Larry and Stretch 18
Page 12
“And I’d. testify to that, Judge,” interjected Chris.
“In custody,” Croft sternly reminded Salter, “these wrongly accused men could achieve nothing. The real murderer of Miss Lucinda’s father might have escaped his just deserts. At large, Valentine and Emerson set about proving their innocence. Mark that well, Sheriff Salter. Lesser men might have been content to make good their escape and leave you with a mystery on your hands, a mystery you obviously weren’t equipped to solve. But not these two. No, indeed. They remained within the boundaries of the county and, each in his own way, set about the apprehension of the real killer—not to mention a quintet of bank-robbers.
“Those dead thieves,” frowned Croft, “the bank-robbers masquerading as evangelists—I presume you had them searched at the funeral parlor?”
“That’s right, Judge,” nodded Gannon. “The fat one was totin’ near six thousand dollars.”
“That,” declared Larry, “is the dinero Russ and Comanche grabbed from Ventaine’s safe.”
“You were packin’ quite a wad when we picked you up,” the deputy sourly reminded him.
“Our own bankroll,” scowled Larry. “I want it back. My gun, too.” He unstrapped Gannon’s gun belt, tossed it to the deputy’s feet. “Here’s yours. I won’t need it anymore.”
“But, Otis’s horse ...” argued Salter.
“I know where to find Otis’s horse,” Larry assured him. “Also his saddle. I’ll ride out and fetch ’em, have ‘em back here by tomorrow mornin’. But …” He moved closer to the desk and glared belligerently at the sweating sheriff. “One of your trigger-happy possemen killed my sorrel, shot it from under me. I figure Ketch County owes me a new horse.”
“You have a point, Valentine,” grinned Croft.
“Miss Lucinda,” said Stretch, “I’m beholden to you for the loan of the filly.”
“You may continue to use it,” she offered, “for as long as you need.”
“Well,” said Stretch, “I’ll let you have it back tomorrow mornin’, when me and Larry fetch the deputy’s prad. Hear tell my pinto’s stashed in a livery hereabouts. Larry can ride it meantime.”
“And now,” said Larry, “I’ll take my gun—and our bank-roll.”
For Salter, it was a bitter moment. He glowered resentfully at Larry, then at the judge, who quietly announced,
“I’ll hear the case against the surviving bank robbers at two p.m. tomorrow, the case against Wilbur Neale at the same time of the day after. Of course, our friends from Texas will be required to give their evidence.”
“That’s okay, Judge,” said Larry. “We’ll be back in time.”
“Sheriff Salter,” said Croft. “I direct you to return Mr. Valentine’s funds—and his sidearm.”
Thanks to the intervention of a jurist who had been one of their secret admirers for many years, the drifters had once again foiled a too-impulsive, too-belligerent lawman. Salter’s hands were tied. He could do naught but mumble feeble protests and, when Larry and Stretch quit the office, they were again in possession of their bankroll, and Larry’s own trusty Colt was strapped about his loins. While Stretch collected his pinto from the livery stable, Larry purchased a new outfit at an uptown clothing store.
On their way to the high country, they retrieved Rafael’s mule.
They reached the Martinez ménage at midnight and, despite the fact of being aroused from sound sleep, the Mex sodbuster and his family accorded them a warm and joyous welcome. Deputy Gannon’s saddle and gear were exhumed from their grave and dusted off. On to the plain beyond the hills rode the Texans and, in dawn’s first light, they spotted Gannon’s bay running with the wild herd. Within the hour, Stretch’s keen eye and snaking lariat had separated the deputy’s mount from the wild ones, and the Texans were headed back to Ketchtown.
“When this is all over,” frowned the taller Texan, when they came in sight of Ketchtown’s northern outskirts, “let’s you and me make tracks again—huh, runt?”
“Why, sure,” nodded Larry. “What else? We got nothin’ to keep us in this burg, not after we’ve said our piece in court, and Neale and those thievin’ hard cases get what’s comin’ to ’em.”
“That’ll suit me fine,” sighed Stretch. “I’ve had my bellyful of this territory.”
“You and me both,” Larry grimly assured him.
“So let’s make ourselves a promise,” suggested Stretch. “Let’s head someplace where the livin’ is quiet and easy, where we can rest our weary bones a while and spend some of that dinero.”
“It sounds fine to me,” declared Larry. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”
And, as they rode on toward Ketchtown and the conclusion of this latest hectic adventure, neither reflected that they had made this resolve before, that they had vowed to stay out of trouble and take life easy. Alas for their good intentions. For men of their caliber, there would always be another conflict, another wrong to be righted, another fight to be fought.
Such was the destiny of the nomads from Texas.
About the Author
Leonard Frank Meares (February 13, 1921 - February 4, 1993)
Sydney born Len Meares aka Marshall Grover, published around 750 novels, mostly westerns. His best-known works feature Texas trouble-shooters Larry and Stretch. Before starting to write, Meares served in the Royal Australian Air Force, worked in the Department of Immigration and sold shoes. In the mid-1950s he bought a typewriter to write radio and film scripts. Inspired by the success of local paperback westerns, he wrote Trouble Town, which was published by the Cleveland Publishing Company in 1955.
His tenth yarn, Drift! (1956), introduced Larry Valentine and Stretch Emerson. In 1960, he created a brief but memorable series of westerns set in and around the town of Bleak Creek. Four years later came The Night McLennan Died, the first of more than 70 westerns (sometimes called oaters) to feature cavalryman-turned-manhunter Big Jim Rand.
More on Marshall Grover
The Larry and Stretch Series by Marshall Grover
Drift!
Arizona Wild-Cat
Ride Wild to Glory
Nomads from Texas
Ride Out Shooting
Texans Walk Proud
Never Prod a Texan
The Fast Right Hand
Close In For Showdown
Texas Gun Ghost
Lone Star Valiant
Colorado Pursuit
Follow the Texans
Lone Star Fury
Find Kell Wade
Face the Gun
Texan in My Sights
Don’t Count the Odds
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