Larry and Stretch 8

by Marshall Grover

  “Padre ...!” she began.

  “When in tarnation,” he growled, “are you gonna realize you’re only half-Mex? Call me ‘Dad’, just this once.”

  “Dad,” she sighed.

  “Now you hear me good,” he muttered. “I’m dyin’ anyway—likely only got a few days left. I can tell, because the pain is gettin’ worse. And why should a whole town suffer on my account? Seems to me I can save our folks a heap of grief, just by surrenderin’ to these bandidos.”

  “Please—no!” she begged.

  “There’s no other way,” he shrugged. “But I ain’t about to go out there now. If I did, Stark and his crew would go to shootin’, and a lot of innocent folks’d get hurt. Anita, honey, you got to take a message to Stark. Tell him exactly what I’m tellin’ you now. I’m headed for Curvo Artega, savvy? Tell him I’ll wait for him there and, when he shows, I’ll surrender to him. But it has to be out there at Curvo Artega, out to the bend on the east trail. Not here in town.”

  Tears welled in her eyes and wet her cheeks, as she clung to him. He patted her dark head.

  “Go on now, Anita. Do like I’m tellin’ you. I’ll sneak out the back way.”

  He removed the barricade from the street door, unlocked it for her, then made for the cell-block. En route, he paused beside Carlita. She was kneeling by the couch, sobbing brokenly. He bent to kiss her, then hustled into the cell-block and along to the rear door. By the time Anita had entered Main Street and was walking briskly towards the lynx-eyed invaders, her father was leading a saddled horse from the small corral behind the jailhouse and beginning a quiet retreat from beleaguered Three Springs.

  “Anita Craydon!” called the mayor. “Go back! Stay off the street! These buzzards wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a defenseless woman!”

  “I bring a message from my father,” she retorted, without pausing, “for the one called Stark.”

  “Who is she?” demanded Stark. “Did I hear you call her—Craydon?”

  “She’s the marshal’s daughter!” gasped Frayne.

  Anita came to a halt. She was standing level with the porch of the Rialto, studying Stark with open contempt and oblivious to the avid ogling of Stark’s unsavory sidekicks. Curtly, she announced:

  “My father has left Tres Agua, but is willing to surrender to you. He will meet you at a place I will name—if you will agree to spare our people.”

  “You claim he’s ready to turn himself in?” frowned Stark.

  “He will sacrifice himself for his people,” she declared, “because he is a man of courage.”

  “All right,” grunted Stark. “I’ll go along with that. Now tell me where I’ll find him.”

  “At Curvo Artega,” said Anita, “a bend of the east trail three miles from Tres Agua. It is easy to find, because it is marked by a round rock.”

  “We passed it,” Goddard reminded his chief, “on our way here.”

  “I remember,” nodded Stark. He eyed the girl thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t be lyin’, would you now?”

  “I do not lie,” she retorted.

  “Don’t do no harm to make sure,” he drawled. “Blackie—Chet—Rigg—go check the marshal’s office.” He nodded to Anita. “Take her along.”

  Disdainfully, she turned her back and began retracing her steps to the law office, with Riondo and the other two walking their mounts a few paces behind her.

  Anita hurried into the law office and stood protectively by her weeping mother. The three desperadoes slouched in with guns drawn, subjected the office to a cursory appraisal, then moved through to check the cell-block. When they returned, the swarthy Riondo remarked:

  “Back door’s unlocked. I guess that’s how he snuck out.”

  The searchers returned to their chief who, after hearing their report, nodded grimly.

  “All right. It looks like he really did make a break for it.”

  “If Buck Craydon says he’ll be at Curvo Artega,” called Frayne, “you can count on it. He’s got nerve enough to meet you, Stark, and gunless.”

  Martin Husig was still on the bank porch, frowning bewilderedly at the raiders.

  “You said your men never took the money ...” he began.

  “Didn’t say they never took it, Pop,” growled Stark. “Said they never got away with it.”

  “Brett,” grinned Holroyd, “give me a couple men and five-ten minutes to check that emporium, and I bet you I can find it. Clay stashed it somewheres in there.”

  From the store porch, Dan Yuill growled a protest.

  “Ain’t no bank money hid here.”

  “How would you know?” challenged Holroyd.

