Larry and Stretch 8

by Marshall Grover

  “Now ...!” he breathed, with his jaw jutting belligerently.

  “Easy does it, Buck,” drawled Larry. “Before you go sashayin’ out into the street, you better tell us what you got in mind.”

  “Brett Stark has quite a reputation,” growled Buck, “which don’t faze me one little bit. A fast draw, they call him. And tricky. Well, the hell with him. Why should a heap of honest citizens have to start dodgin’ bullets—in a fight that only concerns Stark and me?”

  “Think you can take him—all by your lonesome?” challenged Larry.

  “I’d give my eye-teeth,” asserted Buck, “to stash Stark in my jail—alive—so he’ll have to stand trial and die on a gallows. There’s murder-warrants out for him all the way from here to the Dakotas. A fast bullet would be too merciful for that trigger-happy skunk.”

  “’Scuse me for remindin’ you, friend,” grunted Jake, “but Stark ain’t all by hisself in this ruckus. He brought company.”

  “I know that,” shrugged Buck. “But, all of a sudden, I hanker to know if he has enough gizzard to face me fair and square—without his hired help backin’ him up.”

  “All right,” frowned Larry. “But, before you brace him, you better tell your friends about the padre. When the shootin’ starts, I’m thinkin’ we’ll need those guns on the rooftops.”

  “Best we go take a look at what’s happenin’ out there,” suggested Jake.

  Larry strode briskly along the alley with the older men tagging him close. At the street outlet, they came to a halt and filled their eyes with the scene now being enacted outside the Yuill Emporium. They were separated from the laden wagons and the swaggering bandidos by a distance of forty yards.

  “That’s Stark,” grunted Buck. “Big feller—mounted—back of the second wagon. I recognize him from his pitchers.”

  “How about the hombre hustlin’ out of the emporium?” prodded Larry. “You ever see him before?”

  “Damn right,” nodded Buck. “He’s one of the galoots that was sidin’ Stark’s brother—day of the bank robbery.” From the store porch, Holroyd waved elatedly to his chief and exhibited the bulging gunnysack.

  “It’s all here, Brett. I found it right where Clay stashed it—in a cracker-barrel!”

  “All right,” called Stark. “Mount up, Jimmy.” He folded his hands over his saddlehorn, grinned cruelly at the locals lining the boardwalks. “So now I’ll go find your two-bit marshal, and pay him off for what he did to my brother. But there’s one last little chore ...”

  “You’ve bled us dry!” shouted the mayor. “Isn’t that enough? What more do you want?”

  “My brother died in this lousy burg,” Stark harshly retorted, “and the whole town’s gonna suffer for that. I’m gonna have my men burn every ...”

  He broke off, and a tense hush descended upon Main Street. Wide-eyed, he stared at the hefty, hard-faced man who had emerged from the side alley and was now stepping into the center of the street, turning to face him, with the sun flashing off his metal badge. On the porch of the Rialto, the mayor and his cronies traded startled glances. Stretch squinted to the alley mouth, glimpsed his partner, grinned and lifted a finger, a greeting which Larry calmly returned. Then, thoughtfully, the taller Texan slanted his gaze to the rain-barrel in the lane beside the saloon—just beyond the side rail of the porch. He could, he decided, vault over that rail in the twinkling of an eye, reach into the barrel and retrieve his trusty Colts—after which heaven help every bandido in sight.

  “Hey you—Stark!” bellowed Buck, with such belligerence that Stark’s men were momentarily frozen. “I hear tell you’ve been lookin’ for a showdown with me. Okay, you yeller-livered polecat, here I am! And what now?”

  “You ...!” Stark glared at him and bared his teeth. “You’re—Craydon?”

  “Marshal Craydon to you!” snapped Buck. “And here’s another piece of news to stick in your craw. You don’t have a hostage anymore.” He raised his voice to ensure all his fellow-citizens would hear. “Padre Ricardo is stashed safe, gents! Larry Valentine and a Pelham County deputy broke him loose from Stark’s guards!”

  “Eureka!” breathed Mayor Gilhauser.

  “Save it,” Stretch quietly advised him. “Save your signal until just the right moment.”

