it embedded in the dirt a few feet beyond the rock. And Stretch chose that moment to calmly assert,

  “I know who killed the storekeeper.”

  “Like hell you do,” scoffed Larry, as he lowered himself.

  “Like hell I do,” Stretch stoutly assured him. “It was that Neale hombre—him that claimed we shot and robbed the old man. Yup. Neale’s a real mean one. Bad medicine.”

  Larry groaned in exasperation, and sourly enquired,

  “How would you know a thing like that?”

  “Well …” Stretch sounded downright apologetic, “I was there with Miss Lucinda, and ...”

  “Where with Miss Lucinda?”

  “In her bedroom. You see, it was thisaway. I wanted to visit with her, on accounta...”

  “In her bedroom? In her dad-blamed bedroom...?”

  “Why, sure. It must’ve been her bedroom. There was a bed, and she was rigged in one of them fancy robes—with flowers on it, and ...”

  “Hell’s bells!”

  “... so,” frowned Stretch, “it must’ve been her bedroom.” He winced, as Trask and Porter tried again. Two bullets had come too close for comfort. While talking, the taller Texan had raised himself a mite too far. He hunkered down again and removed the duster, to exhibit the holes for Larry’s appraisal. One had been bored cleanly through the slack of the right sleeve. The other was more a gash than a hole. That second slug had torn the front of the garment and portion of his shirt. “Real close,” he observed.

  “Keep your head down and get rid of that doggone duster,” growled Larry. “It’s too good a target.”

  “Them two galoots,” Stretch complained, “could hold us off all day.”

  “No, they couldn’t,” countered Larry. “I’ve figured a way of flush in’ ’em out of there—with their hands up. But, first, I want to hear about you and this Lucinda gal—in her bedroom.”

  “Well,” Stretch resumed, “we was talkin’ right along—real friendly. I just about had her convinced it wasn’t us shot and robbed her pappy, and then this Neale jasper was at the door. That’s when I hid in her wardrobe.”

  “Why?” demanded Larry.

  The only reason Stretch could think of was,

  “I’m shy.”

  “Oh—for gosh sakes …” groaned Larry.

  “Anyways,” said Stretch, “it seems Miss Lucinda had found some kind of message writ by her pappy a little while back, and this Neale, he wanted it in the worst way. Came at her with a knife, he did.” He went on to briefly describe his tussle with the killer, and its aftermath, the delivery of Wilbur Neale to the sheriff’s office, his own quiet leave-taking of Ketchtown to begin his search for Larry. “So,” he concluded, “it looks like we got everything nailed up neat, runt. You know who busted into the store and robbed the old man. I know who killed him.”

  Another .45 slug struck the top of their rock and ricocheted, whining. Almost casually, Stretch leaned outward, drew a bead and triggered an answer. He was satisfied with the result. Trask was momentarily visible, his swarthy face contorted. As he hastily retreated from the cave-mouth, he was clutching at his left shoulder.

  “Nicked the jasper that looks like you,” mused Stretch. “Kind of a funny feelin’, runt. I mean—shootin’ at a hombre that looks like you.”

  Larry was temporarily speechless. Until this violent reunion with his saddle-pard, he hadn’t known where—or how—to begin probing for the real murderer of Eli Ventaine. Establishing the identity of the two outlaws, cornering them in this cave, had been only the first step. Now, in a few casual words, Stretch had reported the apprehension of Ventaine’s killer.

  As though reading his mind, Stretch grinned wryly and said,

  “It ain’t that I’m smarter’n you, runt. It’s just I got lucky.”

  “With your kind of luck,” opined Larry, “I ought to leave you play a lone hand more often.” He flashed Stretch an answering grin, then jerked a thumb toward the cave. “I’m through waitin’ for those galoots to quit. Sooner we flush ‘em out of there, the sooner we can head back to Ketchtown. They got friends there.”

  “That a fact?” frowned Stretch.

  “Three hard cases that aim to rob a bank,” nodded Larry. “Like I said before, Russ and Comanche talked up a storm while I was spyin’ on ’em.”

  “What about these other three jaspers?” prodded Stretch.

  “Their names are Deacon and Troy and Clive,” said Larry. “Deacon is a fat man, the way Russ speaks of him.”

  “Oh,” shrugged Stretch. “Them three.”

  Larry eyed him aghast. This was too much!

  “Don’t tell me you nailed them too,” he breathed.

  “Shucks, no,” said Stretch. “But I’ve seen ’em. Leastways, it must be the same three. This Deacon feller is almighty fat, and ...”

  “Where’d you see ’em?” demanded Larry. “What’re they doin’?”

  “Preachin’,’ said Stretch
.

  “Say that again?”

  “Preachin’,” Stretch mildly repeated. “And singin’ hymns. Chapel on Wheels is what they call ’emselves.”

  “This whole deal,” Larry complained, “gets crazier all the time. Preachers don’t rob banks.”

  “About these two ...” prodded Stretch.

  “Cover me,” sighed Larry. “I’m gonna smoke ’em out.”

  “Sure,” nodded Stretch. He readied both Colts, rose up and rested the barrels atop the rock.

  There were other boulders, not many, but enough, away to the right of the cave-opening. There was also a formidable growth of brush—brush so dry that it would surely burn like tinder. When Larry broke cover, he made for the brush, bent double and running fast, with Stretch’s guns booming a challenge at the cave’s occupants. Trask almost dropped him with a lucky shot. In its initial flight, the bullet would have missed him by five feet. But it ricocheted off a rock, cannoned and, when it sped past Larry, actually tore his pantaloons at the thigh. Undaunted, he hustled on to the brush. No danger they could shoot at him now, unless they emerged from the cave and exposed themselves to the fast-talking Colts of the taller Texan.

  He worked fast, gathering brush, then hurling it to the area fronting the cave-opening. In a matter of minutes, the brittle mesquite was piled to a height of eight feet, and the cornered outlaws were fearing the worst.

  ‘If he starts that burnin’...!” fretted Trask.

  “The hell with ’em,” scowled Porter. “It’s damp in here. What do we care if he starts a fire? A little sweatin’ ain’t gonna kill us.”

  But it wasn’t heat that defeated the hapless thieves. It was smoke—thick, choking, billowing smoke that invaded the cave and started the horses snorting a protest and stamping in alarm, less than two minutes after Larry had thrown a flaring match. Porter and Trask began rubbing at their eyes, coughing frantically.

  Larry waited a while, then made them an offer.

  “Throw your guns out! Quit while you can!”

  “Go to blazes!” roared Porter.

  “Kind of mixed up, ain’t you?” jibed Larry. “The blaze don’t worry me.”

  He waited patiently, puffing on a cigarette and keeping his cocked Colt pointed beyond the smoking brush, to the cave entrance. Another minute passed, with the smoke still wafting into the cave. Then, with a groan of anguish, Trask holstered his gun, unstrapped his belt and hurled it out—and Porter followed his example.