  “Well ...” began the storekeeper.

  “You figured me and my pards got away with it, when we made our break,” said Holroyd. “Well, you figured wrong. It’s still in there—wherever Clay cached it—before that tin star gunned him down.”

  “Go ahead, Jimmy,” ordered Stark. He grinned defiantly at the men on the saloon porch, as Holroyd swung down. “None of these do-gooders is gonna interfere—because they ain’t forgettin’ their precious sin-killer.”

  Triumphantly, Holroyd hustled to the store porch, nudged Yuill aside and moved in to begin his search.

  ~*~

  The round face of the Franciscan showed two livid bruises and a bloody abrasion. He squatted cross-legged, sadly eyeing his captors, these conscienceless rogues who had tormented him with their fists and boots. Up top, at the rim of the basin, Lembeck casually glanced downward, but at brief intervals. Almost continuously, he kept the regular trail under observation.

  From the south side of the hollow, Larry and the Georgia man were closing in. They were sprawled flat and crawling shoulder to shoulder, less than three yards from the near lip of the basin, when the lookout spotted the oncoming rider and called a warning to his colleagues.

  “Rider comin’!”

  “You sure there’s only one?” demanded Wyatt.

  “Only one,” nodded Lembeck, as he readied his rifle. “Looks like a dude. You jaspers stay put. I can handle him.”

  “The sawbones!” Jake whispered to Larry. “Dead on time!”

  “A reliable hombre is the doc,” grunted Larry, as he heaved himself forward.

  They stared into the basin from its south rim, seeing all they needed to see. The Franciscan was squatting with his back to them. To either side of him crouched the desperadoes. Directly opposite on the far side of the hollow, the guard was addressing the smiling man on the bay horse. Floyd had greeted the rifleman with a cheery wave and carefully worded speech.

  “Good morning. Bryson is my name—Dr. Floyd Bryson, from Pelham County. I’m on my way to Three Springs and I seem to be lost.”

  “No,” frowned Lembeck. “You’re headed right for town.” He ran a thoughtful eye over the good-looking stranger, and observed, “You ain’t heeled.”

  “Heeled?” blinked Floyd.

  “Armed,” growled Lembeck. “You ain’t packin’ a gun.”

  “Why, no.” Floyd indicated the bag hitched to his saddlehorn. “Here are the tools of my trade, friend. What do I need with guns?”

  To that, Lembeck grinned satirically, and retorted, “You never can tell.”

  Larry nudged Jake, took steady aim and said, “Now.”

  “Freeze!” yelled Jake.

  Raven was straightening up, emptying his holster and dipping the muzzle of his Colt towards the priest’s head, when Larry fired. The bullet struck the killer behind his right ear, killing him instantly. Simultaneously, Georgia Jake traded shots with Wyatt in a brief but bloody conflict. The desperado’s slug actually burned the brim of Jake’s Stetson, and Jake gave him no time for a second try. Like Raven, Wyatt died on his feet.

  As Larry lined on the sentry, he saw the doctor pitching to the ground and heard the barking of the rifle. His Colt roared again, twice. The first slug creased Lembeck’s right thigh. The second slammed into Lembeck’s chest, just as the outlaw swung the rifle-muzzle towards him. Lembeck
shuddered convulsively, spun around and flopped to the beginning of the slope. Like some ungainly, stringless puppet, he rolled down to the basin floor.

  In response to Larry’s urgent query, Floyd struggled to his feet and yelled a reassurance.

  “I dropped—a moment before he fired! Don’t worry about me! Go see to the priest!”

  “All right.” Larry gestured urgently. “You go fetch our horses.”

  He descended into the basin with Jake tagging him. The priest had risen and was eyeing them cautiously. Noting the condition of his face, Larry grimaced in disgust, and asked, “Wasn’t it enough they should capture you? Did they have to beat you as well?”

  He voiced the query in Spanish. Padre Ricardo answered in English.

  “I am not concerned for myself. I care only about my people,” declared the priest. “They are in grave danger.”

  “Meanin’ the people of Tres Agua, huh, Padre?” prodded Larry.

  In a few terse sentences, Larry described the circumstances that had resulted in this violent rescue. Floyd rejoined them, leading the three horses, just as he was concluding.

  “I’m sorry you had to see it, Padre, sorry you had to be in the thick of it.”