  “I changed my mind, Stark,” called Buck, “about surrenderin’ to you—out at Curvo Artega. I’m back to face you, and what’re you gonna do about it? If you’re as yeller as I figure, you won’t dare shoot it out with me man to man. Not you, Stark. You’ll order your whole mangy outfit to shoot me down. But maybe I’m wrong, huh—Stark? Prove I’m wrong—by gettin’ offa that horse and takin’ your chances with me!”

  Stark’s scalp crawled. Suddenly, he was conscious of the curious, contemplative stares of his men. This lawman—his brother’s killer—had more nerve than brain, it seemed. Could he afford to dodge this issue? No. He would beat Craydon’s draw with seconds to spare and would cut him down, avenging his brother. And then—Three Springs would suffer—in the worst way.

  “Looks like you’ve prodded him into a corner,” Larry softly called to the marshal. “He’s coolin’ his saddle.”

  “I’m ready for you, Stark!” shouted Buck. “Keep a’comin’!”

  Stark slapped his mount’s rump, causing it to prance away from him. Then, hunching his shoulders and tucking a thumb in his gunbelt, he began a slow walk towards his challenger.

  “You’re a fool, Craydon,” he jeered. “Ten different kinds of fool—if you think you can beat my speed.”

  “What’re you tryin’ to do—faze me?” countered Buck. “You’re wastin’ your breath. I’m a sight older than you, but I can take you. You bet your no-good life I can take you. I never knew an owlhoot gunslick that was one-half as fast as he claimed to be.” He grinned in unholy anticipation. “Keep a’comin’, Stark!”

  Watching Stark intently, Larry got the impression he was wavering—slightly, but positively. Buck stood his ground, legs braced, head thrust forward, right arm hanging loose. Stark took five more steps, then paused.

  “Careful now!” Larry called to Buck. “You made him leery.”

  “Sure,” grunted Buck.

  Left-handed, Stark unknotted his bandanna and used it to dab at his face. He tried to appear very much at his ease, as he drawled an insult at his challenger, but he wasn’t fooling Buck—or Larry.

  “I’ll get to you, Craydon,” he called, “you burnt-out old back-shooter.”

  “Back-shooter, is it?” Buck turned beetroot-red.

  “Easy!” hissed Larry. “Don’t let him rile you!”

  Still dabbing at his face with his left hand, Stark began removing his Stetson with his right. He was elaborately casual about it, but Larry had known his kind before, and knew what to expect next.

  “Watch it!” he warned Buck. “Sneak-gun—in the hat!”

  Maybe the old lawman would have caught on anyway—or maybe Larry’s warning saved his life. His right hand came up fast, whisking the long-barreled Colt from leather and thumbing back the hammer, just as Stark’s hat fell away, to reveal the gleaming derringer in his fist. Buck’s gun boomed a split-second before Larry heard the derringer’s coughing bark. Stark started convulsively and recoiled. An obscene oath was torn from his contorted mouth, as he dropped the sneak-gun and clasped at his bloodied right forearm.

  “You and your fancy tricks ...!” roared Buck.

  And, to the astonishment of Larry and the Georgia man, he holstered his Colt and charged at Stark with fists flailing. Stark yelled another oath, made an effort to reach his holster with his left hand, but too late. Buck descended upon him with all the power and ferocity of a charging buffalo, bearing him to the ground. They rolled in the dust in a welter of threshing limbs, while Stark’s followers recovered from their initial shock and galvanized into action.

  Goddard snapped a command and emptied his holster. As he hustled his mount forward, he began drawing a bead on the struggling figures, as they came uprig
ht. Buck had grasped Stark by his hair and was slamming hard blows at his body. His back was turned to Stark’s henchman. Quickly, Larry emerged from the alley with his Colt at the ready.

  “Drop it!” he yelled.

  As Goddard swung his gun towards him, he fired. The outlaw threw up his hands and pitched back over his horse’s rump. His aroused cohorts surged forward with their hands gun-filled and, from the porch of the Rialto, Gilhauser gave the long-awaited signal to the riflemen on the rooftops.

  “Plan Two—go!”

  Larry caught a fleeting glimpse of Stretch. The taller Texan was diving over the side rail of the porch, dropping into the alley and grabbing a rain-barrel, shoving it over on its side, then reaching into it. A rifle and shotgun he tossed to Perrier and Frayne, caring naught for the booming of outlaws’ guns and the bullets whining dangerously close to his lean body. Then, raising a defiant Rebel yell, he retrieved his own matched Colts and whirled to do battle. The .45s roared in unison, and two saddles emptied fast.

  Unarmed locals had hastily vacated the boardwalks, seeking cover in the side alleys. Half of the invasion force began moving south along Main, triggering towards the Rialto porch, and the alley mouth where Larry and Jake crouched. Chewing on his wad of tobacco at a somewhat faster rate, the Georgia man was cutting loose with his Winchester. A wild bullet gashed his left leg. Another nicked the lobe of his right ear, but he didn’t budge and the Winchester continued to bark its deadly challenge.

  The other bandidos were taking cover behind the laden wagons, a maneuver that offered protection from the blazing guns of the men on the saloon porch, but none from the crackling rifles of those who manned the rooftops. From their lofty vantage points, the locals scored on clear targets.

  “Damn ’em to hell!” raged Holroyd. “They’re all around us!”

  “And up top of us!” gasped Blackie Riondo, in the brief moment before a rifle-slug struck his head.

  A passing rider, moving tast, twisted in his saddle and triggered a bullet at Jake. Simultaneously, Larry straightened his right arm and squeezed trigger. The bandido keeled over sideways and fell with a boot still caught in the stirrup, and his horse pounded on, dragging him. Larry hastily ejected his spent shells and began reloading, the while he growled a query to the Georgia man.

  “You hit?”

  “That last jasper missed me,” drawled Jake. “I got nicked a couple times. Nothin’ to weep over. Just scratches.”

  “Stay with it,” ordered Larry. “I have to check on Buck, and my partner.”

  He darted to the boardwalk. Something hot and lethal whined past his face. He flopped and, from a kneeling position, lined on the bandido who had fired at him. The bandido tried again, missed again, then sagged in his saddle with Larry’s well-aimed slug embedded in his shoulder. Larry rose up and hustled on. In this section of Main Street, visibility was becoming difficult. Gunsmoke and the dust rising from threshing hooves combined to form a thick cloud. He could have yelled to his partner to satisfy himself as to his welfare, but who could hear a human voice over the deafening thunder of gunfire? As he reached the next corner, he glanced across towards the saloon, and the air cleared long enough for him to spot his sidekick. Stretch was crouched behind a packing crate, his guns at the ready, his narrowed eyes probing the turmoil for fresh targets; the taller Texan was still in business, and then some.

  Larry sidled around the corner and found Buck, but decided against offering assistance. Such a gesture would have been superfluous. Stark’s holster was empty. His hawk-like visage was as bloody as his right arm. Both eyes were blackened and one ear mangled. His back was to a wall. He was battered and desperate, doing his utmost to ward off the hard, relentless blows aimed at him by the salty veteran, but nothing could stop Buck now.

  “Don’t kill him,” Larry dryly advised. “Remember—you hankered to take him alive.”

  There was an abrupt, ominous lessening of the uproar of gunfire. Gilhauser, from behind the batwings of the Rialto, was bellowing a warning to the hard-pressed invaders.

  “We’ve beaten you! Quit while you can! Throw down your guns!”

  Perrier, Frayne and Margolies rose to their feet and traded frowning glances. Their town had been menaced, ransacked and intimidated, but they weren’t beyond feeling shock at the sight that now met their eyes. Of the twenty-one desperadoes who had ridden so boldly into Three Springs, a mere half-dozen emerged from behind the wagons. They had abandoned their weapons and were raising their hands. Three of them bled from gunshot wounds. Thoroughly demoralized, they stared apprehensively upward to where the triumphant riflemen were at last showing themselves, raising their heads above the parapets of the nearby buildings.

  “They were—up there all the time!” breathed the pain-wracked Holroyd. “Just—waitin’ for a crack at us ...!”

  “Life is full of surprises, huh, bandido?” scowled old Dan Yuill.

  The mayor stepped out onto the porch, nodded soberly to the impassive Stretch, who had holstered his Colts and was rolling a cigarette.

  “By Godfrey, Stretch,” he muttered. “Your friend returned just in time.”

  “Ol’ Larry always shows up,” grinned Stretch, “right when he’s most needed.”