  “It had to be.” The priest shook his head wearily. “It had to be this way.”

  “Father,” said Floyd, “I’m a doctor. Please permit me to treat your wounds.”

  “It is nothing,” protested Padre Ricardo. “Better you should hurry to Tres Agua. My people are in great danger. They will be attacked, and they will not defend themselves. The patron of these bandidos called me his hostage, took my mule to show the people—with my Rosary hung about its neck ...”

  “Thunderation,” breathed Floyd. “Is nothing sacred to these cut-throats?”

  “This is what I was afeared of,” growled Larry, as he watched the medico applying balm to the priest’s face. “While ever those towners think Stark is holdin’ the padre, Stark is boss of the whole shebang. He can ride roughshod over Three Springs, and nary a gun to challenge him.”

  He dug out his makings and began building a smoke. His brown fingers were trembling. Not from fear. Never from fear. It was fury, and that fury showed also in his eyes. He was thinking of his partner, and realizing that, like every other honest man in that town, Stretch’s hands were tied.

  “Hark at that,” frowned Jake.

  Larry threw a glance towards the basin-rim, inserted the unlit cigarette between his lips. Then, as the drumming of hooves sounded closer, he readied his Colt.

  “Maybe,” he scowled, “they left more than three to guard the padre.”

  “Leave him to me,” offered Jake. “I’ll mosey up there and get a bead on him.”

  “Stay put,” ordered Larry. “He can't spot us without we spot him at the same time. Just keep your iron on the rim.”

  They heard the thudding, scuffling sounds of a hard-ridden horse being jerked to a halt. There was a brief pause, followed by an almost inaudible jingle of spurs which indicated the exact position of the advancing man.

  A few yards from the basin-rim, Buck Craydon dropped to hands and knees. He was vaguely surprised to discover that his pulse wasn’t racing and that his internal pains had subsided. A short time before, racing his mount along the town trail, bound for the bend he had nominated as a rendezvous for his showdown with Stark, he had heard the distant booming of six-guns. That familiar, ominous sound demanded his professional attention. He was reacting instinctively, and as a veteran lawman.

  At the edge of the basin, he lay prone a moment, before gingerly raising his head to scan the scene below. Right away, Georgia Jake’s Colt roared. Buck heard a humming sound as a bullet just missed his ear. His full-throated oath rose louder than the echo of the report, and was followed by Larry’s urgent warning to the Georgia man.

  “Hold your fire! That’s Buck Craydon’s voice!”

  The marshal rose to his full height. He too had recognized a voice—Larry’s.

  “Be right down,” he called.

  Buck holstered his six-shooter, then led his mount back to the rim and down the slant.

  “On my way to Curvo Artega,” he called to Larry. “Had to make a deal with Stark. He’s in town with his whole damn outfit. Wasn’t any other way I could protect them townsfolk. Gonna die anyway, ain’t I? So I might’s well give Stark what he wants—a clear shot at me ...”

  His voice trailed off, as he reached the floor of the basin. Somewhat incredulously, he eyed the sprawled bodies of the defeated desperadoes. Floyd stepped away from in front of the priest, and the marshal’s jaw sagged.

  “Padre Ricardo!”

  “Bienvenida, Señor Buck,” smiled the priest.

  “Great day in the mornin’!” gasped Buck. “You’re supposed to be Stark’s hostage!”

  “And he was,” growled Larry, “until we showed. Buck—say howdy to Georgia Jake Rillerby. He’s the deputy sheriff of Pelham County.”

  “Howdy, marshal,” grinned Jake. “Sure hope I didn’t burn your ever-lovin’ skull.”

  “If that slug had come a half-inch closer …” Buck shrugged philosophically. “Well, what difference? I’m dyin’ anyway.”

  “Speaking of dying ...” began Floyd.

  “Buck,” frowned Larry, “I figured there was only one way to open your doggone eyes, to make you see the truth.”

  “What truth?” blinked Buck. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

  “I’m talkin’ about that pill-peddler,” scowled Larry, “you bein’ fool enough to take his word.”

  “Bean knew what he was doin’,” Buck insisted.

  “He sure as heck did,” nodded Larry. “He knew how to play you for a sucker with a few fancy lies.”

  “Allow me ...” Floyd tried again.

  “Who’s he?” demanded Buck.

  “Marshal,” grunted Jake, “you’re lookin’ at the smartest sawbones that ever practiced in Pelham County. Doc Bryson’s his name.”

  “A genuine doctor?” frowned Buck.

  “Graduate of the Academy of Lafayette, Indiana,” offered Floyd. “I’m at your service, Marshal Craydon, and it won’t take but a few moments for me to verify or refute Bean’s diagnosis.”

  “Do like Doc tells you,” Larry sourly ordered the marshal.

  Thoroughly intimidated, Buck submitted to Floyd’s examination, and answered all questions promptly. For five minutes, he lay flat on his back, shirtless while Floyd probed his pudgy frame.

  “During your—uh—illness,” prodded Floyd, “have you suffered loss of appetite?”

  “Shucks, no,” grunted Buck. “I’ve been eatin’ regular.”

  “Who prepares your meals?” demanded Floyd.

  “The Señora Craydon,” interjected Padre Ricardo. “She is, like myself, Mexicano.”

  “Mexican cooking?” challenged Floyd. “Nothing but Mexican food?”

  “Why, sure,” nodded Buck. “I—uh—figured I had to keep up my strength as best I could. Been lyin’ on that couch in my office, eatin’ just everything Carlita fetched me, and ...”

  “Let me be sure I understand.” Floyd shook his head incredulously, mopped perspiration from his brow. “You’ve been eating Mexican food—from a prone position?”

  “That means,” Jake offered, “flat on your fat back.”

  “I know what he means,” scowled Buck. “I ain’t ignorant. Sure, Doc. That’s how I’ve been eatin’.”

  “Great suffering Sarah!” gasped Floyd. “No wonder you’ve had abdominal pains.” He resumed prodding the marshal’s round belly, this time harder. Buck couldn’t suppress a belch. It was loud, powerful, resonant; two of the horses nickered in surprise and flinched.

  Floyd grimaced in exasperation. “Indigestion—as if we couldn’t guess!”

  “I feel a sight easier now,” Buck remarked. And then, humbly eager, he asked, “Is there a chance for me, Doc?”

  Before answering, Floyd produced other instruments from his bag and checked pulse, heartbeat a
nd blood pressure.

  “Marshal,” said Floyd, “did Bean give this mysterious ailment a name?”

  “He sure did, and I memorized it,” muttered Buck. “He called it sciocco-itis. Real rare, he said.”

  “Say that again!” challenged Floyd. Buck said it again. Floyd clapped a hand to his brow. “By Caesar’s ghost! That charlatan ought to be horse-whipped!”

  “What’s it mean, Doc?” Buck wanted to know.

  “Sciocco,” Floyd curtly informed him, “is an Italian word. Allow me to translate. It means ‘fool’. As well as being a rogue and a dangerous faker, our Mr. Bean has an ironic sense of humor. A fool is what you’ve been, Marshal Craydon. There’s no such ailment as sciocco-itis. Bean hoodwinked you and, because you’re a fool and a hypochondriac, you made it easy for him to take advantage of you!”

  “You mean—I’m healthy?” breathed Buck.

  “I’d stake my career on it,” snapped Floyd.

  To the observant Larry, it seemed Buck was more angry than relieved—angry at himself. The veteran gave his gunbelt a hitch, threw a baleful glare in the general direction of the settlement and said, huskily.

  “’Scuse me, Padre, and you gents. I got a little unfinished business in Tres Agua—with a certain lousy, trigger-happy bandido!”

  Chapter Nine

  The Looting of Tres Agua

  Here was the lawman Larry had been waiting to see, an ageing but leather-tough Texan, fighting mad and with his gun-hand twitching. Larry was impressed, deeply grateful to Floyd and eager to proceed with the business at hand—a fast ride to Three Springs, a shooting showdown with Brett Stark and his twenty-strong crew.

  “You ain’t goin’ it alone, Buck,” he growled.

  “Shucks, no,” grunted Georgia Jake. “I rid many a mile to buy myself a piece of this here ruckus, and I ain’t about to be cheated.”

  “You can’t keep me out of it,” asserted Floyd.

  “Guess again, Doc,” countered Larry.

  “You expect me to stay behind?” frowned Floyd.