  “Could Buck have been lying?” wondered Gilhauser. “I mean, about rescuing Padre Ricardo? It might have been a trick—to fool Stark, and ...”

  “Let’s ask my partner about that,” Stretch suggested. He lit his cigarette and raised an arm in cheerful greeting. “Hey, runt!”

  “Hey, big feller!” called Larry.

  “You been busy?” demanded Stretch.

  “Some,” grinned Larry.

  “Me, too,” chuckled Stretch.

  The riflemen were descending from the rooftops and calling queries to the mayor. Gilhauser, after grimly surveying the scene of carnage, gave the order for the cleaning-up operation.

  “Carry the dead to Considine’s barn. Get those wagons unloaded. Take the prisoners to the jailhouse. And—uh—somebody had better take that gunnysack across to the bank. I reckon Marty Husig’ll be glad to see it.”

  “Check every prisoner,” advised Stretch, “for a sneak-gun.”

  He ambled across to join his partner. For a brief moment, they exchanged amiable grins. Then, jerking a thumb, Larry invited Stretch to:

  “Get an eyeful of our dyin’ marshal.”

  Buck was trudging along the opposite boardwalk, making for the law office. His shoulders were bowed because, across his back, he toted the bloodied, befuddled and defeated Brett Stark, once the terror of Southwest Nevada.

  “Noonan,” Larry mirthlessly predicted, “is gonna end up feelin’ plumb foolish.”

  “Who,” demanded Stretch, “is Noonan?”

  “I’ll tell you all about him,” grinned Larry, “when we get time to parley. Hey, Jake ...”

  He crooked a finger and the Georgia man loafed towards them, bleeding from his gashed leg and nicked ear, but as nonchalant as ever. Larry performed introductions, after which he found himself surrounded by an eager quintet of locals—Gilhauser, Perrier, Frayne, Yuill and Margolies.

  “Was Buck foolin’?” demanded Frayne.

  “The padre really is okay?” frowned Margolies.

  “He’s fine,” Larry assured them. “We left him stashed in the timber back of the triangle-shaped rock. You know the place—along the east trail?”

  “That stand of cottonwood?” prodded Dan Yuill. “Sure, I know the place.”

  “How about you ride out and fetch him?” suggested Larry. “He won’t budge until he sees a friendly face. You’ll find him waitin’ there with a sawbones from Pelham, young feller name of Bryson. Also Miss Anita.”

  “Also,” added Jake, “three dead bandidos.”

  “Hell!” breathed Perrier.

  As Yuill hurried away, the Georgia man calmly surveyed the main stem. Locals were carrying Stark’s dead cohorts downtown. Others were unloading the wagons, returning the stolen weapons, ammunition and provi
sions to the stores ransacked by the raiders. The six surviving gun-hawks were being marched away to the jailhouse. Spitting tobacco-juice, Jake mildly commented:

  “Quite a hassle you had here.”

  “Our baptism of bloodshed,” muttered the mayor. “And I pray it need never be repeated.”

  ~*~

  In the early afternoon of that day, when Padre Ricardo returned to Three Springs, a sizeable representation of the local citizenry, American as well as Mexican, lined the boardwalks to accord him a joyful greeting. Smiling broadly, he slid from the prancing bay on which he’d been riding double with Floyd, and raised a hand to offer his blessing. The Mexicans fell to their knees. Every male bared his head.

  Discreetly, Dan Yuill took the reins of the death-horses and hustled them away. Anita dismounted and stood beside Floyd, who was already unhitching his bag, and enquiring:

  “Where are the injured?”

  Larry and Stretch were on hand to present the medico to the locals, after which Floyd reluctantly parted company with the smiling Anita and allowed himself to be escorted to the jailhouse. A grinning Mexican called to the priest as he emerged from an alley mouth. He was leading Padre Ricardo’s mule and exhibiting a large string of Rosary beads.

  “Yours, Padre!” he beamed.

  “Ah ...” The fat priest sighed gratefully. “Gracias a Dios.”

  By late afternoon, Main Street appeared normal again. The women and children of Three Springs had quit the mission and returned to their homes. Marshal Craydon’s jail was quiet, albeit somewhat overcrowded. Banker Husig was happily balancing his ledger. Floyd Bryson had finished treating the men injured in the fighting and was making a more detailed examination of the town’s pudgy lawman.